Editorial Reviews for Nominees
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 Score: 94+/100 (9.4+ out of 10)
We know you have one: A book of quotes. A notebook or Google Doc filled with all the great or interesting things you've read or that people have said to you. Or maybe you have a dusty old calendar that you kept because there was a beautiful, inspirational, or witty quote on every other page. You keep telling yourself that you'll use those someday. There’s a reason we keep these. These quotes are tiny, portable jolts of perspective, comfort, and courage. A single sentence can make you feel less alone, help you reframe a problem, or give you exactly the turn of phrase you need to finally land a point with your audience or your kids or your coworkers. In a sense, this book is that quote-filled Google Doc, only bigger, better organized, and very intentionally centered on women’s voices. Carolyn Warner gathers over two thousand quotations from women and arranges them into forty themed chapters like Ability, Action, Age, Courage, Education, Humor, Leadership, Love, Politics, Women, and Work. Each chapter opens with a short, practical mini-essay from Warner on how that theme plays out in real speeches, conversations, and leadership moments, and then hands the mic to a chorus of women from across history and public life. Warner herself comes out of a world of speeches and stump talks, and you can feel it. She tells stories about growing up as a teen speaker, scribbling quotations on index cards, and learning the hard way how a well chosen line can wake up a drowsy audience. One of the sparks for this book was hearing a male editor of a famous quotation anthology dismiss women on the grounds that “they do not write much or have much to say.” This treasury is her answer to that, a big, loud, joyful refutation bound between covers. The variety of voices is one of the pleasures here. You get judges, prime ministers, novelists, comedians, activists, scientists, and even fictional characters like Miss Piggy, often sitting side by side in surprising and delightful ways. Some quotes are quiet and wise, some are fiery and challenging, and some are just laugh out loud funny, but together they remind you that women have been thinking, observing, and speaking sharply about every human topic you can imagine. This might be silly to say (considering this is a collection of quotes), but the highlights of this book are the quotes themselves and the people they're attributed to. Seriously, though! These are some of the most noteworthy women (and people) who ever lived: Jane Austen, Emily Dickinson, Charlotte and Emily Bronte, George Eliot, Pearl S. Buck, Marie Curie, Indira Gandhi, Golda Meir, Queen Elizabeth II, Susan B. Anthony (she pops up A LOT, it seems), Rosa Parks, Amelia Earhart, Helen Keller, Margaret Mead, Maya Angelou, Agatha Christie, Erma Bombeck, and many more. Heck, this book literally opens with a foreword by the incomparable Sandra Day O'Connor, the first woman to serve on the United States Supreme Court and one of the most influential legal figures in American history. This book doubles as a celebration of the incredible, earth-shaking, glass-ceiling-breaking, record-breaking, headline-making, history making women throughout all of time! These are politicians, world leaders, champions, literary greats, Olympic medalists, actresses, scientists, pioneers, and more. It can be really inspirational for mothers and daughters—heck, anyone! If you're a living, breathing human being, there's bound to be a quote in here you'll love. Oh, one thing we have to mention is how so many of these women have been mentioned and/or heavily featured in other books we've read! In fact, there are a lot of quotes by Mother Theresa (usually called "St. Theresa of Jesus" in this book) and legendary actress Ethel Merman, both of whom were heavily featured in author Tony Cointreau's books, Ethel Merman, Mother Teresa...and Me and A Gift of Love--serving as sort of motherly figures to Cointreau. As a straight read through, this works more like a “dive in anywhere” treasury than a linear narrative, but as a working tool for speakers, teachers, writers, and leaders, it is excellent. It gives you not only the words, but also a bit of coaching on how and when to use them, and it does all of that while quietly correcting the old, biased picture of who gets to have “the last word” in our quote books and on our stages. There are actually a multitude of valuable ways to use this book. You can use it in the straightforward way: as a collection of quotes. Or you can use it in the way the author seems to have intended: for use in communication, in presentations, and public speaking occasions. The fact that this book is well-organized helps you to just find what you need, plug, and play. These quotes can serve as the hook and/or anchor for a Power Point presentation, speech, or lecture, for example. The author also talks about other aspects of presenting like the colors and clothes you wear as well as the body language you exhibit. One of the best quotes from this book is actually just Warner explaing: "As a speaker, perhaps the most empowering quality you can communicate to your listeners is to cause them to care." There's even a short section on respecting your audience's time and attention. This actually reminded us a little bit of Briefly Speaking by Deborah Shames and David Booth, in that sense. Just like entire religions and ideologies have been built around quotes, you can build your entire presentation on them! Here are some of our favorite quotes from the book: "When I was young, I was poor; when old, I became rich; but in each condition I found disappointment. When I had the faculties for enjoyment, I had not the means; when the means came, the faculties were gone." - Comtesse Catherine de Gasparin "Any authentic work of art must start an argument between the artist and his audience." - Dame Rebecca Wes "Do not call for black power or green power. Call for brain power." - Barbara Jordan "When men are oppressed, it is tragedy. When women are oppressed, it is tradition" - Bernadette Mosala "Everybody has a purpose in life, even if it is to serve as a bad example." - Carolyn Warner's Grandmother "Aerodynamically the bumblebee shouldn't be able to fly, but the bumblebee doesn't know it so it goes on flying anyway." - Mary Kay Ash "We have to preach what winners practice." - Mary Jean LeTendre "God is a sure paymaster. He may not pay at the end of every week, or month, or year, but remember He pays in the end." - Anne of Austria "Nearly everyone is in favor of going to heaven but too many are hoping they live long enough to see an easing of the entrance requirements." - Anonymous "Imagination is the highest kite one can fly." - Lauren Bacall "The only place you find success before work is in the dictionary." - May V. Smith Perhaps our favorite passage from this book was: "Kids don't make the movies, they don't write the books, They don't paint gay pictures of gangsters and crooks, They don't make the liquor, they don't run the bars, They don't make the law and they don't sell the cars, They don't peddle the drugs that addle the brain, That's all done by older folks greedy for gain. Delinquent teenagers, Oh how we condemn The sins of the nation and blame it on them. By the laws of the blameless the Savior made known, Who is there among us to cast the first stone? For in so many cases (it's sad but it's true), The title 'delinquent' fits older folks too." - Margaret Hogan This one resonated with us for some reason, perhaps because it points out the influences that books, movies, music, and media have on our children and how most of that is peddled by older people with power and money to gain more power and money. That's profound yet eerily true! Now, this book—which is written monstly for women—does sometimes seem heavily feminist or even derogatory-toward-men in a way that could rub some readers the wrong way. It definitely wasn't the author's intention to be explicitly anti-male, but there are a lot of quotes in here that put men down, poke fun at them, or blame them for some of society's ills. Even some of the funnier-seeming quotes can cut a bit sharp to men. Here are a few: "I require only three things of a man: he must be handsome, ruthless, and stupid." - Dorothy Parker "After all, God made man and then said: I can do better than that—and made woman." - Adele Rogers St Johns "A woman without a man is like a fish without a bicycle." - Gloria Steinem These are light roasts, to be fair, but they help to give the book an angle that's slanted in a particular way, especially when there's a lot of talk in this book about the hardships of just being female (as opposed to male). So, if that bothers you, it bothers you. All in all, though, this is a really interesting book with great quotes to pull from. Check it out on Amazon!
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 Score: 93/100 (9.3 out of 10)
The Red in the Wrong Profession by Carolyn Summer Quinn was a welcomed relief the week that we read it (in early January). That was a week filled with a bit more mundane books that seemed mostly flat and just didn't get much of a rise out of us or peak our interests. The Red in the Wrong Profession was just what we needed: a tense yet approachable Cold War spy story with real stakes, real history, and just enough heart to keep us invested. Set in 1979 in the little town of Halliwell, Virginia, this book drops a full-blown espionage plot into the middle of cul de sac life, PTA talk, and lesson plans. We follow widowed school teacher Spencer Wynne, his curious twelve year old daughter Cecily, and Spencer’s older brother Preston, an FBI counterintelligence agent, as they slowly uncover that someone very close to them is feeding secrets to the Soviets. That “someone” happens to be Zinnia Tepper, the glamorous, faintly phony English teacher next door whose travel to the USSR and affected sophistication always felt just a little off. What really hooked us is how ordinary the starting point is. Cecily is just poking around the local bookstore when she catches Zinnia hiding a strange coded note inside a copy of Huckleberry Finn. From that single moment of kid curiosity, the whole thing unravels. Suddenly we are knee deep in cipher grids, KGB handlers, secret “book drops,” and an audacious American tunnel under the new Soviet embassy in Washington (which the author explained to us actually existed). It is an almost absurd contrast: a sleepy Virginia town on the surface, and beneath it, an invisible war of information and ideology. The character work is solid and accessible. Cecily might be the MVP of the book. She feels like a real twelve year old: nosy in the best way, brave but not reckless, and deeply bonded to her father and her uncle. Her excitement over codes and spies gives the story a slightly Nancy Drew flavor that lightens what could have been a very grim premise. Preston, the big brother in the FBI, gives the plot its grown up backbone, explaining the Cold War in a way that is clear, grounded, and surprisingly engaging without turning the book into a textbook. Zinnia is another highlight. She is not a slick cinematic superspy. She is vain, insecure, and a bit ridiculous at times, which actually makes her more believable. The flashbacks to her being recruited as a lonely young woman in the late 1960s are some of the better sections. You see how someone who just wants to feel important and wanted can be slowly pulled into something far bigger and darker than she ever intended. Her panic attack in the closet, trapped in the middle of a botched mission, is one of the most memorable scenes in the book because it strips the glamour from espionage and leaves us with raw fear and regret. We also appreciated how the book ties into a real historical operation involving a tunnel dug under the Soviet embassy. The hand drawn map Zinnia finds in Nicholas Robinette’s safe is one of those “oh wow” details that links the fictional plot to actual Cold War history. That adds weight and a cool “this sort of thing really happened” factor that history buffs will enjoy. Apparently, this is now known as the Operation Monopoly Tunnel as it was part of Operation Monopoly. If we have any quibbles, they are pretty mild but worth mentioning. The point of view jumps around a lot, bouncing between Spencer, Cecily, Preston, Zinnia, KGB figures like Yuri and Oleg, bookstore owner Julia, and others. It keeps the story moving but sometimes at the cost of emotional depth. We are often watching the characters rather than really living inside them. Some of the antagonists, especially Maxie and Anthony, can feel broad and a little cartoony, which undercuts some of the moral complexity you might expect in a story about ideology and betrayal. This is something we often experience with a lot of Carolyn Summer Quinn's novels. They tend to have a ton of characters and a lot going on. It can be overwhelming and hard to follow at times. There are also spots where the pacing slows so that someone can deliver a mini lecture on Cold War history or political context. These passages are informative and well written, and some readers will love them, but others might feel the narrative gears grinding a little when they pop up in the middle of an otherwise tense situation. But not all of those slow, expositional parts are bad. In fact, some of them serve as the most fascinating parts of the book. We loved the parts when the narrative slows down long enough to really compare what life looks like in the Soviet Union versus what it looks like in America. Zinnia’s memories of Moscow are a great example. Quinn walks us through those “cracker box” apartment blocks, all identical and interchangeable, sprouting around the city like a fungus, then contrasts them with the ornate older buildings and onion domes from before the revolution. It is one of the few places in the book where you can feel Zinnia thinking, not just reacting, and you get a sense of how drab, regimented modern Soviet life could feel next to all that leftover beauty. The riff on school and store names is even better. In America, Spencer and Cecily live in a world where you send your kids to places with names like George Washington Elementary and Abraham Lincoln Junior High, where schools and streets and parks are constantly reminding you of specific people and stories. In Zinnia’s travelogue version of Russia, that individual flavor has been stripped out. Schools are not named for heroes or presidents. They are School One, School Two, School Three, on and on. The grocery stores are just “gastronoms.” The pharmacies are “apteka.” Plain. Functional. No personality. No story. It is equality pressed so flat that it starts to feel like erasure. Those little comparisons do a lot of quiet work. They make the ideological clash feel concrete. This is not only a fight about missiles, codes, and tunnels under embassies. It is also a fight about whether you live in a place where everything is numbered and generic, or a place where even your kid’s school and your local store carry names, people, and history. Later, when we see Julia wrestling with the communist ideals she was raised on while happily running her very capitalist little bookstore in America, that theme comes back in a subtle but satisfying way. So while The Red in the Wrong Profession sometimes over-explains and sometimes juggles more characters than it strictly needs, those grounded, human-sized contrasts between Russia and America are where it really shines. They are the moments that stick with you after the last coded message is decoded and the last spy is hauled away, and they are a big part of why this book is exceptional. Check it out on Amazon!  Score: 93+/100 (9.3+ out of 10)
Faithless Friends and Replacement Lovers by Elizabeth Horst is a themed collection of fourteen short stories about love, friendship, betrayal, and the choices people make when their relationships hurt or disappoint them. The settings range from old-world nobles and knights to Italian villas, mission trips in unstable countries, awkward church coffee hours, and modern coffee shops, but the through-line stays the same: people trying to figure out what faithful love actually looks like .vs. the cheap, self-protective or selfish version. The tone mixes gentle Christian spirituality, old-fashioned storytelling, and some pretty real emotional pain. A lot of the characters have to decide whether they will cling to bitterness, fantasy, or “replacement” relationships, or move toward something healthier and truer. “Rosalyn and Her Father the General” features a lonely general’s daughter, raised partly by a Romani servant family, despises her harsh, war-shattered father and dreams of running off to live a different life. When she finally escapes and ends up serving near the front, she is forced to confront both her father and her own capacity for hatred, and to decide whether she will repeat his hardness or choose a different kind of courage and love. Right off the bat, this first story set the pace and tone for the rest of the book. It became clear to us that these weren't going to be gritty, violent, action-packed, thrilling stories like "We're All Gonna Die" from Adventures Are Everywhere by Horst. These weren't going to be psychologically riveting or poetically eloquent stories like "Night Journey to Sanity's End" (also by Horst). Instead, these were going to be more slow-building romantic dramas: methodical and deliberate rather than sharp and fierce. These stories play out more like soap operas than those in Adventures Are Everywhere, albeit with frequent subverted expectations. Yes, there's still a psychological element to some of these tales, but it's far more subtle than Horst's other book. For example, Rosalyn's tale still features a lot of internal struggle, especially a drive and determination for freedom and independence from her father, the General, a "bear of a man." You can really feel Rosalyn's thirst and hunger for her own identity separate from being the "General's daughter" which gets in the way of relationships like with Alex later. So, not only is the General controlling and possessive in his actions and behavior, his very existence seems to own her. Something else we noticed is that Rosalyn definitely bonds with the servants in the household more than her own father or the nobility. It gives you the sense that she feels like a slave and a prisoner similar to them, and who can blame her? Also, something that crossed our minds is that this story kinda gave us Anna Karenina vibes. Is it as good as Anna Karenina? Obviously not, that's like saying something is as good as Citizen Kane. But the setting, drama, time period, and themes definitely seem to fit. Now, this story also highlighted something we noticed about stories in this book. Their lengths are a bit wonky and/or weird, or at least it seems like it. This story seems overly long for a short story, almost like a novella. Most times, you'd expected a character's escape/liberation to be the climax and the end of the story, especially since there was so much build and lead up to that (with the servants and the book and all), but this story drags on pretty far beyond that. There's a whole gypsy and war arc that made this story seem a bit bloated. On one hand, that extra length gives Rosalyn's arc room to breathe. Horst is able to explore what hatred and bitterness actually do to a person over time instead of rushing straight to a neat “I forgave my father and everything is fine now” ending. On the other hand, you do start to feel some fatigue. There are stretches when we felt like the emotional point had already been made, and we were waiting for the story to catch up and close. It is not bad writing, it is just slower and more drawn out than we usually expect from a short story. You know, at least this bloatedness allows both Rosalyn and the General to develop, which is something we like to see. Character development is nice, especially when it's done right. “The Noblewoman's Dilemma” leans even more into that thoughtful, interior space. Lady Honora is so empathetic and sensitive that she is practically paralyzed by the thought of people suffering elsewhere. She is the kind of person who reads a newspaper headline and feels personally responsible for every tragedy worldwide. That kind of conscientiousness is admirable, but Horst is honest about the dark side of it too: if you are not careful, compassion can twist into guilt and self-hatred. Honora is afraid that falling in love and being happy would somehow be a betrayal of all the people who are not. Watching her friends gently, persistently challenge that mindset is one of the more quietly moving arcs in the book. It is also one of the more relatable ones for readers who struggle with anxiety, scrupulosity, or “survivor's guilt” in a broken world. Something we liked about this story is the contrast between Lady Honora and Archibald. Honora is this woman whose life experiences have almost paralyzed her emotionally (“You shut up your own heart like a chest of drawers with never a key in sight!”). Archibald, by contrast, is almost disarmingly human, like a cartoon character. He laughs easily, speaks plainly, and wears his hopes on his sleeve. Where Honora tends to freeze in the face of suffering and responsibility, Archibald moves. He visits, writes, shows up, and offers the very simple gifts of presence and affection without turning it into a tortured moral equation. That contrast really sells their relationship. Honora brings depth, gravity, and a sincere desire to live rightly. Archibald brings warmth, motion, and the reminder that joy is not treason against a hurting world. Together, they model the idea that a faithful life is not about shutting out goodness until every problem on earth is solved, but about letting love make you more available to those problems. It turns what could have been a dry, philosophical story into a quietly compelling romance that feels earned rather than sentimental. In one of our favorite parts of the book, Honora breaks out of her shell to exclaim, "My Archibald!" There's a profound sense in exasperated release in that. In contrast to how Honora started the last story, “The Preposterous Proposal” is one of the liveliest and funniest stories in the collection. Sir John Sebastian Dudley is basically the poster boy for impulsive, self-centered romanticism. He charges in and blurts out a completely inappropriate, half-baked marriage proposal while everyone is supposed to be focused on a serious mission, then acts offended when his nonsense is not instantly rewarded. Lady Abigail, thankfully, has her head screwed on straight. She loves her calling more than flattery, and she is not about to sign up for a lifetime of emotional whiplash just to soothe a man's ego. The narrator clearly has fun roasting Dudley, and the whole piece becomes a kind of comedic warning about how not to pursue love or “glory.” If you're thinking what we were thinking, this story definitely has Don Quixote vibes! Abigail is probably the coolest character in this book, disguised as a male (Sir John O'Reilly) to fight alongside her brethren while clearly being a lot more competent and capable than Dudley. This reminded us a bit of the theory of the Fool from King Lear possibly being Princess Cordelia in disguise, albet in a much lighter and less dramatic story. “An Italian Love Story” shifts the tone again into something warmer and more domestic. Luigi, the heir to a villa, feels called to service and simplicity, quietly helping priests and the poor rather than basking in privilege. Regina, the governess, is caught in that complicated space between social classes and expectations. Horst does a good job showing how family dynamics, wealth, and religious devotion can pull characters in different directions. There is a sweetness to Luigi and Regina's relationship, but the real heart of the story is how they navigate those pressures without losing themselves or their sense of what is right. Again, this is a story that seems to push forward the idea that wealth and status don't equate to freedom and happiness. Regina is trapped similar to Rosalyn was in her story, this time in an arranged marriage to a brilliant yet sickly man named Tomaso Pasquale Giovanni. And it seems like she's just been paired with this guy since forever. She keeps having to meet with him as part of the courtship, and she clearly doesn't like any of this. Something we found interesting is how Tomaso isn't played up as this big, evil, perverted villain. There's a lot of sympathy for him too. Regina is kind and compassionate enough to see that Tomaso is struggling with a lot too. She wonders if maybe he doesn't want to get married and is suffering constantly with his illness. Anyway, this story seems LOOOOONG for some reason. We're not sure what it is, but it's like this Regina story dominated the center of this book. With that said, it's still satisfying. Luigi is sweet, like when he takes the thorns off the rose before giving it to Regina so she doesn't get hurt. That's nice. Chivalry isn't completely dead. But this is also one of those stories that subverts your expectations and reminds you that you don't always kiss the prince and ride off into the sunset. “Hope in the Darkness” takes place in a grim, oppressive setting in which Lena and Darren have to talk frankly about imprisonment, death, and what it actually means to love someone who is probably not going to make it. There is a striking scene in which Lena practically begs to share Darren's fate, and he insists that the more loving choice is for her to walk away and keep living out her purpose. It is not a romantic fantasy of heroic rescue. It is love expressed as letting go, and that is one of the boldest things this book attempts. “Love Out of Place” has a similar emotional charge but in a very different setting: an overseas mission trip in a politically unstable country. Bekah and Sayeed's connection is layered with cultural, religious, and safety complications. Horst handles this with more nuance than a lot of inspirational fiction manages. Bekah's feelings are not simply dismissed as “silly” or sinful, but she is also pushed to ask whether her attraction is truly love or a kind of escape from her real life back home. The arrest scene and its aftermath carry real weight, and the story leaves you with a bittersweet sense that sometimes our deepest attachments are meant to change us, not culminate in tidy endings. On the contemporary side, “My One True Love” and the title story, “Faithless Friends and Replacement Lovers,” both explore the way we turn people into idols or measuring sticks. Sam in “My One True Love” starts off convinced that he has finally found “the one” in a coffee shop, only for his narrative to get upended. Without spoiling too much, the story gently dismantles the idea that there is one magical human who will complete us, redirecting that language toward a different kind of “first love.” Some readers will love that turn, others might feel slightly preached at, but it is thematically consistent with the rest of the book. “Faithless Friends and Replacement Lovers” is arguably the emotional centerpiece. Connie goes into her school reunion still clinging to old wounds about Jimmy, the ex who broke her heart, and Tracy, the former best friend who effectively replaced her and married him. Horst lets us feel Connie's bitterness and self-righteousness, then slowly shows the cracks in the image she has built of them. Things are not as perfect as Connie imagined, and the question becomes: is she going to gloat, wallow, or grow? The way the story resolves is not loudly dramatic, but it feels truthful. Hurt people can stay stuck in the past and in their imaginations for years. Letting that go, even just a little, is a bigger victory than a perfect “revenge” scene. “Sweet Vengeance” follows that theme even more explicitly. Madeline is nursing a hurt that seems to justify some pretty biting payback, and Horst does not minimize what she went through. Still, the story is honest that revenge, even when it looks clever or “poetic,” does not actually heal the wound. It just keeps the hurt alive. That is a hard message to swallow when you are rooting for a character, but it is also one of the more spiritually mature ones in the book. The last stretch of stories closes the collection on a softer, more hopeful note. “On Matchmaking and Falling in Love” is a charming exercise in structured romance. Mabel hires a matchmaker, Lily, and keeps bumping up against rigorously scheduled, hyper-rational Richard P. Brighton. At first, their interactions feel hilariously stiff and mismatched, but over time the story shows how affection can grow in the little gaps where people loosen their rigid expectations. It is not the flashiest romance in the world, but it is one of the most grounded. “The Coffeeshop” is a fitting final act. Ellen has been through emotional pain, and she is understandably cautious. Her quiet, almost ritualistic visits to the coffeeshop and the slow, gentle presence of Jeff the barista become a picture of how small acts of kindness can re-teach someone how to trust. The ending, with the chai tea, biscotti, and the extra bill on the counter, is understated but meaningful. There is no sweeping proposal, no fireworks, just a tiny, intentional choice to love again in a world that has not been kind. That feels like exactly the right note to end on. In terms of strengths, this collection really shines in its thematic cohesion and emotional honesty. It is clear that Horst cares deeply about the difference between fantasy and real, sacrificial love, and she approaches that from a dozen angles. Readers who enjoy thoughtful, relationship-centered Christian fiction will find a lot to savor here. We especially appreciated the way the book refuses to glamorize “replacement lovers” or justify treating people as placeholders, even when characters have been badly hurt. And that's where the subverted expectations come into play. On the more critical side, the stories can occasionally feel a bit didactic. There are moments when characters launch into long speeches about calling, faithfulness, or what love should look like, and those parts may feel more like mini-sermons than organic dialogue. The pacing is also consistently slow and deliberate. If you are hoping for the raw intensity of “Night Journey to Sanity's End” or the nail-biting stakes of “We're All Gonna Die,” you might find yourself wishing for a bit more edge or unpredictability like we were. But this book ultimately has a lot to offer and a lot to discuss! It also seems to come from a good place. Check it out on Amazon!  Score: 94/100 (9.4 out of 10)
History tends to fixate on kings, queens, rulers, and magistrates. It tends to glamorize the powerful. It also tends to heavily glorify and emphasize war and conquest. When most people think of the period around 1066 AD, they think of one thing: the Battle of Hastings. They think of the bows, arrows, shield walls. They think of a Saxon king with an arrow in his eye and a Norman duke seizing a crown. Catherine Hughes asks a different question: what did that world look like from ground level. What did it look like in the kitchens, riverbanks, convents, and burned-out villages where ordinary people had to keep living after the armies moved on? See, what often gets overlooked in our history books are the little people. The average people. The unglamous people. The people on the ground. The people just trying to live and survive day by day without wealth, status, or power. Via Therein Lies the Pearl, Hughes dares us to get down on their eye level: to be there with the common folk of medieval times, to endure some of what they endured, to see what they saw, experience what they experienced, and love like they loved. That's right: love. Love for neighbors, love for family, and—of course—romantic love. We often forget that people who lived a long time ago weren't just actors in a documentary or weird-looking figures on a tapestry or in a history textbook. They were human beings and people just like us who experienced and felt a lot of the same things that modern people experience and feel. And that's what we appreciated about this book the most: the humanity of it. Despite being from a completely different time period as us, these characters are still relatable and familiar. Therein Lies the Pearl is a beautifully wrought, deeply humane historical novel that follows two intertwined lives through those years of upheaval. On the Norman side, we have Celia, a miller’s daughter whose childhood ends the day sickness steals her mother and war burns her village. On the English side, we have Margaret, a dispossessed noble girl with royal blood, shuttled from court to court and kingdom to kingdom as dynasties rise and fall. The famous names are all here in the background (William, Matilda, Harold, Edgar, Malcolm) but the spotlight is firmly on the women, children, and “small folk” who survive the consequences of their decisions. From the opening scene of Celia clinging to a mast on a storm-wracked ship, ready to let the sea take her, Hughes sets the tone: this is a story about endurance. Celia’s arc alone would carry a whole novel. We watch her go from bossy big sister playing by a river with Philippe, to exhausted teen trying to keep baby Vivienne alive after their world burns, to a young woman navigating the treacherous politeness of ducal service at Caen, to a teacher and quasi-nun on a cold northern coast. Along the way she gathers and loses people: Emil, fueled by rage and grief; Simon, the complicated neighbor with a dark past who later returns as a knight; Rowena, a grounded, kind friend who gives Celia a very different model of love and motherhood than the one that terrifies her. On the other side of the Channel and the social ladder, Margaret’s journey mirrors Celia’s in interesting ways. Where Celia is rooted in one patch of earth and repeatedly torn from it, Margaret is born into motion. She is the girl who stands in a Flemish harbor, suddenly realizing how big the world is, as her tutor Gerhard turns a Norse tattoo into a theology lesson. She is also the girl writing desperate letters to that same tutor when he disappears into guilt and self-hatred after the death of King Edward. Through Margaret we feel the numbness of exile, the weight of being told your blood entitles you to a throne, and the very real fear that your family will be used as pawns and then discarded. One of the book’s greatest strengths is how those two lives braid together. Celia becomes part of Duchess Matilda’s household, then later part of the English religious and educational world at Wilton and Bexelei. She and Margaret move in and out of each other’s orbit, starting as almost accidental allies and becoming something closer to sisters. Their friendship quietly undercuts the simplistic “Norman vs. Saxon” narrative that often dominates fiction about this era. In their relationship, loyalty flows along lines of affection and trust rather than flags. Hughes is very good at taking big, abstract history and making it tactile. We do not just hear that William is ill. We see Matilda in the same gown for days, hair neglected, drifting between the duke’s bedside and the abbey like a ghost. We do not just read that William is crowned in Westminster. We stand in the nave as the English shout their assent, then flinch as Norman soldiers outside misread the roar as rebellion and start burning the town. The coronation that should be the climax of William’s triumph becomes a fearful, half-empty ceremony in a smoke-filled city. Again and again, the novel leans into the human cost of these “glorious” events. The title motif, the pearl, is handled with a light but effective touch. Early on, Celia tries to make sense of her mother’s body by comparing it to the empty shells she and Philippe find on the riverbank. Later, as a teacher, she takes children down to the water to hunt mussels and shows them how something rough, slimy, and unpromising can hide a pearl inside. It is a perfect metaphor for the lives we are watching. Celia’s existence is not glamorous. It is bruised, constrained, often lonely. Yet out of irritation and grit – grief, poverty, separation, duty – comes something luminous: a woman who insists on protecting children, who refuses to let war and loss erase her capacity for tenderness. Celia’s fear of motherhood and marriage is another surprisingly modern-feeling thread handled with nuance. She has every reason to be terrified: she watched pregnancy kill her own mother, and she knows full well that in her world a wife can quickly turn into a “breeding mare.” We appreciated that the book does not punish her for these feelings or turn them into a simple “she just needed to meet the right man” arc. Rowena’s counterexample – a woman who genuinely loved her husband and found joy in motherhood – exists alongside Celia’s trauma without one invalidating the other. The novel lets both experiences be true, and lets Celia carve out a vocation built around nurturing without forcing her into a traditional family structure. The prose style is eloquent and beautiful. Hughes is not trying to reinvent the English language here; she is trying to tell a clear, emotionally honest story in a period setting, and she succeeds. Dialogue feels natural without being anachronistic. Little details--the feel of chainmail, the sting of cold water, the crunch of mussels underfoot, the rhythm of convent bells--help anchor us in each scene. We also liked the structural choice to bookend the narrative with the storm at sea and Celia’s later life on the rocky shore under Prioress Devona. It gives the whole story a cyclical, tidal feel. If we have quibbles, they mostly have to do with pacing and density. This is a novel that tries to cover more than a decade of upheaval across multiple regions, with a large supporting cast of nobles, clerics, soldiers, and villagers. Readers who are not already comfortable with 11th century politics may occasionally feel a bit adrift in the names and shifting alliances. Some sections, especially in the middle, can feel more like “life happening” than a tightly focused plot driving toward a single goal. There's a lot of slice-of-life stuff in here: the mundane everyday exisence of medieval folk even in the midst of war. Personally, we did not mind this. The slightly meandering structure fits a story about survival rather than conquest, but readers who prefer a more conventional arc may find it a bit slow at times. This is still a rich and beautiful historical fiction novel that exemplifies how people are people across locations and times. Check it out on Amazon!  Score: 94/100 (9.4 out of 10)
Are you up for some twisted, dark, disturbing takes on some of the most iconic, classic horror characters like Dracula and Frankenstein's monster? Holiday Spirit by John DeGuire is a MONSTER MASH in the spirit of the Brothers Grimm. This is not for children, the faint at heart, or those with a weak stomach. It will shock and horrify you. It will keep you at the edge of your seat, covering your eyes like you can barely look at what happens next. And, at the same time, there's a joviality—a celebratory, goofy, hokey, self-awareness to this book. It's like the book knows it's dark, twisted, disturbing, and pretty sick, but also knows that this is cathartic fantasy and that no genuine, serious, actual, real-life harm is being done. It relishes in the cartoonish, over-the-top nature of the violence, perhaps not to a Looney Tunes or Tom & Jerry-level, but you get the point. Did we mention this isn't for kids? Anyway, this is for the dark horror/dark fantasy fans out there who aren't afraid of a little extreme (yet mostly comedic) violence. We wouldn't quite put it on the level of dark, disturbing, and twisted as The Dark Mother by Jamilette Cintron, Real Dreamwalker by Ashlyn Jacobs, or Passages of Peculiarity by Mark K. McClain—those were on another level of messed up, but some of the things that happen in this book are a bit messed up. Right from the beginning, you have an elderly woman (Bridgett Bishop) being mercilessly pelted with rocks and eggs by some neighborhood kids who call her a "Bitch Witch." Now, as messed up, mean, and cruel as this is, Bridgett's revenge plot subverts your expectations and reaches another level of depravity and cruelty. See, Bridgett is an actual cannibalistic, monster-summoning witch with a special taste for children. If you haven't figured it out by now, she's pretty much the witch from the Hansel and Gretel. She's actually descended from unfortunate victims of the Salem witch trials. So, what's interesting about this book is that Bridgett is simultaneously the main character (arguably) as well as the main villain. Bridgett largely moves the plot forward by being the one who victimizes the children of Killington, Virginia (where most of this book takes place), but she is also the primary sadistic, evil force that the heroes (if you want to call them that) have to stop. She's a somewhat sympathetic character in the sense that her kind were persecuted for centuries, and we see how badly she's treated by the neighborhood and its children. You almost can't blame her for being angry and wanting vengeance, but equal vengeance would be throwing rocks and eggs at the children, not kidnapping and trying to cook them alive! Bridgett puts a surprising amount of thought and effort into her cannibalistic revenge plans including having a sound-proof basement constructed with cages and feeders, to make sure that the captured children don't become less plump and unpalatable. What's also nice to see is that the children and their families, despite the rocky start we saw, are still fleshed out and made sympathetic in their own right. For example, there is Annie Hawthorne, the kind of kid you can easily imagine in your own neighborhood, and her sister, Emma. Annie admires Harry Houdini, which is ironic given her predicament. Their family feels like a pretty typical churchgoing American family at first, the sort of people who debate whether Halloween is too spooky or secular but still love their kids and want to do right by them. When Annie and Emma are taken, they are not just nameless horror-movie children to be menaced and sacrificed. They have parents who argue, who pray, who question themselves. They have their own little quirks and ways of coping. When they are caged, terrified, and trying to comfort each other, you feel it. Then there is Maria Claudia and her children, Ivy and Dorian. Maria is a Ukrainian immigrant and single mother who already escaped one nightmare - a very real war - only to find herself in another. She works hard at St. Mary’s, tries to keep food on the table, and carries the quiet panic of a parent who knows anything can be taken away. Ivy and Dorian, in turn, are doing that kid thing of trying to be normal, trying to make friends and keep up in school while their mother quietly falls apart in the background. When they end up in the witch’s clutches along with Annie, Emma, and "Bad Ass Pete," the horror of the situation is contrasted with the warmth and normalcy we saw before. The fathers and other adults are not sketched in as villains or idiots either, which we appreciated. There are flawed pastors and parishioners, yes, but there are also decent cops, competent medical staff, and genuinely heroic first responders. The book takes time to show us the Killington Rescue team and St. Mary’s Hospital preparing for storms and emergencies, running drills, and jumping into action when things go sideways. That gives the later scenes of chaos and carnage a sense of weight. These are professionals doing their best in a situation that is way beyond their training. And that brings us to some of the best characters in the book: the "monsters" who are actually the real heroes. Count Dracula and his werewolf wife, Aoife, are not suave, cape-swirling caricatures here. They are weary, traumatized immigrants trying to keep a low profile, literally hiding under a hospital and sleeping among the dead because human beings have proven more dangerous than any monster. They are ancient and powerful, but they are also tired and wary, keeping their circle small and their heads down until the children are endangered and they do not have the luxury of hiding anymore. Count Dracula (Vlad the Impaler) still carries his bloody, sadistic past with him, and it actually comes to light again in a scene in which he has a bunch of sasquatch impaled alive, then lights some of them on fire in one of the scenes that made us groan the most. But, hey, at least he remembers to put the toilet seat down, something which his wife, Aoife, appreciates. Saul Frankenstein is a big, hulking paramedic with a heart the size of Vermont, hauling people out of wreckage in a Combi Crawler and providing literal life support when things go wrong. The irony that he has been branded a "monster" by stories and legends while being the one who saves the most lives is not lost on anyone. He is the sort of character who anchors every scene he is in, the guy you want on the call when everything is falling apart. Then there is Dr. Henry Jekyll and his alter ego, Hyde. Jekyll is a brilliant but socially awkward pharmacist and neuroscientist who legitimately wants to help people struggling with mental illness and trauma. Hyde is the demon child of his research, a cackling, sadistic killer who delights in violence and sick jokes. Some of Hyde’s scenes are among the darkest and most disturbing in the book, but they are also some of the most cartoonishly over the top. There is a particularly memorable sequence involving him biting off fingers and calling them "finger food" that is equal parts horrifying and absurd. And then you have the supporting monsters like Erik, the Phantom of the Opera, Anubis, the mummies, and the Creature from the Black Lagoon. Erik is equal parts tragic and theatrical, prowling around like a bitter old diva who finally found an audience that cannot leave. The Creature from the Black Lagoon is more of a blunt instrument, all claws and scales and brute force, and the way his storyline ends (let’s just say “fish and chips”) is one of the book’s darkest running gags. Gosh, there's a scene (if we remember correct) in which Anubis brutally kills a daycare owner in front of all the children there. We think this was supposed to be a bit comedic, sorta like when the farmer shoots the cow in front of the school bus in Napoleon Dynamite, but this scene kinda bothered us. Maybe that's a good thing. It shows that we (the readers) still have a conscience to identify right and wrong, good and evil. These monsters are not as nuanced or sympathetic as Dracula, Aoife, or Saul. They are closer to classic fairy tale wolves, the kind of creatures you warn children about. Still, they add to that feeling that Bridgett is stacking the deck with every nightmare she can find, turning Glastenbury into a literal haunted village. They also give the author room to indulge in some gleefully over the top set pieces, letting readers enjoy the spectacle of these iconic creatures unleashing hell before the heroes finally bring them down. Overlaying all of this is the war refugee storyline with Maria Claudia and Krystiyan, and this is where Holiday Spirit really sets itself apart from a typical monster mash. Krystiyan is not just a love interest or a sidekick. He is a dedicated EMT with his own trauma and survivor’s guilt, a man who has already seen too much death back home and yet chooses to put himself in danger again to save these kids in this new place. His relationship with Maria grows in quiet, believable steps. When he goes out into the storm on what might be a one way trip, it hits as hard as the death of a major character in any war novel. Now, structurally, this book is kind of wild, and that is both a strength and a weakness. On the plus side, it feels big. It feels like a whole town, a whole cast of characters, caught up in something huge and supernatural. There are scenes in classrooms, in church, at the hospital, in the underground lair, in the ghost town, and in the middle of a blizzard. There are National Guard units, rescue teams, bishops, vicars, police officers, refugees, and kids, all crisscrossing each other’s paths. The story wants to be an epic, and in many ways it succeeds. On the downside, that means it can sometimes feel overstuffed. There are a lot of names and faces, a lot of classic horror references, and a lot of themes all vying for space. Prejudice, religious hypocrisy, mob mentality, xenophobia, war trauma, mental illness, and child abuse are all in the mix alongside cannibal witches and mummies. For the most part, the author manages to juggle these balls, but every now and then one wobbles. Some readers may find themselves wishing a few side characters had been trimmed to let the core cast breathe a bit more. The tone is similarly ambitious and similarly uneven. This is where we can see readers dividing. If you like your horror dead serious and somber, you might bounce off some of the goofier, tongue in cheek moments. Hyde cracking jokes in the middle of a massacre, the occasional pun, and the knowingly cartoonish violence might feel like tonal betrayal. However, if you are the type of reader who can laugh in between nervous gulps in a slasher flick, you will probably be right at home. Holiday Spirit lives in that space where you are allowed to go "Oh my gosh, that is awful" and "Ok, that was kind of funny" in the same paragraph. Really quickly, we already mentioned the live-impalement and burning of the sasquatch, but something else that bothered us was how cruelly animals are treated throughout the book. For example, there's a section in which a dad and his child are described as shooting their pet dogs. There's another in which a beloved pet chicken named Suzie is killed and eaten by a grandfather. We could've done with less of that. However, at least these acts aren't celebrated and encouraged, they're just described. In our opinion, the real hero and highlight of this book is the Invisible Man, Ralph Ellison, who seems fixated on having and describing every possible phobia under the sun, which is actually some of the best comedy in the book. He seems to be the guy who shows up when the day needs saving. We appreciated the way the book repeatedly flips the script on who the real monsters are. The people who first abused Bridgett’s family were respectable, churchgoing citizens. The people who nearly beat her to death on Christmas Eve were masked vigilantes who were supposedly defending their community. The kids who abuse her in the present are repeating the same sins on a smaller scale. In contrast, the supposed monsters--Dracula, Aoife, Saul, Jekyll in his better moments, and even some of the other supernatural being--- are the ones putting their lives on the line to save vulnerable children. Check it out on Amazon!  Score: 95/100 (9.5 out of 10)
Rarely has a book ever genuinely made us tear up and cry, but The Hermit's Hut by Tuula Pere is one of those rare, special books. And what's incredible about that is how this isn't a book about war, poverty, refugees, or terminal illness, it's just a book about a guy: an author who is fed up with what he feels and what he experiences from the world around him. And it's so hard for us not to sympathize and relate to him. Francis, the main character, is an author—a children's author—like us and many of the people we know and love. He is someone you can tell who puts his heart and soul into each and every one of his books, not for money or fame but because he genuinely wants his stories and characters to touch the hearts of people and change the world for the better. How can you not get behind that? What's also relatable are the difficulties and obstacles he faces. He goes to the park to sit down and relax, and all he hears is bad news and negativity: people arguing, criticizing, and being mean to each other. And in his professional life, he feels like people have stopped caring (if they even cared to begin with). And people have stopped reading as well. It's like everything he built his whole life and career around now amounts to nothing in a world of flashy new apps, technology, and multimedia. Where is the love for books? Where is the love for the written word? AI seems to write and solve every problem these days. What happened to us using our own minds? Solving our own problems? Creating our own unique things? Being individuals and independent thinkers? Feeling our own feelings and believing our own beliefs without being told what to feel and what to believe from a screen? All of this comes crashing down as it dawns on Francis that the world he originally wrote books for is not a world that's familiar to him anymore. And this resonated with us a lot. Maybe it'll resonate with you. Maybe you've created something with the hopes that it would touch and change lives only to see it be overshadowed, overlooked, and disregarded. In perhaps the book's most powerful page, Francis sees that people are no longer interested in his books. He receives one-star reviews that say things like his books are too boring, sad, or depressing, actually reflecting reviews that Tuula Pere received about more somber children's books like The Only Blue Crow. Francis exclaims that "Children need to know what's going on in the world!... I write them with a gentle hand, even if the subject is heavy." You can really tell that Francis's words, feelings, and experiences really come from Tuula Pere's own. Her books tend to explore darker, grimmer, sadder things, but always with a positive edge. One of the most heartbreaking parts of this page is that people stopped buying Francis's books, they were put in discount bins, and they were eventually used as wastepaper. But even more heartbreaking is that there's a character in Francis's book who is never given a name, but occurs enough on the page that we know this character means a lot to him: an walking apple. The Apple seems to be one of Francis's core characters and creations, representative of his creative vision. This was supposed to be his Mickey Mouse, but it's like no one cares about him anymore. And that's heartbreaking. What's incredible is that this book doesn't insist that the written word and publishing is the only way to reach people. In the mountains with his friend, the goatherd Erasmus, he has time to do some soul searching and remembers that his grandmother used to knit things: socks, mittens, sweaters, gloves, etc., so he starts knitting things for people too. He relates these knitted creations to the written word, saying, "Each knitted stitch is like a letter. Together the stitches form words and create patterns that tell stories." And they "warm the listener." This is a beautiful children's book. We also were really enamored with the illustrations by Nyamdor J Lkhaasuren. They reminded us of Europe! The way that things are a little slanted and a bit chaotic, yet very stylistically pleasing and colorful. Check it out on Amazon!  Score: 94/100 (9.4 out of 10)
In the memoir I Didn’t Believe It Either, author Todd Kinney recounts his profound personal journey from a life defined by excessive drinking to one of purposeful sobriety. He explores how a cycle of binge drinking and subsequent shame strained his marriage and his role as a father, ultimately leading to a series of "sabbaticals" and a final decision to quit. Through honest reflections, Kinney describes the anxiety of social pressure and the difficult process of unlearning the belief that alcohol is necessary for fun or connection. He highlights the emotional rewards of being fully present, noting that sobriety transformed his relationships with his four children and improved his mental clarity. The text serves as both a personal testimony and an encouragement for others, particularly men, to prioritize integrity and health over societal drinking norms. By sharing his vulnerability, Kinney illustrates how life’s most meaningful moments are better experienced without the fog of intoxication. This is truly a heart wrenching memoir to read. The concept/topic itself is gripping. We all know people who've struggled with addiction and/or alcoholism, so it's near and dear to the hearts of many readers. To top it off, Todd just has a really gripping, personable writing style that reminded us a lot of Donald Hardison's (are recent Author of the Year) or George Beasley (another OCA champion). You can tell that Todd is sharing his heart: the deepest, darkest, most depressing things. This serves both cathartic and cautionary purpose. Furthermore, you can really tell that Todd is getting a lot off of his chest and shoulders. This is an issue that has clearly weighed on him and came close to crushing him. However, like all inspirational stories, there is an upside: Kinney is a survivor. He's an example that you can overcome your addictions and live a full and happy life in spite of them. You really get the full range of emotions and experiences: frustration, anxiety, loneliness, isolation, anger, but also hope, relief, gratitude, joy, nostalgia, and those small, hard-won moments of peace. It is like an emotional roller coaster, and you feel every high and low right along with him. Here are some of our favorite passages: “Early sobriety can be lonely as hell. At times, it felt like I was the only person on earth who didn’t drink or was trying to give up drinking… I felt like I was on an island.” “Even when moderating was successful, it was So. Much. Work. There’s a reason for the saying, ‘If you want to find out if you have a drinking problem, try moderating.’” “Experiencing those two moments sober was the beginning of me realizing that the moments that happen in sobriety you know, life can be profoundly more meaningful than what happens when I drink… The sober versions of those two events were life in living color… The drinking version of those moments is just observing. It’s not feeling, it’s not being, it’s not living.” “How do I choose drinking over a night of snuggling with my daughter? How do I choose drinking over being fully immersed in her joy during bowling and arcade games? Those moments are what life is all about.” Kinney's experiences and emotions are both unique and familiar. We feel like we've read about this dozens of times before in books like Dying for a Drink by Amelia Baker and Reality Check by Mike Sorrentino. You can definitely find yourself in Todd's shoes as he wrestles through this. Check it out on Amazon!  Score: 96/100 (9.6 out of 10)
Soldiers in the Sandbox is one of the most beautifully-written books we've ever read! And to make this even better, it's about an exceptionally important topic that's near and dear to our hearts: our veterans and the struggles they go through in adapting to civilian life. At its core, this is the story of Sergeant Alex Vance, but Vance feels less like a single character and more like a stand in for an entire generation of veterans. We follow him from the first blast of desert heat on deployment to the long, lonely, confusing march of coming home. The book is half war story and half reintegration story, and the genius is that neither half ever fully lets go of the other. The Iraq scenes are haunted by the idea of home, and the home scenes are haunted by Iraq. The early deployment chapters are stunning. Metcalf throws us into the dust, the weight of the rucksack, the smell of diesel, the rattle of gunfire. You can feel the tension in every patrol and checkpoint, in every interaction with local police and civilians, in every half understood order passed down from on high. The book never turns into a rah-rah action story. Instead, it stays grounded at the level of boots on the ground, where decisions are made in seconds and the larger strategy is often murky at best. Where this book really separates itself from so many other military reads is when Vance comes home. The firefights and convoys are over, yet his brain and body do not get that memo. Walking down a city street becomes a tactical problem to solve. A crowded room feels like a threat environment. His once reassuring command voice now comes across to civilians as harsh or aggressive. The world around him is technically safe, yet it does not feel safe, and that disconnect is written in a way that feels painfully real. Metcalf is also brutally honest about the bureaucratic gauntlet so many veterans have to run. The new adversary is not an insurgent hiding behind a wall, it is a stack of forms, a long hold tone on the phone, a denial letter, a delayed appointment. Vance turns his soldier skills on this new battlefield, documenting calls, dates, and symptoms, learning how to appeal and push back rather than give up. Watching him link up with other veterans and advocates, and slowly pivot from victim to fighter and then to helper, is one of the most powerful arcs in the book. So, this is something we want to emphasize because it reminded us a lot of what we read in When Women Get Sick by Rebecca Bloom: the difficulties of getting help from the very agencies and organizations that are supposed to be helping those in need. In When Women Get Sick, that applied to terminally ill women. In Soldiers in the Sandbox, that applies to veterans. Despite these two groups of people being very different, their experiences sound starkly similar: the long wait times, the corporate/robotic/insensitive feel to everything, the mountains of documents and confusing paperwork just to get essential care. One of our favorite passages from the book describes this overwhelming, drowning feeling: "The sheer volume of paperwork felt like an ambush, a silent, insidious enemy waiting to trip him up at every turn. Discharge papers, VA forms, benefits applications—a veritable mountain range of official documents, each demanding precise information, legible handwriting, and a signed signature that felt more like an oath than a simple mark. Vance found himself staring at the stacks, a familiar sense of dread creeping in, a primal instinct screaming at him to find cover, to secure the perimeter. In the theater of operations, enemy positions were identifiable, their movements predictable with enough intel. Here, the enemy was formless, invisible, a labyrinth of rules and regulations designed to confound and exhaust." Another strength here is the supporting cast. Mentors, fellow veterans, family members, advocates, and even strangers in small scenes all help to shape Vance's journey. There are quiet, human moments that stick with you just as much as the combat: a simple conversation, a shared joke, a small act of kindness on a bad day. Those scenes remind us that recovery is not a solo mission. It is something that happens in community, one relationship and one interaction at a time. From a craft perspective, this is just a joy to read. The prose is rich with sensory detail without becoming purple. Metcalf has a knack for picking the one or two concrete images that bring a scene to life, whether it is the taste of dust, the weight of body armor, or the feeling of being out of place in your own hometown. The internal monologue is thoughtful and often profound, and there are lines that will make readers pause and reflect on their own assumptions about war, service, and what it really means to "come back." As we alluded to before, the best thing about this book is the writing. This might be the best written book we've read since Where the Mountains Whisper by Jenny Cafaro! Every single paragraph, sentence, and word seems so expertly crafted and selected like a flower for a prized bouquet fit for a queen. It was like we couldn't read a sentence without being wowed and amazed by how poetically and powerfully it was crafted. We constantly found ourselves stopping to write down a quote or passage that impressed us. Here are just a few of our favorite passages and quotes: "How do you medically check for the phantom limbs of memory, the invisible scars etched by fear and loss? We are being packed away, folded neatly into boxes, just like our equipment. But the contents of our minds, the fragments of our experiences, these are not so easily contained. The relief of going home is tangible, a promise of comfort and familiarity. Yet beneath it lies a profound unease. We are returning as different men. The world we left is not the world we will return to, and perhaps, more disturbingly, we are not the men who left it." "Vance moved with the automatic precision of a soldier, his feet carrying him forward, his eyes scanning, cataloging, but his mind remained a step behind, still tethered to the stark, unforgiving landscape of Iraq. The sheer normalcy of it all was almost deafening. The casual conversations of the ground crew, the mundane anxieties of civilian life he overheard—a lost suitcase, a traffic jam, the price of gas—they were like whispers from another planet. How could these trivialities exist when just hours ago, they had been wrestling with life and death?" "The static of reintegration wasn't a sudden, overwhelming burst of noise, but a slow, insidious erosion of connection. It was the dulling of vibrant colors, the muffling of clear sounds, the constant feeling of being an observer in a life that was supposed to be his own. He was home, yes, but a significant part of him remained adrift, lost somewhere between the desert sands and the familiar streets of his hometown" "Now, I think strength is about knowing you do need people, and having the guts to let them know it. It’s about realizing that the most important battles aren't always fought with weapons, but with open hearts and honest words." "The rucksack, crammed with essentials for an unknown duration in the unforgiving embrace of the Iraqi desert, was a microcosm of his life: compartmentalized, functional, and perpetually heavy. The midday sun, a malevolent eye in a bleached-out sky, beat down with an oppressive intensity, promising a relentless adversary for the days, weeks, and months ahead. This was not just the start of a deployment; it was an immersion, a plunge into a landscape that would etch itself into his soul as indelibly as the dust would cling to his fatigues. The air itself seemed to vibrate with a nervous energy, a low thrum beneath the surface that spoke of anticipation, of the coiled tension that preceded eruption." "Yet, at the same time, he felt a surge of something akin to purpose. He was here for a reason, a part of something larger than himself, a cog in a machine designed to achieve objectives that, even now, seemed shrouded in a certain ambiguity. He took a slow, deep breath, tasting the dust and diesel. It was a smell he would come to associate with the adrenaline rush of combat, with the quiet dread of patrols, with the camaraderie forged in shared danger. It was the scent of war, and it was already beginning to seep into his pores, into his memories, into his very being. He was a soldier, but he was also a man, and the space between those two identities was about to be tested, stretched, and potentially fractured." "It was a chaotic symphony of lead and fury, a jagged, relentless rhythm that pulsed through the very fabric of the desert air. Shouts, sharp and guttural, tore through the din, commands, cries of pain, the raw, unvarnished exclamations of men pushed beyond their limits." "They were fellow travelers on a journey through the aftermath, navigating the silent understanding that bound them together—a brotherhood forged in the crucible of war —and now, slowly, painstakingly, being rebuilt in the quiet aftermath of peace. The comfort wasn’t in forgetting, but in being with those who remembered. The understanding wasn’t in erasing the scars, but in knowing they were shared." "He started to see the interconnectedness of these pursuits. The writing informed his advocacy by providing a deeper understanding of the veteran experience. His advocacy gave him a tangible purpose that fueled his creative endeavors. His pursuit of education provided him with the tools and knowledge to make both his advocacy and his writing more impactful. It was a virtuous cycle, each element reinforcing the others." "This was the unvarnished truth of combat, a truth that demanded a reckoning, a visceral confrontation that stripped away pretense and exposed the raw core of existence." "You find ways to cope, I guess. Some of us build walls, some of us run, some of us... Well, some of us just try to keep putting one foot in front of the other." At the end of the day, what moved us most about Soldiers in the Sandbox is that it refuses to look away. It looks honestly at war, honestly at the broken systems on the home front, and just as honestly at the courage it takes to keep living, loving, and serving after both. This is not just one veteran’s story, it is a love letter to a whole community of people who carried more than their share and are still carrying it. We recommend it wholeheartedly to veterans, families, and civilians who want to understand what it really means when someone says they made it home. Check it out on Amazon!  Score: 95/100 (9.5 out of 10)
In this lovely fantasy novel, the courageous Lady Marceline poses as a decoy for Princess Emberline to protect the royal heir from a forced marriage to a volatile prince. Escorted by the honorable but stern General Kaden, Marceline travels through treacherous lands filled with mythical creatures like dragons, kelpies, and mermaids. Throughout the journey, Marceline discovers that she possesses the Crown Emerald, a legendary gem capable of restoring life to blighted landscapes. As she navigates political tensions and physical dangers, a complicated romantic bond develops between her and Kaden despite their conflicting duties. Ultimately, Marceline chooses to flee her protectors to confront the mysterious Shadow Lord, hoping to save her companions from his dark pursuit. What really stood out to us about Princess of Illusion was the chemistry between the characters enhanced by the beautifully-detailed world-building. This is further elevated by the eloquent writing of Ashley Chapman. This might be Ashley Chapman's best-written novel, possibly her magnum opus. Let's start with the characters, especially the two main protagonists, and why they work so well. Marceline is a compelling lead. She has that perfect mix of courage, vulnerability, and common sense that you want in a heroine. We loved that she is not technically a princess or a chosen one. She is a decoy. A servant. Someone whose entire job is to be mistaken for someone more “important.” That gives her choices so much more weight. When she volunteers to ride out under dragon fire in Emberline's place, it is not because of destiny. It is because she refuses to watch her people burn while she sits safely behind palace walls. That is a very human, very grounded kind of bravery. At the same time, Chapman does not write Marceline as a flawless martyr. She is stubborn. She second guesses herself. She has trauma in her past that affects how she reacts to men in power and to sudden touch. She constantly worries about what happens if someone discovers she is not truly royal. Those moments when her composure cracks and you see the scared girl beneath the borrowed crown are some of the most emotionally powerful in the book. The way her relationship with the Crown Emerald grows alongside her confidence is especially satisfying. The scene in which she channels the Stone to restore a scorched field and later to grow a tree as an escape route feels like a visual metaphor for her own rebirth. Kaden, meanwhile, might be one of Chapman's best male leads. On paper, he is the classic stern, scarred general assigned to escort a royal bride. In practice, he becomes something deeper. He is honorable almost to a fault, constantly reminding himself that he is escorting a future queen to another man's side, that he has no right to want more. His inner code creates a tension that plays beautifully against Marceline's secrecy and self effacement. He wants her to claim a place in the light. She wants to disappear into her role so no one else gets hurt. Their dynamic shines in the quieter scenes. The way he helps her down from the dragon, the way he watches for her flinches and adjusts, the way their arguments about duty and sacrifice turn into something almost like flirting. The moment when he essentially says he would tear down the wall between them brick by brick if it did not risk the peace is one of those lines that sticks with you. You feel the weight of what he is choosing not to do. It is a romance that smolders more than it sizzles, and that slower burn feels earned in a story where lives and kingdoms are on the line. One of our favorite scenes is when Kaden entertains her conversations and feigns interest even when the topics are things he doesn't know or care much about. That shows courtesy and consideration. It also shows trust and chemistry. The side characters add a lot of charm and texture. Captain Hortensio and Scrunge bring warmth and humor to the sea voyage. Rosie, Marceline's maid, quietly reflects the class tensions of the world when she is ignored or condescended to in Glenoui. Rava and the other soldiers feel like real comrades, not faceless background extras. Raven, King of the Kelpies, is a scene stealer with his eerie presence and unsettling insights. Hestiel the dragon and the mermaids of the breeding grounds might not speak, but their scenes are some of the most memorable in the book, especially when the ship flips and chaos erupts. These supporting players help the world feel lived in instead of like a stage set. As a side note: it's nice to see some influences and intertextuality between Chapman's Kelpie series and this book. It maintains the same aquatic themes with kelpies, mermaids and such. In fact, it almost seems more aquatic. There's actually a lot of seafaring in this book, which can be great for those who are into seafaring adventures. There's a particular action-scene at sea that made us laugh and smile in the best way (even though it was probably meant to be tense and dramatic). It was the battle with the Leviathan. The reason why it was funny to us is because we've read all of Chapman's husband's books and almost all of them feature battles with giant mythological beasts like this. It almost seemed like an homage or something. It's also proof that there's action dispersed here and there, which is a nice change of pace and tone considering the often-meandering and dialogue-heavy nature of this book. This book also excels in writing quality. Some of the best parts of this book are just the author describing and detailing things. There's a scene in which Kaden's attraction is tactfully and creatively described as: "He felt like an animal, intent only on continuing the human race, and he despised himself for it." There's this magical description of the scenery: "She passed through the trees unnoticed, then followed the stream, letting the wind push her along. The eerie coldness was in the air, and it nipped at her skin as she moved. To her delight, fireflies spun around her, twirling and fluttering, guiding her through the dark wood. She appreciated their play but felt uncomfortable as her name was whispered again, this time coming from the direction of what sounded to be a waterfall." How about this description of the deck after a storm? "The storm itself seemed to sense there was a great power in the air, and it quieted. The lightning dulled to soft flickers. The thunder calmed to a grumpy rumble. Rain sprinkled lightly, like a lover’s caress, across the deck. The sea rested, lapping against the ship with gentle strokes, moving it along with careful rolls and dips." We loved this description too: "The streets were paved with multicolored cobblestones, each color light and hand-painted across the stones. This village was nothing like Theoli, with its strong fish scent and somewhat gloomy aura. Here, the air smelled of flowers. Beautiful banners flapped merrily in a gentle breeze. Men and women wore fitted clothing, not indecent, but lacking the flowing fabrics of Everleigh. Corsets were tight, jackets were pressed, and every scrap of fabric was vibrant. Most of the gowns carried designs of flowers and leaves upon them. Most of the suits were tailored with gold or silver embroidery of plant life and trees. Gorgeous parasols and large hats brimming with flowers obscured Marceline’s view of the palace beyond the city. It rose several miles away, past Serefolle and its massive, blossoming fields." Similes and metaphors are effectively used like: "I feel like a child, crying over something that was never truly mine to cling to." "Kaden stepped back, and whatever shadow had just fallen over him disappeared like sea spray in the early morn." If we have a minor complaint, it's that this book feels a lot longer than it is. Sometimes, it seems redundant. The mermaids, for example, are constantly and repeatedly described as a threat. There comes a point when showing is better than telling. The audience probably gets it already. There's also a lot of dialogue. A lot of will they or won't they. It can feel drawn out and tedious at times. But all in all, this is one of Chapman's better-written works. Check it out on Amazon!  Score: 93/100 (9.3 out of 10)
What happens when a thrill-seeking pixie discovers her “harmless” kiss has warped the fate of two worlds? How far must she go to make it right? Escala's Wish by David James is a rich, character-driven fantasy that feels like listening to a veteran bard spin his finest tale at the best table in the tavern. It is funny, heartfelt, and surprisingly heavy, a book that starts with a mischievous faerie prank and slowly reveals itself to be about love, regret, and the cost of trying to fix what you broke. We follow Escala Winter, a pixie princess of the Court of Dreams who treats mortals and their feelings like toys. One enchanted kiss, meant as a joke and a thrill, wrecks a young man’s life and sends shockwaves through the True Cycle that governs life, death, and rebirth. Hauled back to court and forced to face what she did, Escala is given a brutal alternative to execution. She is cast out into the mortal world and ordered to remove “boulders” from the True Cycle, setting right the blockages and distortions that fey meddling and Void magic have caused. While the premise itself isn't really that new (mythological figures like Thor and Susanoo have had to mingle with the humans and the human realm to atone for their previous errors; it's a bit of a trope), there is something fresh and exciting about following a fae/fairy through this arc. This is especially true since Escala is a likable, playful, and sorta funny fairy, almost in a Tinker Bell-kinda way. She is a princess, first and foremost, and she comes across as quite bratty and entitled in the beginning. It seems like she doesn't think her choices and actions should have consequences and that her father, being the king, should be able to bail her out. On one hand, that did kinda get a rise out of us. Like, any parent or child can feel the conflict and tension there. It's natural for parents to want to protect their children, even after they've done something bad. It's also natural for children to expect their parents to protect them and love them unconditionally. To be perfectly honest, this book took a while to get going and to become interesting. The actual court drama felt a bit flat. We just weren't feeling it. Yes, there were people trying to figuratively throw Escala under the bus. Yes, there was the father-daughter conflict we talked about. However, we kept hoping things would pick up. And, thankfully, they did! This book became so much more compelling and interesting once the court's verdict was reached and Escala's sentence was carried out. Escala is thrust into a less familiar world (the mortal realm) in a form that is entirely different from the one she was used to (a high elf). That means: no wings, no effortless zipping through the air, no shrinking down to a glittering speck, and no hiding behind the protections of her father or the Court. She has to walk, tire, bleed, and feel the full weight of gravity and consequences like any other mortal person, which makes her growth feel a lot more grounded and real. It is fascinating to watch her wrestle with these physical and emotional adjustments on top of learning how to navigate mortals like the elves. She is suddenly on eye level with people she once looked down on, forced to negotiate, apologize, and earn trust instead of just dazzling or charming them with pixie tricks. That clash between who she was in the Court and who she has to be among mortals gives a lot of her later interactions an extra layer of tension, humility, and sometimes humor. And that's perhaps one of this book's best traits: it's humorous. The book becomes an episodic quest story in the best way. Escala gathers a party who feel very much like a tabletop group you would actually want to play with. There is Wigfrith, the gnome bard whose tavern framing gives the whole book its voice. There is Roedyn, the quiet, steadfast fighter who loves through action. There is sharp tongued Harper, compassionate goblin druid Sticky, and a supporting cast of mages, sprites, and ordinary townsfolk whose lives have been twisted into knots by past mistakes. One of the things this book does very well is character growth. Escala starts as an absolute menace, vain and self absorbed, logging tiny good deeds as if helping a shopkeeper with a cart is enough to balance out the curse she laid on a mortal boy. Watching her slowly realize that real boulders are things like grief, guilt, magical bondage, and undead children feels earned. By the time she is making world bending wishes for other people instead of herself, you believe she has traveled the long, uncomfortable road from thrill seeker to queen. The emotional core of the book is the Winter family. Rowan, the ruler of the Court of Dreams, and Teresa, the mortal woman he loved, are the quiet heart that keeps beating beneath all the Void storms and tower battles. Teresa’s letters, Rowan’s song about chasing laughter through moonlit woods, and Escala’s resentment toward the mother she believes abandoned her all build toward some of the most affecting scenes in the story. The sequence in which Escala finally holds her dying mother and hears the truth about that old song is devastating in the best way. The epilogue, in which that same song finally leads Teresa back to Rowan by the creek, feels like a long awaited exhale. The world building is another strength, even if it occasionally comes in big, lore heavy chunks. The True Cycle, the Wane, the Vorrash Totem, the Void vortex over Blackthorn Tower, and the five different ways fey can come into being all make this feel like a campaign setting that actually has depth and history. The framing device, with Wigfrith telling this story in The Stag and Hound, keeps things grounded. It reminds you that, in the end, this is a bard trying to make sense of what he lived through and what it cost his friends. The villains are suitably large and operatic. Victor Graves, driven by grief and jealousy, weaponizes Void magic and his own undead son in a way that is more tragic than cackling. Morvena and her crowd lean into the beautiful but poisonous courtly archetype. None of them are subtle, but they are effective foils for a story that is going for big, mythic stakes rather than quiet domestic realism. Victor turning Blackthorn Tower into a literal hole in the sky is exactly the kind of over the top set piece a story like this deserves. Another thing we appreciated about this book is how it's conversational and personable. It has a voice. And that's because it's framed as sort of a tavern tale. A gnome bard, Wigfrith Foreverbloom, stands outside The Stag and Hound in Dunwell, pulling in a high-end crowd by promising a true story he has never told before. To be perfectly honest, this was both a good and a bad thing. It's a good thing in that it makes the telling of this book seem more lively and—like we said—conversational and personable. It is kinda a bad thing in that it sometimes feels a bit self-indulgent and pulls you out of the moment. There are times when you really want to stay locked in on Escala, Rowan, Teresa, or Victor, but then Wigfrith cuts in with an aside to his audience or a little commentary about storytelling itself. It is clever and in character, but every so often it can feel like the bard is standing in front of the stage when you really just want to watch the play. There are times when you as a reader just want to immerse yourself into the story and characters without having a narrator barging in all the time. There are times it actually becomes disruptive and annoying. That's not to say that Wigfrith himself isn't charming and charismatic, it's just that he can sometimes be a bit... much. In spite of those types of things, Escala's Wish eventually won us over. The character work is strong, the emotional beats land, and by the time the Void storm is raging over Blackthorn Tower, you actually care who lives, who dies, and who gets one more chance to set things right. This is one of those books that sneaks up on you. It starts as a mischievous fairy romp and quietly turns into a story about family, forgiveness, and choosing to love people even when it hurts. Another thing that struck us between the eyes is the concept of removing rocks/boulders from someone's spiritual path, which Escala is required to do as part of her sentence. That reminded us a lot of Sean Albertson's book Alignment on the Rocks, which was a non-fiction/self-help demonstration of that concept. So, yes, it can be a bit wordy, a bit lore heavy, and occasionally a bit too in love with its own bard, but the heart of it is solid. If you enjoy character driven fantasy with a tabletop feel, big set pieces, and a surprising amount of genuine feeling, Escala's Wish is definitely worth your time if you love fantasy and fairy stories. Check it out on Amazon! |
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