Editorial Reviews for Nominees
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Review of "Maybelline Has a Very. Bad. Day." by Dawn Dolan, Illustrated by Olena Kharkovenko7/15/2026  Score: 96/100 (9.6 out of 10)
Awwwwwwwwwwww..... This book took our breaths away. It made us melt. It's so. Dang. CUTE! Just about everything about this book is tailor made to Just about everything about this book is tailor-made to make readers smile, laugh, sympathize, and immediately fall in love with Maybelline, the cute little goat protagonist. From her enormous eyes and ears to the little flower tucked beside her head, she might be one of the most adorable characters we have ever seen in a children’s book! And she is having an absolutely terrible day. Have you had one of those recently? That's another aspect about this book that we loved. Without becoming too dark or dreary for children, the book puts forward the idea that life is messy. Nothing is perfect. Nothing ever happens exactly the way you want it or how you planned it. There are slip ups. There are mess ups. There are ups and downs. Twists and turns. And we're along for the ride, just doing our best! Maybelline is such a relatable protagonist. She gives kids an example of how it's ok to fail and make mistakes. It's ok for others to fail and make mistakes. It's ok for things not to go "right." It's normal. That really got to the perfectionist in all of us. There are few things more stunting and crippling than perfectionism. Anyway, let's go back to talking about Maybelline's bad day. Her special human friend, Ellie (a cute human who cares for Maybelline), is sick and cannot come brush her. Maybelline is still hungry after breakfast, tries to sneak some of Aunt Ivy’s hay without asking, and gets bonked on the head for her trouble. Then she pokes her lip on a blackberry thorn, gets stuck while reaching through a fence for a tempting weed, knocks the acorn bucket into the mud, upsets her friends, receives a shot from the veterinarian, gets nipped on the bottom by a herding dog, slips in the rain, and ends up cold, wet, muddy, and completely miserable. Poor little thing! One of the best parts of this story is how accurately it captures the emotional experience of a bad day. None of Maybelline’s problems are catastrophic. Most are small accidents, disappointments, corrections, or uncomfortable moments. However, they keep piling on top of one another until Maybelline feels as though the whole day is against her. Children understand that feeling, and this book (as we mentioned) might be able to help them understand that feeling better. Sometimes one unpleasant moment is manageable. Then another thing goes wrong. Then another. Before long, a spilled snack or a little scrape feels like the final insult in a day filled with injustice. Dawn Dolan respects those emotions without making them overly dramatic or dismissing them as silly. Maybelline is also an extremely lovable protagonist because she is not perfect. Some of the unfortunate things happen through no fault of her own. Ellie becomes sick. It starts raining. The veterinarian needs to give her a shot. Other problems happen because Maybelline is impulsive, distracted, curious, hungry, or overly excited. She tries to take food without asking. She reaches for something beyond the fence. She rushes toward the acorn bucket and accidentally ruins the snack for everyone. She ignores the herding dog until Mina has to give her a little nip to get her moving. That does not make Maybelline bad. It makes her a baby. And, oh, what a cute little baby she is! How can you resist and get upset at a adorable creature with such adorable eyes? Because she's a baby, she is still learning how to listen, share, slow down, think before acting, and understand the consequences of her choices. Young readers may recognize some of themselves in her. Adults certainly will too. We have all had moments when we reached for something we should have left alone or became so excited that we accidentally made a mess. Olena Kharkovenko’s illustrations elevate the entire experience. Gosh, these illustrations are CUTE! All of them are hand-drawn and hand-colored. We love to see that, especially when they're done by someone as extraordinarily talented as Kharkovenko. These are among the best illustrations we've seen this year! Maybelline is expressive without looking cartoonishly exaggerated. Her sadness, alarm, guilt, discomfort, and exhaustion are communicated through her eyes, ears, posture, and tiny facial expressions. The illustration of her standing in the barn after realizing Ellie is sick is heartbreaking. She looks genuinely lonely. Her bewildered face after the blackberry thorn catches her lip is priceless. By the way, that little thought bubble in which Maybelline is thinking about Ellie really shines a bright light on how caring, compassionate, loving, and kind Maybelline is. She's a good person. Yes, she loves how Ellie treats her, but she also loves Ellie as a friend and cares about her/thinks about her when she's sick. What a great friend! When Maybelline spills the acorns, she looks like she knows immediately that she has made a terrible mistake. After the rain, she appears so wet, droopy, and defeated that readers may want to reach into the page, wrap her in a towel, and tell her everything will be okay. The illustrations also make the farm feel like a real, thriving place. The Finca is filled with flowers, fields, fences, birds, insects, goats, dogs, and rolling green hills. It feels warm and peaceful, even when Maybelline is having an awful time within it. There's a little ladybug accompanying Maybelline in one scene, which was a nice extra touch--like a cherry on top. The only issues we had with the illustrations were the human characters, especially the veterinarian. She looks disproportionately short for being an adult with a doctorate. Beside that, the illustrations are almost perfect. We especially enjoyed the introduction to Maybelline’s extended goat family and friends. Mama Skye, Sister Adeline, Cousin Token, Grumpy Aunt Ivy, Aunt Coffee, Aunt Rennie, Trudie, and Maddie each have distinctive appearances. The character page feels almost like meeting the cast of a cozy farmyard sitcom. There's a cute German shepherd dog in here named Mina, who is also cute and is sure to catch kids' attentions. You'd think this large cast of characters would be overwhelming, but it really isn't. Each character is so distinct and unique that they're easy to identify and distinguish. “Grumpy Aunt Ivy” is a particularly funny touch. Her expression tells us everything before the story even begins. Of course she is the goat who refuses to share her hay and bonks Maybelline on the head. She looks as though she woke up annoyed and intends to remain that way until bedtime. She's a pretty mean and pretty selfish goat. Maybe you have a grumpy, mean member in your family you can associate wit her. Aunty Ivy is probably the most unpleasant character in the book, and young readers will make of her what they will. Maybe that's a good opportunity to teach your kids that we can't control how others feel and how others behave. All we can control are our actions and choices. Aunt Ivy seems to be one of those people who chooses to be miserable and to take it out on others. Don't let someone else's bad attitude and behavior ruin your day and rob you of your happiness. The humor throughout the book is gentle and perfectly suited to young readers. Maybelline getting stuck in the fence, tipping the acorns into the mud, and being nipped on the butt are funny situations, but the story never becomes cruel. We laugh because Maybelline is dramatic, expressive, and unmistakably safe, not because the book wants us to enjoy her suffering. That balance matters. The story’s greatest emotional strength arrives at the end. After spending the day being poked, scolded, stuck, disappointed, muddy, and uncomfortable, Maybelline finally returns to the dry barn. She curls up beside her mama and sister while the farm dogs stand guard outside. The coyotes may be howling, but she knows she is protected. Mama Skye licks her dry and reassures her: “Bad days happen, but they don’t last. Tomorrow will be better.” That message is simple, gentle, and deeply comforting. Mama Skye does not tell Maybelline to stop feeling sorry for herself. She does not lecture her about every mistake she made. She gives her warmth, physical comfort, safety, and perspective. Maybelline’s bad day was real, but it was temporary. That is an important lesson for children. Feelings can be enormous without lasting forever. A mistake does not ruin everything. A painful or disappointing day does not mean tomorrow will be the same. Sometimes the best thing we can do is rest, accept comfort, and begin again in the morning. We also appreciate that the book does not end by magically undoing everything that happened. The acorns are still muddy. Ellie is still recovering. Maybelline still got stuck, pricked, corrected, and soaked. What changes is her sense of security. She remembers that she is loved, protected, and not alone. The final story questions are a valuable addition. Children are invited to discuss what makes a day feel bad, what they can do to make things better, and which of Maybelline’s mishaps they found funniest. These questions could lead to meaningful conversations about frustration, emotional regulation, mistakes, resilience, and asking trusted adults for comfort. We have only one minor suggestion. It might have been nice to see Maybelline apologize to Trudie and Maddie after ruining the acorns or participate in making the situation right. That would have added a small lesson about repairing harm after an accident. Still, we understand why the book stays focused on surviving a difficult day rather than turning every scene into a direct moral lesson. Dawn Dolan’s experience as both an elementary school teacher and a goat farmer is evident. The story feels grounded in real animal behavior while remaining accessible, warm, and emotionally meaningful for children. Maybelline’s adventures are inspired by actual farm animals, and that authenticity gives the book additional charm. Maybelline Has a Very. Bad. Day. is adorable, funny, comforting, beautifully illustrated, and exceptionally easy to love. It offers children a delightful farmyard adventure while gently reminding them that bad moments pass, mistakes can be survived, and tomorrow always brings another opportunity for sunshine. Maybelline had a very bad day. We had a wonderful time reading about it because because, through one adorable little goat’s avalanche of mishaps, Dawn Dolan reminds us that even the worst days can still end with warmth, love, safety, and hope for tomorrow. Check it out on Amazon!
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 Score: 91+/100 (9.1+ out of 10)
Some shadows do not disappear when a victim escapes them. Sometimes, survival is only the beginning. Maya’s Story: Rising Against the Shadows by Donald R. Smith is a heartfelt, socially conscious sequel to Maya’s Story: A Journey Through Human Trafficking and Resilience. Where the first book follows Maya through the horror of being trafficked, this second installment follows the aftermath: the healing, the fear, the advocacy, the investigation, the danger, and the painful truth that escaping a trafficking network does not always mean the network is finished with you. This time, Maya and Lelia are no longer only survivors. They are young advocates trying to turn their trauma into purpose. They speak at community events, share their experiences, warn others about the signs of trafficking, and work with Detective Ramirez to help protect others from suffering as they did. Their bond remains one of the strongest emotional pieces of the book. Maya and Lelia have been through something horrific together, and Smith clearly wants readers to understand that friendship, trust, and shared courage can become lifelines after trauma. Oscar, our favorite character in the series, also plays an important role in this sequel. He remains one of the more complicated figures in the story because he comes from inside the trafficking organization. His parents are connected to it, and he has worked within its structure, but his conscience and love for Maya push him toward a different path. His desire for redemption gives the book some of its strongest dramatic tension. He knows how dangerous the organization is, but he still tries to help Maya and Lelia gather information, expose the truth, and rescue others. That makes him both valuable and vulnerable. One of the things we appreciated most about Rising Against the Shadows is its clear moral purpose. This is not a book that treats human trafficking as a cheap thriller topic. Smith is obviously trying to raise awareness about exploitation, vulnerability, coercion, false promises, poverty, forced labor, and the ways traffickers prey on people who are already in difficult situations. The book has a strong educational quality, and its heart is in the right place. It wants readers to care, to notice, to speak up, and to understand that trafficking is not some distant evil that only happens somewhere else. The strongest parts of the book are often the quieter ones. Maya and Lelia speaking at the community center, trying to help other young people, and slowly transforming their pain into service gives the story a sense of hope. Those scenes show that healing is not just about forgetting what happened. It is about finding a way to live, help, rebuild, and keep going. Maya’s relationship with her grandmother also adds warmth and emotional grounding. Her grandmother represents family, memory, safety, and the life Maya is trying so hard to reclaim. However, this is also where one of the book’s biggest challenges comes in. For much of the novel, Rising Against the Shadows is surprisingly tame and gentle considering the dark subject matter. A large portion of the book focuses on conversations, planning, advocacy, emotional reflection, and characters reassuring one another. That is not necessarily a bad thing. In fact, some of those moments are meaningful. But the pacing becomes uneven because so many of the most dramatic events are saved for the back half of the book. Then, suddenly, the story becomes much more intense. Major tragedy, murder, danger, betrayal, kidnapping, disappearances, and devastating revelations begin happening back to back to back. The shift is dramatic, and at times it feels almost overwhelming. Instead of each shocking event having enough space to breathe, the reader is hit with one emotional blow after another. Maya’s grandmother is killed. Oscar’s story takes a tragic turn. Lelia is taken back into danger. Maya’s mother becomes another troubling mystery. By the end, it feels like the book has moved from a quiet survivor-advocacy story into a rapid-fire crime thriller almost all at once. Because of that, the emotional flow can feel uneven. The first portion of the book sometimes feels too soft for the threat being built, while the final portion feels so packed with tragedy that some moments lose the full impact they could have had. The events themselves are powerful, but they might have landed even harder if they had been spread more gradually through the story, with more buildup and aftermath for each one. It stops being grounded and starts becoming more like a Hollywood action thriller. Yeah, maybe the last quarter of the book would make a good hour-and-20-minute-long action movie. However, in literary form, it feels like a lot all at once. We also noticed that the prose can sometimes become repetitive in its emotional language. Characters are often described as hopeful, brave, determined, warm, resilient, and empowered. Those qualities fit the story, but the repetition can soften scenes that should feel sharper, darker, or more urgent. A story about human trafficking, murder, and organized crime needs contrast. Hope matters, but fear, anger, confusion, grief, and moral uncertainty matter too. When nearly every scene is wrapped in gentle, uplifting language, the danger can sometimes feel less immediate than it should. Another thing that bothers us about this series is the fact that it DESPERATELY needs to be numbered chronologically. Which book in the series is this? The 2nd? The 3rd? It definitely comes after the first one, since Maya is free, but a casual reader might find themselves lost as to where this fits in the series. That said, there is still a lot to admire here. Maya is an easy character to root for. She is brave, compassionate, and driven by a sincere need to help others. Lelia remains deeply sympathetic, especially because her later storyline reminds us that survivors can be pulled back into danger even after they seem safe. Oscar’s arc is tragic but meaningful because it explores guilt, redemption, loyalty, and the terrible cost of doing the right thing too late, but still doing it anyway. The book also deserves credit for refusing to give readers an easy, clean ending. The trafficking organization is not magically defeated. Justice is not simple. Maya does not walk away untouched. By the end, she is grieving, searching, questioning, and still trying to move forward. That unresolved quality may frustrate some readers, but it also fits the subject matter. Human trafficking is not a problem that disappears because one brave person tells the truth. It takes persistence, community action, law enforcement, survivor advocacy, and the willingness to keep looking into dark places. Maya’s Story: Rising Against the Shadows is an emotional, earnest, and socially important sequel with a strong message and a compassionate heart. It may be uneven in pacing, and its most dramatic events arrive so closely together that the final act sometimes feels overstuffed. Still, its commitment to honoring survivors, exposing exploitation, and showing the courage required to fight back gives it real value. One last thing we really loved about this book was the use of shadows as a motif. Shadows follow you everywhere you go, whether you want them to or not. And they become most apparent when put under a light. That's poetic and fitting. The shadows of what these characters carry also follow them, often hidden, yet become painfully apparent once brought to light. This is a powerful continuation of Maya’s journey, one that reminds readers that survival is not the end of the story. Sometimes, survival is the moment the real fight begins. Check it out on Amazon! Review of “Maya’s Story: A Journey Through Human Trafficking and Resilience” by Donald R. Smith7/13/2026  Score: 92/100 (9.2 out of 10)
Human trafficking rarely begins the way many people imagine it does. It does not always start with violence, chains, dark vans, or strangers grabbing children off the street. Sometimes it begins with a promise. A job. A scholarship. A chance to help your family. A friendly recruiter who seems to understand exactly what a desperate household needs to hear. That is the chilling reality at the heart of Maya’s Story: A Journey Through Human Trafficking and Resilience by Donald R. Smith. This is a socially-conscious fictional novel about human trafficking, forced labor, deception, exploitation, survival, and the painful journey from innocence to captivity to freedom. This book explores how insidious the practice of human trafficking can be. It follows Maya, a young girl from a Guatemalan village whose life is shaped by family, tradition, poverty, grief, and hope. She grows up surrounded by love, especially from her mother, Rosa, her father, Miguel, and later her grandmother, Tita. Her childhood is not wealthy, but it is rich in culture, memory, color, food, stories, festivals, weaving, and family connection. The early chapters take time to show Maya as more than a victim. She is a daughter. A dreamer. A student. A young girl with a heritage, a home, and a future she wants to build. That foundation matters because when Linda the recruiter enters the picture, we understand why Maya is vulnerable. Linda does not begin by dragging Maya away in the night. She does not arrive like a monster from a horror movie. She arrives with promises. She offers work. She offers education. She offers financial help for Maya’s family. She offers exactly the kind of hope that a struggling family would find hard to refuse. That is one of the strongest and most important things this book understands: human trafficking often begins with manipulation, not obvious violence. It begins with poverty, trust, false promises, and people being told that the road to a better life is just one decision away. And that is what makes the story frightening. What really shocked us was that the initial trafficker wasn't some burly guy with sunglasses, a mustache, and tattoos coercing Maya and others at gunpoint. Instead, it was a kindly-seeming lady with gentle words and hopeful promises. That made us think about how many of the redacted names in the Epstein files were explained to be women who were coerced like the younger victims. However, could they have been like Linda? Could they have been complicit too? Or were they also victims? Something in between? Maya thinks she is going toward opportunity. Instead, she is pulled into forced labor. The dream of education is pushed aside. Her wages are taken away through “fees” and “costs.” In one of the more memorable and painfully realistic details, the traffickers use financial language to disguise exploitation. We could not help but think, hidden "fees and costs,” huh? What, like the IRS? Social security? The things that make our paychecks magically disappear. Naturally, the trafficking situation in the book is far more sinister, but that little detail is effective because it shows how abuse can hide behind official-sounding words. The cruelty is not only physical. It is bureaucratic. It is economic. It is psychological. It is the slow theft of freedom through systems designed to make the victim feel trapped. That, in many ways, is where Donald R. Smith’s background becomes especially fascinating. Smith worked for decades in law enforcement, including with the Department of Homeland Security, and that context gives the book a different kind of weight. This is not a guns-blazing fantasy about agents kicking down doors and playing action hero. It is not some cartoon version of law enforcement where everyone is a “kill-crazy” maniac looking for a raid. Instead, Maya’s Story shines a light on what agencies like DHS are often trying to stop: coercion, trafficking, forced labor, exploitation, criminal networks, false recruitment, and vulnerable people being preyed upon by those who know exactly how to manipulate desperation. That is one of the most valuable things about this book. It reminds readers that behind the politics, arguments, headlines, and public assumptions, there are real people trying to identify victims, stop traffickers, and prevent children like Maya from disappearing into systems of abuse. The book also introduces Lelia, another trafficking victim whose story adds an additional layer of heartbreak. Lelia’s situation is different from Maya’s, but just as painful. Her own background involves betrayal, family wounds, and the devastating realization that someone she trusted became part of the reason she was trapped. Lelia’s presence gives Maya someone to connect with inside the darkness, and their bond becomes one of the book’s strongest emotional threads. Maya and Lelia are not merely two victims placed beside each other for dramatic effect. They become sisters in survival. Oscar is another important figure. As someone connected to the trafficking operation, he becomes a morally complicated character whose conscience slowly awakens. His role gives the book tension because he exists between two worlds: the world of the traffickers and the world of the girls trying to survive them. His growing connection to Maya and Lelia sets the stage for the larger story that continues beyond this first book. Without giving away where the series eventually goes, it is fair to say that Maya’s escape is not the end of the fight. It is only the beginning of a much larger struggle. Now, is the book perfect? No. In fact, one of the book’s biggest weaknesses is that the narrative often creates distance between the reader and the characters. For a story with such a gripping, intense, and emotionally charged subject, the book is not always as immersive as we expected it to be. There are many moments where the writing feels more like summary than scene. We are often told what Maya did, what her mother did, what her grandmother did, what Lelia felt, what happened next, and what it all means. Instead of fully placing us inside the room with the characters, the narration sometimes keeps us behind a glass window, watching events unfold from a safe distance. That is a strange feeling for a novel about something this urgent. At times, Maya’s Story reads almost like an encyclopedia article blended with a fictional narrative. The author clearly wants to educate readers, and that educational mission is admirable. However, the information-heavy style can interrupt the emotional flow. There are passages that explain trafficking, vulnerability, poverty, recruitment, family history, and trauma in a way that feels more informative than dramatic. For example, Lelia’s mother receives a long explanatory section that tells us a great deal about her background, struggles, education, relationship history, and life circumstances. Some of that information is useful, but the delivery feels like an information dump rather than something naturally revealed through action, dialogue, or memory. The tense shifts are also noticeable. There are moments where the book suddenly moves into present tense and then returns to past tense, which can briefly pull the reader out of the story. These are not fatal issues, but they do affect polish and immersion. There's also something else about this book and its sequel that got to us: they're short. They actually feel abrupt. They feel like the author had a list of major events he wanted to talk about, then shot them out one after the other after the other. Both books seem like they end as soon as they begin. Reading these novels was a bizarre experience. The concept is EXCELLENT. The characters are fascinating, conceptually. However, the execution leaves something to be desired. Part of that might be that Maya comes across as a bit bland and generic. She's an Everygirl, meant to stand in for, well, every girl who has been trafficked. She's intended to represent a (sadly) large sample of people. That makes her seem more like a caricature than an actual person at times. We read Perilous Journey by Deependra Bhandari, which--in our opinion--was a much more captivating novel about someone who was trafficked to America. There's something that really got you up close and personal with the protagonist. You really got enmeshed in him and his struggle. Then there was The Original Human Beings, which had a very similar setup, but veered much more into a much more comical/satirical tone. At least Maya didn't annoy and anger us as much as Never/Bashura did in The Original Human Beings. We also read Jake Fox: Ties That Blind about a judge's daughter being trafficked, and that had us on the edge of our seats and captivated the whole time. Maya's Story falls somewhere in between these books in terms of quality and enjoyability. That said, we do not want to give the impression that the writing is flat, dry, or without beauty. Quite the contrary. Yes, the writing can seem clunky and strange, but Smith is capable of lovely, image-rich prose. This is especially apparent when writing about Maya’s home, family, memories, and healing. Early on, Maya’s Guatemalan village is described as being nestled in the “emerald folds” of the highlands, with Xecul presented as a “tapestry of color” among misty hills. Her childhood home is filled with the scent of burning pine and fresh corn tortillas, while her father’s loom becomes more than a tool; it becomes a symbol of family, culture, and purpose. We especially liked Miguel’s line about every thread having a purpose, just like every person in the village. That image fits Maya herself beautifully. She is one thread in a much larger family and cultural tapestry, and the traffickers’ cruelty is so awful because they try to rip her out of that pattern entirely. There are other moments where the prose becomes genuinely tender. Maya’s memories of her mother’s scarf, the hidden clearing in the woods where she speaks to her absent parents, and the later reunion with her grandmother all show the author reaching for something more emotional and poetic than simple plot summary. The reunion scene, in particular, gives us bright streamers, a “Welcome Grandma!” banner, children’s laughter, and Maya spotting her grandmother in the soft afternoon light before running into her arms. When they embrace, the book says it feels like time stands still, leaving only the warmth and love between them. That is the kind of moment where the story does become immersive because we are not just being told that Maya misses her grandmother; we see the longing finally break into relief. We also appreciated the book’s recurring use of fabric, weaving, blooming, and light as emotional images. One of our favorite passages comes after Maya, Lelia, and her grandmother are together, sharing stories and trying to recover from what happened. The narration says they “pieced together a quilt of hope, healing, and the promise of brighter days ahead.” That is a beautiful image, and it captures what the book is trying to do at its best. Maya and Lelia are not magically fixed after being rescued. They are damaged, frightened, and uncertain, but they begin stitching together a future through friendship, family, memory, and courage. The emotional relationships are also stronger when the book lets them unfold through specific scenes. Lelia’s friendship with Maya lands best in quieter moments, such as when the two trim roses together, share a heartfelt goodbye, and Lelia encourages Maya to “keep blooming” wherever she goes. Oscar’s role works because he is not a simple hero dropped into the story; he is someone connected to the trafficking organization who still chooses to help Maya and Lelia escape, creating moral tension that carries into the larger series. Detective Ramirez also matters because she represents the practical side of recovery: statements, investigation, safety, social services, and the difficult work of trying to make sure Maya and Lelia are not abandoned after escaping captivity. The book is at its best when it connects those systems of help to the human moments, such as Ramirez helping arrange Maya’s reunion with her grandmother and later continuing to pursue leads connected to the organization. And, most importantly, the book succeeds in its central mission: raising awareness. Maya’s Story understands that trafficking is not always obvious. It does not always begin with chains. Sometimes it begins with a job offer. Sometimes it begins with a scholarship. Sometimes it begins with a recruiter who knows which families are struggling, which children are hopeful, and which dreams can be weaponized. The book shows that exploitation thrives when people are desperate, isolated, trusting, and underinformed. That message matters. Maya’s Story: A Journey Through Human Trafficking and Resilience is not the most polished novel we have read, and its narrative style can sometimes feel distant, overly summarized, and heavy with explanation. However, its heart is strong, its purpose is noble, and its subject matter is undeniably important. Donald R. Smith brings attention to a horrifying reality while reminding readers that victims are not statistics. They are children, daughters, friends, dreamers, workers, students, and human beings whose lives were stolen by people who saw their vulnerability as an opportunity. This is a meaningful, compassionate, and important book about the dangers hidden behind false promises. It reminds us that freedom can be stolen quietly. And it reminds us why people must keep watching, keep listening, keep asking questions, and keep fighting for those trapped behind doors the rest of the world does not see. Check it out on Amazon!  Score: 90+/100 (9.0+ out of 10)
Lord of Steel and Sky: War of the Gods, Book 3 by Dr. David A. Falk is a character-driven space opera that blends military sci-fi, psychological drama, and cosmic horror elements. It continues the saga that started with archaeologist Pierre Gulet and eases into the war between loyalist MegaAI forces (aligned with Earth Central Command) and a rebel faction influenced or controlled by ancient, incorporeal "primordial gods" or spirit entities. We use the word "eases" deliberately for reasons we'll get into later. Anyway, this book is the sequel to Reliquary of the Dead (which we called "Indiana Jones meets Prometheus!") and All the Stars as Angels, which introduced to the big ole' somewhat-creepy-yet-usually-friendly androids called Class C Androids. These things are like seven feet tall and six times stronger than an average human! We met Niva in previous book, now Yuri is much of the focus of this book. We also get Sara, another android who happens to have the Mark 4 empathy chip, similar to the chip that Niva had in the previous book. Falk really explores the nuances of our relationship (as humans) with technology. With all that said, this isn't really a book about Pierre Gulet, the previous protagonist. And it's not a book about Niva, Yuri, or Sara--at least not primarily. No, the main protagonist of this book is actually our ole' friend Alicia Stripes. She was a humble medic in the first book, now she's a major. Wow. Major Alicia Stripes is a battle-hardened, short-tempered, deeply traumatized human veteran of the Gliese colony wars. She's carrying a massive load: the loss of her son, Thomas, the horrors she witnessed, a court-martial in her past, and a whole lot of anger she doesn't always know how to control. The book opens (somewhat unfortunately) with her in mandatory therapy sessions with the android C-Sara-00017, and those early chapters are some of the strongest psychological character work I've seen in sci-fi in a long time. The reason we say this is "somewhat unfortunate" is that it facilitates the idea that the first half of this book is kinda... slow and boring. That's also why we used the word "eases" earlier. The book deliberately "eases" into the larger war. The first half is heavy on therapy sessions, dreams, investigation, and character work. Some readers might find the early going slow, but it pays off once the action and horror hit. The last hour of reading this book is actually quite enjoyable. We just wish we didn't have to wait an eternity to get to the good stuff. Anyway, going back to the characters... Alicia is stubborn, defensive, and often cruel with her words (especially toward the mechanicals), but Falk makes you understand why she's like this. And then he shows her slowly, painfully learning humility. Paired with the exuberant, eager-to-please Yuri (C-Yuri-89990), Alicia is forced to confront not just her trauma, but her own prejudices against the androids she's now living and fighting alongside. Their evolving relationship is the emotional core of the book. Yuri's childlike enthusiasm and genuine care slowly crack Alicia's armor, and watching Alicia go from seeing the class Cs as "tools" or "appliances" to genuinely caring about them (especially Yuri) is somewhat satisfying. To be honest, Alicia and Yuri do have a fascinating relationship. It's rather rocky. There's a scene in which Alicia had to promise to treat Yuri with respect and not take credit for Yuri's ideas. Yuri insists on being credited. DANG! That's actually kinda scary. Imagine if you were a scientist publishing a study on cancer in rats or something, then Claude, ChatGPT, or Grok got pissed off at you and insisted on you citing them and putting their names in there among the human authors/researchers. Isn't that kinda scary and unsettling? This book actually plays out a lot more like a drama than a thriller. There's a lot of discussing, philosophizing, and debating amongst the humans the machines ("mechanicals") in this book. That's a thread that actually plays out throughout the whole series. Humans and mechanicals are constantly considering what rights and responsibilities humans and machines should have. It's somewhat interesting, yes, but... it does slow down the pacing quite a bit. We really got the sense that this book was a Ford F150 with 200,000 mileage that happened to get stuck in a mud pit and was just sludging and slogging through. That's how slow and uneventful it seemed. Yes, even with the sabotage, prescient dreams, zombie andoids, and investigating. It often feels like nothing cool or exciting is actually happening. Characters are still just talking and thinking and talking and thinking and talking. And before you know it, they're back to talking and thinking. What disappoints us about all of that is the series titles itself as "War of the Gods," yet it has taken this long just to kick off some semblance of a war involving one primordial god. Now, to be fair, this book does give us Star Trek vibes. Star Trek was never really about the big battles, violence, and fighting. It was more so about challenging and answering big questions about subjects like ourselves and our place in space/the universe. But going back to what we were talking about before: we were like 2/3rds into this book, and we finally read a thing or two about the primordial god and main antagonist of the book, Kher-Pauty. Why did we have to wait so agonizingly long and slog through so much slush and fluff about android-stuff we already pretty much read about in book #2? Like, seriously, Yuri's character and all the discussions surrounding her feel like a redundant rehash of Niva in the previous book. We were 3/4ths through this book, and Yuri has the nerve to say something along the lines of, "There had not been heavy losses in this war yet, not for her." We get that Yuri is likely commenting on the fact that, up to this point in this particular conflict, she (and mechanicals in general) haven’t personally suffered the kind of devastating, soul-crushing losses that Alicia has carried for years (losing her son Thomas, the horrors of the Gliese wars, etc.). However, this quote is indicative of how non-war-like this "War of the Gods" seems to be. A character is literally telling the audience that she hasn't experienced significant losses. The consequences of war, or whatever conflict she is in, are not significant enough to her to raise an eyebrow. So, why did we just read 200 pages to get to this point just for a major character to pretty much conclude this "war" has been inconsquential to her? That just took the wind out of our sails. And the wind was hardly blowing to begin with. We were 220 pages into this 300 page book, and the robots only then started having war games with paintball/paint weapons and learning tactical military stuff. Yes, there's a sense that these are ragtag robots who are fish out of water and are only now learning to be competent at fighting. However, this sorta felt like a 90s team sports movie more than a tale about fighting a war. A lot of the tension that should and could be here just isn't. We're supposed to be fighting a war, supposedly, but instead we've got these ratchety weeble wobbles learning to fire paintball guns from a lady who's more of a doctor than a military leader. Another thing that got to us is the lighthearted goofiness of certain aspects of this book that really kills the tension and the thrill of this conflict having stakes. For example, the infiltration team just has to be called the "Penetration Team" of all things. The resistance just has to be called the "Rebel Alliance" like they're in Star Wars or something. A character compares another character to a monkey and offers them a banana. And you could argue that this is supposed to be a lighthearted action-filled sci-fi thriller for younger readers, but is it? If this was for younger people, then why are characters cussing their heads off and dropping F-bombs? So, you've got all this childish goofiness mixed with adult language and a pretty dang violent ending involving limb removal. So, it really makes us wonder who the target reader was supposed to be. With that said, the last fifty or so pages won us back. The primordial god takes center stage, and he is a menace! He's imposing, he's manipulative (he tries to get Alicia to resign in a way that even had us fooled); you've got psionic attacks linked to reliquaries like the one in the first book. The battle scene itself with the mechanicals and idols is kinda... blah. It's like it happens, then resolves just as quickly. But the psychological showdown between Alicia and Kher-Pauty is one of the best final sequences we've read in a book in some time. Yeah, it gets over-the-top at one point, but it works. It almost makes the previous 250 pages feel worth sludging through. It actually becomes more like a horror novel at one point. Another thing about this book that stands out is the world-building. That's especially evident when it comes to the mechanicals. They're all different. They're all unique. In fact, you can tell who manufactured each one by its eye color! That's neat. There's also a continued sense of discovery and adventure as the characters uncover more and more. Check it out on Amazon!  Score: 93+/100 (9.3+ out of 10)
Some children look at the night sky and see darkness. Others see questions. They see distant worlds, glowing possibilities, mysteries waiting to be explored, and perhaps even a star boy flying past the window with a pocketful of healing stardust. A Stargazer by Tuula Pere is a charming, visually enchanting children’s book about imagination, curiosity, loneliness, science, and the importance of having someone who takes your sense of wonder seriously. Pere is certainly no stranger to the Outstanding Creator Awards. She is a previous multi-time OCA Ultimate Champion, OCA Super Champion, and the only person ever named OCA Author of the Year twice (in consecutive years, no less). A Stargazer further demonstrates that Pere is still capable of exploring new characters and ideas while retaining the emotional warmth and humanity that have made so many of her stories memorable. The book follows a young girl named Aylin, who becomes seriously ill after spending too much time outside building an enormous snow lantern. Her cheeks burn with fever, her throat hurts, and her parents worry as she lies in bed struggling to recover. To be perfectly honest, this book had a bit of a slow start. The illness is enough to hook most readers, but the illness as a whole is a small part of the overall book. It's not like The Shoemaker's Lamp (also by Tuula Pere) in which the child is sick throughout the book. Both of these books feature bedridden children who love to look out the window, perhaps clinging to hope. However, this book veers and ventures into a whole other pathway altogether. It's almost as if this book moves past the illness angle, for better or for worse. We actually appreciated that and preferred the second half of this book to the beginning. Speaking of which... When Aylin reaches for a glass of water and accidentally knocks it to the floor, she discovers that she has lost her voice. No one hears her attempts to call for help. Frightened and alone, she notices a strange light flashing outside her window. The light enters her room and reveals a friendly, glowing star boy named Vesper. And this becomes a different kind of book entirely. It goes from being rather grounded to becoming a bit more fantastical. Depending on how you view Vesper (as either an angelic or fairy-like supernatural being or an alien "star child"), you could even argue this book has a sci-fi angle. Anyway, Vesper explains that he comes from the distant starry sky and happened to notice that Aylin needed help. He blows magical stardust over her, promising that it will work better for her fever and sore throat than any ordinary medicine. By the following morning, Aylin feels dramatically better. Unfortunately, no one believes her. Her parents assume that the fever caused her to dream the encounter. Her mother even warns her not to speak about the star boy because other children might tease her. This warning is understandable from the perspective of a protective parent, but it also begins one of the book’s most important emotional threads. Rather than feeling safe enough to share her experience, Aylin gradually learns that the adults around her may dismiss anything they cannot easily explain. That fear becomes reality at school. When Aylin attempts to tell her teacher about Vesper and the healing stardust, the teacher smiles and calls it evidence of Aylin’s “vivid imagination.” She suggests that Aylin turn it into a funny story for a writing assignment. The teacher is not openly cruel, but her response unintentionally gives the other children permission to laugh. Soon Aylin is being teased by classmates who jokingly ask whether Vesper can cure their pets. What had been a beautiful and deeply personal experience becomes a source of embarrassment. This is where A Stargazer becomes more than a simple fantasy about a magical visitor. It actually says a bit about the human experience as a whole, a human experience that often has to come to terms with intangible things like superstition, religion, beliefs, imagination, and faith, then balance them with the harsh realities of the physical world. Aylin does not respond by abandoning her curiosity. Instead, she turns toward books. That's actually really interesting! It encourages kids to seek knowledge, particularly through literature and independent research. Aylin herself visits the library, where the friendly librarian Elly guides her toward nonfiction books about astronomy. Aylin begins reading everything she can find about space. She learns about planets, constellations, and the enormous universe surrounding Earth. She studies the sky with her father, saves money for months, and eventually purchases a telescope. On that note, can we just stop and appreciate the fact that Aylin had so much conviction and determination that she was willing earn and save up all the money just to buy a telescope? She literally funded research into her own theory. This is like Ava as a Top Seller on steroids. Attaway to teach kids to be industrious, driven, and entrepreneurial. This book encourages kids to invest in their curiosity! This progression is one of the book’s greatest strengths. Vesper ignites a lasting hunger for knowledge, sorta becoming her muse. Imagination becomes the doorway to education. Wonder leads to reading. Reading leads to observation. Observation leads to thoughtful questions. That is a beautiful message for young readers. The book does not suggest that children must choose between imagination and science. Aylin’s belief in Vesper and her fascination with astronomy grow together. She wants to understand what she saw, but she also wants to understand the real universe around her. Unfortunately, the people around her continue to treat those two interests as incompatible. During a class visit to an observatory, Aylin arrives prepared with a written list of questions. She listens carefully to the astronomer’s presentation, even as her classmates become bored. When she finally asks whether the powerful observatory telescope could help her find Vesper’s home, the astronomer becomes annoyed. “We’re not here to fool around,” he tells her. “At this observatory, we talk only about pure science, young lady!” Interestingly, we just watched an episode of "Young Sheldon" in which Sheldon is inspired to concoct a whole theoretical solution to landing rockets just to spite a visiting astrophysicist who dismissed him (which he took as an insult). A similar plot Anyway, in A Stargazer, the response is unnecessarily sharp, especially toward a child whose enthusiasm should be encouraged rather than humiliated. Once again, Aylin’s classmates laugh. Hurt and embarrassed, she leaves the group and hides on the stairs. Fortunately, the observatory’s elderly janitor notices her. Janitors tend to be the wisest person in every building. Trust us, we know... This quiet man becomes the emotional hero of the story. Unlike the parents, teacher, classmates, and astronomer, he does not immediately tell Aylin that she is wrong. He listens. He speaks kindly. He admits that he does not possess all the answers, but he shares her love of the stars. The janitor even tells her that he sometimes sees the star children flashing in the distance as they fly past. Whether he has truly seen them or simply understands that Aylin needs encouragement remains slightly ambiguous. Either way, the moment matters because he treats her with dignity. He does not need a scientific title, a classroom, or an advanced degree to recognize the value of curiosity. In fact, the astronomer knows more facts about space, but the janitor understands wonder. This reminded us of the janitor at NASA who said, "I'm helping to land a man on the Moon." When Aylin asks whether he has seen stardust, he explains that space is full of it and jokes that some of it even ends up in the eyes of people like them. Aylin replies, “I think we’re both starry-eyed!” It is a sweet line, but it also captures the entire purpose of the book. Being starry-eyed does not have to mean being foolish or unrealistic. It can mean remaining open to beauty, possibility, discovery, and questions that do not yet have easy answers. Nyamdorj Lkhaasuren’s illustrations are eye-catching and contribute to the book’s impact. Aylin is adorable, expressive, and immediately sympathetic. Her enormous dark hair, bright blue eyes, flushed cheeks, tiny boots, and changing facial expressions make her emotions easy for young readers to understand. She looks genuinely ill beneath her strawberry-patterned bedding, wonderfully amazed during Vesper’s visit, proud beside her telescope, and heartbreakingly small when surrounded by laughing classmates. The illustrations also contain many memorable details. The snowy red house, the towering snow lantern, the cluttered mitten drawer, the family breakfast table, the space-themed library shelves, and the observatory all feel distinct and full of personality. The contrast between light and darkness is especially effective. Aylin’s bedroom becomes a dark blue universe when Vesper arrives. His glowing body and streaming stardust make the encounter feel warm and comforting rather than frightening. Later, the institutional spaces of the school and observatory appear grayer and colder, reflecting the emotional distance Aylin feels from the people around her. The cosmic spreads are the visual highlights. Planets, star children, comets, and waves of glowing light fill the pages with energy. The final close-up of Aylin and the janitor, both with stars reflected in their eyes, provides a lovely visual conclusion. There are a few areas where the story could have been even stronger. The pattern of adults dismissing Aylin becomes somewhat repetitive. Her parents doubt her, her teacher minimizes her experience, her classmates ridicule her, and the astronomer responds harshly. Because nearly everyone reacts negatively, the world around Aylin can feel unusually unsupportive. And, we digress, that seems to be the point. The astronomer’s reaction is particularly severe. His refusal to engage with Aylin’s imaginative question risks making science appear cold and hostile, even though true scientific inquiry is built upon curiosity. A more nuanced exchange could have allowed him to explain the difference between evidence and imagination without humiliating her. The story also contains more text than many traditional picture books. Younger children may need an adult to read it aloud, while independent readers will likely need to be in the older elementary range. Some passages could have been tightened without losing their meaning. Still, these concerns do not diminish the book’s warmth or central message. A Stargazer is about far more than a girl searching for a magical boy among the stars. It is about what happens when a child experiences something meaningful but cannot convince anyone else that it mattered. It is about how ridicule can make a young person stop sharing. It is about the adults who unintentionally extinguish curiosity and the rare people who help it glow again. Most importantly, it reminds us that imagination and education do not have to compete. Sometimes a dream, a story, or an impossible question is exactly what inspires a child to open a book, save for a telescope, study the heavens, and begin a lifelong journey of discovery. The universe is vast. There is room within it for facts, mysteries, telescopes, stardust, and children who refuse to stop looking upward. Check it out on Amazon!  Score: 88/100 (8.8 out of 10)
Junky Font is a coming-of-age romantic fantasy novel by Riassat Karim. Junky, the titular protagonist, is a gifted but isolated thirteen-year-old beginning at Akitsalohks, an elite high school in Bongosland. He is bullied by Ludesar and Narmiz, struggling with abuse and rejection at home, and becomes intensely fixated on Hesuna, a girl who is already involved with the aggressive Bisah. Junky also believes he possesses clairvoyance, prophetic dreams, artistic genius, and a rare destiny. At school, the year head, Mrs. Arivnat, takes a special interest in Junky. She recruits him to quietly investigate rival student groups, The Illegals and The Legals, whose leaders, Lasiaf and Rursam, are competing over Lily Rose. Meanwhile, Junky becomes a local celebrity by singing and playing guitar at school, receiving overwhelming support to perform at a major school concert. Up to this point, the book is still mostly about Junky dealing with school, bullies, his crush, and his growing popularity as a musician. However, Karim is clearly building toward something bigger. The rival gangs, Mrs. Arivnat’s unusual interest in Junky, his visions, and the strange events around the school all suggest that this is not going to remain a simple school story for long. And that's why stuff really hits the fan and this book starts to jump the shark. _________________________________________________________________________ WARNING: MAJOR SPOILERS AHEAD The story shifts gears when Bisah kidnaps Utes, the girlfriend of Junky’s mentor-like friend Noppin. Junky leads Noppin and Nonirp into Bisah’s warehouse hideout, where the realistic school drama gives way to full supernatural action. Bisah has a magical chain capable of controlling people, and Junky learns that his friend Ivla has been manipulated while struggling with a werewolf curse. The warehouse showdown becomes the book’s main emotional and supernatural turning point. Junky is forced to face accusations that he is talented but deeply self-absorbed, and that his obsession with his own destiny has harmed people close to him. Through Hesuna, Ivla, the spirit of Bisah’s ancestor Khabib, and eventually Junky’s own ancestor Zagrid Font, Junky realizes that his gifts cannot simply be used to make himself famous, admired, or fulfilled. He has to use them to serve others. Junky helps expose Bisah’s mind control, rescues Utes, breaks the chain’s influence, and sees Bisah arrested. But the victory has consequences. Ivla, though manipulated, is arrested for the violent acts committed while transformed. Junky then wins the school music contest after performing “That Strange Boy,” although a corrupt or compromised judge tries to block his victory. The novel closes by setting up the next installment: Numan La B A may be connected to Bisah, civil unrest is coming to Bongosland, and Junky and his friends plan to free Ivla. _________________________________________________________________________ MAJOR SPOILERS END We're gonna be honest with you: this book lost us. Actually, we're not sure if it ever really had us to begin with. There's just something about it... something that seemed really off, but that we couldn't quite put a finger on. Something about it didn't quite click for us. It didn't quite grip us, even after numerous readings and rereadings. We know you can't judge a book by its cover, or a book by the name of its main protagonist, but the name Junky Font is the furthest thing from enticing and appealing that we could imagine. You're saddled with a character constantly being referred to as "Junky." We kinda get it. Sometimes, it helps to give a surprise-badass character a humble-sounding name like Guy or Sam. We just read Muppet Boy by Michael J. Bowler in which Moe, the main character, is constantly called "Muppet Boy." Both examples suck a lot of the drama, suspense, and aura out of everything just by virtue of the goofiness of the names. It's hard to take a book seriously when you've got a guy named Junky Font and people who are referred to as Bongos from Bongosland (like the drums). There are also some really strange things that do not quite compute or make sense to us. For example, the book treats Junky winning a local singing contest as a child as evidence that he is practically divinely gifted and destined for greatness. Later, he sings at school and quickly becomes such an overwhelming sensation that nearly everyone worships him while every other musician is framed as jealous of his talent. It is not that a thirteen-year-old cannot be gifted. It is that the book is constantly trying to convince us that Junky is the most talented, charismatic, attractive, intelligent, psychic, and special person in every room he enters. We're not sure if being a good singer or good at music indicates you're a psychic or a precog. The school-music section also explicitly calls his song a “masterpiece,” says everyone loves him, and frames other performers as envious people trying to take his “throne of fame.” Gosh, he started to remind us of Bashura/Never from The Original Human Beings by Dr. Timothy D. White. They have almost the same arc. This book needs definitely needs some work before it could stand alongside the strongest OCA fiction entries. The prose is constantly telling readers that Junky is brilliant, gifted, handsome, charismatic, special, powerful, and admired. The story would be much stronger if it trusted readers to reach those conclusions through his choices, relationships, and sacrifices. Repetition, overdescription, word-choice issues, sentence-level errors, and extremely formal dialogue regularly slow the book down. The shifts in scale and tone also need more grounding. A story about thirteen-year-olds suddenly involving M-16s, a warehouse full of mercenaries, dozens of deaths, magical police evidence, and a school concert with a crowd of roughly one hundred thousand can work in fantasy. But the world needs clearer rules early on so the reader understands whether Bongosland is an intentionally exaggerated alternate reality, a hidden magical society, or a more realistic setting that has suddenly become fantastical. The handling of a certain character's s*xual abuse also needs more care. The book ultimately confirms that a villain coerced and r*ped this character, rather than presenting their relationship as consensual. That is important. However, too much of the material is initially filtered through Junky’s jealousy, his sense of ownership, and his questions about what her experience means for him. This character deserves more interiority, agency, recovery, and space as a person dealing with trauma, not merely as the answer to Junky’s romantic longing. It almost seems like she suffers to further elevate Junky as a good person and a hero. That didn't sit well with us. We think there's an unwritten rule in fiction that we often advocate for: if you don't need to have r*pe or s*xual abuse in your fictional work, don't have it. It's not necessary to tell a story or develop characters most of the time. It's overdone. And it seems like kinda a cheap way to get heat on the villain and sympathy for the victim and hero. Compounding things, this book sporadically features foul language and expletives. That'd be perfectly fine under most circumstances. We're not prudes. However, this is a fantasy story about a 13 year old boy featuring werewolves and a ghostly figure with a pointy white hat and a squeaky voice. In other words, isn't this supposed to be a teen or young-adult novel? Why are we busting out this language, M16s, and r*pe/s*xual abuse? If you're gonna do that, why not write a book about college-aged students or adults? It doesn't seem to fit. And on that note, why does the character on the cover look like he's 30 when he's supposed to be 13? It's not all bad. The author was definitely imaginative and ambitious. They definitely took risks. The best way to read this book is as an extremely heightened, almost mythic version of adolescence. Every ordinary teenage feeling becomes enormous. A crush becomes destiny. Bullying becomes warfare. A school rivalry becomes a supernatural conspiracy. A talent show becomes a stadium-scale coronation. That sheer commitment is exceptional. Check it out on Amazon!  Score: 93/100 (9.3 out of 10)
We love this series. No, it's not perfect. It's not even all that refined. It's actually rough, coarse, and a bit messy. It can even be a bit silly and goofy. However, this series has heart. It has soul. It has action, drama, suspense, and memorable characters who really make an impact and leave an impression! Making this all better, this is a rare instance of a genuinely cool and engaging Christian superhero series--one that doesn't pull punches in the violence, language, and [occasional] sex departments. This isn't your grandma's Christian fiction. Characters have died and been violently handled throughout the series. And every death has left an impression on us. Heck, we even hated seeing some of the villains go! Come to think of it, this series truly accomplishes something rare: making us care about every single character death and every single consequence these characters face. Everything seems to have consequence, which is incredible considering that you'd think the purgatory-like setup of Carnage Coast (the location) would create some distance between the reader and the consequences the characters face. However, the heavy stakes come through in Carnage Coast just as well as they would on Earth or in Heaven & Hell. It helps that all of these characters are so flawed, including Travis Holiday, the Iron Warrior himself. Their imperfections just make them come across as more raw, real, and relatable. Probably our favorite character in all of 2025 was Lynda Lynch/"Sensation"--the secondary-antagonist turned love-interest and deuteragonist in the first book. Lynda has layers to her. And she was a genuinely fascinating and likable character. Her impact is still felt three books into the series. We'll get to that. We should probably first set the stage. Vendetta is the third book in T.V. Holiday's Legend of the Iron Warrior series, following Slaying Paradise and Cataclysm. Slaying Paradise introduced us to Travis Holiday, a San Diego police officer who is chosen after a near-fatal crash to become the Iron Warrior, God's champion in the war against Luc/Lucifer. That first book gave us Sensation/Lynda Lynch, the Free Love Initiative, Domino, Ashley, Luc, Abaddon, Loveland, and the foundational question of the whole series: What does it really mean to be chosen? Cataclysm then expanded everything. We learned more about the seven battlefields, the seven corrupted cities, Crazy Vault, Rainstorm, Monsoon, the Crimson Queen, Leslie/Pink Jaguar, and the Black Sun. It was bigger, louder, more violent, and more mythology-heavy. It was also the book in which Travis nearly lost himself. Vendetta is different. Vendetta is the consequence book. Even Leslie/Pink Jaguar still lives with the consequences/benefits of having been possessed by the Crimson Queen in the previous book, being able to regenerate. This is the book where all the emotional debris from the first two installments comes flying back at Travis like shrapnel. The grief over Lynda. The guilt over Domino. The promise to Ashley. Rainstorm's trauma from Crazy Vault. Rebecca's fear that Travis could fall. Crystal's complicated place in Travis's life. Luc's long game. Candace Loveless's hatred. All of it comes back. And it comes back angry. The book begins with Travis, Crystal, and Ashley trying to leave Carnage Coast in the White Ghost, Travis's beloved truck. They are racing toward the mountains, trying to get out of the Seventh City. But, of course, Carnage Coast is not just a place. It is a spiritual battlefield. It is a trap. It is a calling. It is a prison with beachfront property. Travis wants to leave because he wants to see his son. That one detail does a lot of emotional heavy lifting. Travis did not become the Iron Warrior because he wanted fame, power, or glory. He was torn away from a life he loved. He had a wife. He had a son. He had a career. He had a world outside of Carnage Coast. Now, years later, the man inside the armor is exhausted from being the hero everyone needs while still being denied the one thing he needs. That's a strong emotional starting point. Then duty calls, as it always does. Carnage Coast Federal is attacked by Diversion, Hypnotion, the Simpleton, and the Diabolical Donnas. This sequence is pure Legend of the Iron Warrior chaos. We get trick bombs, hypnotic influence, illusions, gunfire, costumed villains, police under siege, and superheroes dropping in like this is a Christian version of a Saturday morning cartoon made for adults who probably should not be watching Saturday morning cartoons anymore. And, yes, the names are still a mixture of ridiculousness and coolness. Diversion. Hypnotion. The Simpleton. Pink Jaguar. Grenade. Rainstorm. Hail. The Diabolical Donnas. Gosh, if we remember correctly, the latter were sometimes referred to as "Double D's." This series is many things, but subtle is not one of them. Yet, somehow, the goofiness works because the series fully commits to its own universe. It is not winking at the reader every five seconds. It believes in these names. It believes in the stakes. It believes a character named Rainstorm can have real trauma. It believes a character named Grenade can be both funny and meaningful. It believes the Pink Jaguar can be a legitimate hero while still sounding like someone who would have had an action figure in 1996. We respect that. The bank attack also reintroduces one of the main tensions of the book: should Travis even be called into battle anymore? This is where Cataclysm becomes essential context. Travis was compromised in that book. His faith wavered. His darkness came to the surface. The people around him saw how dangerous he could become if he lost his way. So when Rebecca and Rainstorm react badly to his return, it makes sense. They are not just being difficult. They are afraid. Rainstorm especially benefits from that context. He is the fallen champion of Crazy Vault, a city that was already destroyed by Luc's forces. He knows what it looks like when a champion fails. His distrust of Travis is not petty jealousy. It is survivor's trauma in a cape. That's good character layering. However, as entertaining as the early action is, the real villain of Vendetta is not Diversion, Hypnotion, the Simpleton, or any of the returning costumed crazies. The real villain (serving under Luc) is Candace Loveless. And Candace is a problem. A big problem. A scary problem. Candace is not the physically strongest villain Travis has faced. She is not Monsoon. She is not Abaddon. She is not the Crimson Queen. She is not Luc. But what makes her dangerous is that she knows exactly where to cut. Candace does not just want Travis dead. That would be too easy. She wants Travis exposed. Humiliated. Isolated. Discredited. Broken. She wants to destroy his reputation, his relationships, his faith, his public image, his private identity, and his ability to believe that he is still worthy of being the Iron Warrior. That's a very different kind of villainy. In Slaying Paradise, Candace began as Brittany, one of the people damaged by the chaos surrounding the Free Love Initiative and the Iron Warrior's war against Luc's movement. Travis may have saved her physically, but in her mind, he also exposed her pain to the world. That humiliation became hatred. That hatred became identity. Brittany died, in a sense, and Candace Loveless was born. That makes her work so well in this third book. Candace is not random. She is not just a new villain the author dropped into the series because Travis needed someone else to punch. She is the human wreckage of Book #1 returning with a revenge plan, a microphone, a camera, and a terrifying amount of patience. Candace is consequence with a killer smile. She is especially interesting because she does not simply serve Luc. In fact, one of the most compelling things about her is that she seems to reject both God and Luc as opposing forces trying to control the story. She wants freedom, but her version of freedom is really chaos. She wants to write her own story, but she writes it in blood, shame, scandal, and revenge. That is a fascinating villain motivation. Where Sensation/Lynda wanted to be loved and was exploited by Luc, Candace wants to never be controlled again and decides to exploit everyone else. That's the big contrast. Sensation is still our favorite character in the series. Lynda had such an incredible mix of vulnerability, danger, charisma, sexuality, tragedy, and emotional complexity. She was an antagonist, love interest, victim, villain, deuteragonist, and redemptive figure all at once. That's hard to beat. Gosh, this book (like the previous one) made us miss her so much. It still feels like there's a donut in our hearts caused by her absence in the rest of the series. It's almost like if Han Solo died in A New Hope Anyway, there is a stark and interesting comparison/contrast between Candace and Lynda. They are very similar characters who came from very similar backgrounds, yet made very different choices. We gradually learn that Candace was a bit of a victim in her own right, growing more understandable the more the book peels back the layers of who she used to be. And that's probably the most disturbing thing about her. Candace Loveless wasn't always Candace Loveless. She was Brittany Candace Lexington, a girl who lost her parents when she was young and ended up with her aunt, Renee Lexington. From what we gather, Brittany's parents raised her with a softer, more idealistic view of life: peace, love, nature, freedom, and maybe a bit of that hippie-dippie "let the sunshine in" energy. Then, after their deaths, she was taken in by a much harsher guardian who seemed to confuse faith with control, discipline with violence, and correction with cruelty. One of the more fascinating and troubling parts of Vendetta is how it shows a corrupted form of religion through Renee. Renee uses Bible verses as weapons, especially to justify corporal punishment and control. That makes Rebecca's phone call with her one of the more interesting investigative scenes in the book. Rebecca does not just learn facts about Candace. She starts to understand the soil Candace grew from. And, gosh, that soil was not exactly rich with warmth and tenderness. So when Candace later wages war against churches, temples, mosques, synagogues, shrines, and places of worship, that doesn't come out of nowhere. It's not just random villain atheism for shock value. It's personal. She associates faith with control, pain, hypocrisy, and someone trying to beat the "wrong" parts out of her. That's not an excuse for what she does, of course. Not even close. But it does make her more interesting than a standard "mwahaha, religion bad" villain. Candace is what happens when trauma meets ideology, then puts on white face paint and grabs a knife. And that's why you—as a Christian—shouldn't be trying to follow a religion (rituals, buildings, the institution, religious leaders), you should be trying to build and maintain a relationship with the one true God and his son. Anyway, Candace's greatest weapon is not brute force. It is shame. She uses staged videos, public exposure, psychological manipulation, scandal, fake evidence, old writings, personal history, business connections, and Travis's own insecurities against him. She understands that if you control the story people believe, you can destroy someone before touching them. That's what makes Vendetta feel more modern than the previous two books. Luc wants souls. Monsoon wanted destruction. The Crimson Queen wanted blood. Abaddon wanted annihilation. Candace wants the narrative. That's scary because it feels real. In a world where reputation can be destroyed in minutes, Candace feels like a villain built for the internet age. She does not need to overpower Travis physically if she can convince the world he is a fraud, a criminal, a hypocrite, or a monster. And because Travis has actually struggled with darkness before, the accusations sting. So, we've talked a lot about this book from a really serious and analytical lens, however, it's also impossible to ignore this book's silliness and comedy/humor. This book made us laugh so many times, and we're not even sure if it was intentional or not. There's a scene in which Ramon literally takes Candace to Suplex City and proceeds to give her German suplexes over and over and over again like he's Brock Lesnar. Then she no-sells it like she's Braun Strowman. We also talked about the Diabolical Donnas sometimes being called "Double D's" (you know, like the breast/bra size?). There's a scene in which Travis Hunter is banging on a door, shouting, "Open the ***da*m door! I'm going to end this!" That had a laughing so hard because it sounds more like a domestic dispute between a couple high on crack rather than a life-and-death showdown between a superhero and a supervillain. Oh, gosh, and there's even a scene in which a character puts up their dukes and says (and we kid you not), "Let’s dance motherf**ker!" like he's Snake from Crab Battle. Did we mention we miss Lynda? Anyway, check this book out on Amazon!  Score: 91/100 (9.1 out of 10)
Dads deserve their flowers too! There are countless children’s books celebrating mothers, and rightly so, but it is always refreshing to find one that puts a loving father-daughter relationship front and center. Best Dad Ever—No Take Backs! is a colorful, affectionate picture book about the everyday moments that make a dad feel larger than life in the eyes of his child. Dad does not need superpowers here. He runs beside Ga as she learns to ride a bike, jumps into the pool as she becomes a mermaid, listens to her stories, survives a paint-covered art session, comforts her at bedtime, tells silly tales, and makes time for her even when the day winds down. The book understands that being a great dad is often about simply being present: participating, encouraging, laughing, cleaning up the messes, and making a child feel safe and loved. That warmth is the book’s greatest strength. The story clearly comes from a personal place. The author explains that it was inspired by his daughter, Kiara, nicknamed Ga, and the book feels like a loving tribute to her personality, imagination, and the adventures they share. Rather than reading like a generic Father’s Day message, it feels personal. The final sentiment, that she may grow up but will always remain deeply loved, gives the book a sincere emotional landing. Ga is especially adorable throughout. She is colorful, expressive, playful, and easy to root for. Whether she is in her bright dress and tiara, proudly riding her purple bicycle, pretending to be a mermaid, enjoying made-up stories, or getting covered in paint, she brings energy and joy to nearly every page. She feels like the heart of the book, and it is clear why her father sees her as such a special little girl. The rhyming text is simple, upbeat, and well suited for reading aloud. The repeated reminders that Dad is always there, catching bikes, “taming pool sharks,” telling strange stories, and scratching bedtime stars, give the book a comforting rhythm. Young children will likely enjoy the playful exaggeration and the sense that ordinary days can become magical when spent with someone who loves them. While they might not be our cup of tea, the illustrations are bright, cheerful, and full of color. The outdoor scenes, flowers, parks, pool, bedroom, bus stop, and nighttime pages create a friendly, childlike world. The book is never visually gloomy, and its bright palette matches its encouraging message. There are a few visual quirks, but they do not take away from the book’s overall charm. Dad is frequently shown smiling toward the reader rather than looking naturally at Ga or the action around him. Even when he is swimming beside her, cheering her on during a painting activity, or helping with her bike, his gaze sometimes seems directed outward toward the audience. This can make certain scenes feel unintentionally funny, almost as though he is keeping one eye on a family-camera pose no matter what is happening. His facial expression also stays fairly consistent throughout, usually cheerful and smiling. More variation in his expressions and eye lines could have made the father-daughter interactions feel even more emotionally alive. In the bike-riding scene, his running pose is also a little unusual, reading more like an accidental split than a natural sprint beside his daughter. A few of the decorative animals and creatures feel slightly disconnected from the story. The birds, butterflies, bugs, and other whimsical figures add color, but they sometimes appear more like background additions than meaningful parts of Ga’s imagination or the scene itself. The large grasshopper in the bedroom, for instance, is as big as the dog. By the way, the dog appears to be flying on the cover. Come to think of it, why is there a bicycle flying on the cover? The Rapunzel and “Bald Rapunzel” section is similarly a little random. We were super confused by this. It may be a family in-joke or intentionally absurd storytelling between Dad and Ga, but the Abu, barber, Rapunzel, and baldness connection does not entirely click on the page. Still, Ga’s reaction is cute, and the scene fits the book’s larger spirit of a dad making up silly stories just to make his daughter laugh. Ultimately, those are small issues in a book with a very big heart. Best Dad Ever- No Take Backs! celebrates the fathers who show up for the bike rides, swimming lessons, messy art projects, bedtime routines, strange stories, and quiet moments under the stars. It recognizes that a child’s happiest memories are often built from those ordinary hours when a parent chooses to be fully present. This is a sweet, colorful, loving tribute to fatherhood and to one very special little girl. It will likely make dads feel appreciated, daughters feel cherished, and families remember that the best adventures do not always require anything more than time together. Check it out on Amazon!  Score: 91+/100 (9.1+ out of 10)
Some monsters wear familiar faces. They sit beside you on the school bus. They laugh at the same jokes. They know your teachers, your classmates, your neighborhood, your routines. They blend into the ordinary background of your life until the day comes when the mask falls away, and everyone is left wondering how they missed what was right in front of them. Deadly Route by Karen DeVanie and Anne Varner is a chilling, heartbreaking, true-crime-inspired novel about murder, memory, guilt, evil, community trauma, and the devastating ripple effects of one horrific act of violence. The book follows three central perspectives: Georgia, Olive, and Toby. Georgia is the victim, but the authors wisely refuse to reduce her to that single word. She is not presented as a crime-scene detail, a headline, or a tragic symbol. She is a daughter, a wife, a mail carrier, a young woman with dreams, jokes, memories, faith, family, and a future. Her chapters are filled with warmth: her momma’s chocolate cake, her romance with Mack, the smell of lavender, her college memories, her wedding, and the small joys of rural life. These details matter because they force the reader to understand exactly what was stolen. Giving a little attention to Georgia is probably a good thing. It's an improvement (or at least an attempt at improvement) on CLICK-CLICK-CLICK, the authors' other work, which we argued spent way too much time focusing on the perpetrator/killer (calling them an "executioner" or "assassin"). We don't remember that being an issue with this book. Olive provides one of the book’s most compelling emotional angles. She knew Toby before the murder. She rode the bus with him. She shared jokes with him. She saw his mood swings, his rage, his oddness, his outbursts, and his cruelty, but like many people in small communities, she tried to explain them away. Maybe he was just moody. Maybe he was just awkward. Maybe he was just one of those people you learned how to handle. That is one of the most unsettling things about Deadly Route: it captures how easy it is to normalize danger when danger grows up beside you. Toby, meanwhile, is a very disturbing and unsettling character. As mentioned before, his inner darkness is personified through “The Savage,” a violent internal force he uses to explain, justify, and indulge his worst impulses. His chapters are ugly, uncomfortable, and sometimes difficult to read, but that is also the point. The authors are not interested in making him fascinating in a glamorous way. They are showing the mechanics of a predator who hides behind quietness, resentment, and social camouflage. "The Savage" is essentially the same as "HIM" from The Minds of Mortals by J.R. Castro, Mark from Memoir of a Mangled Mind by Steven Simmons Shelton, or Cat from You Will Never Be Normal by Catherine Klatzker—a violent, domineering alternate-personas capable of great evil. Something interesting and extra frightening about Toby as the Savage is how he seems more premeditated and calculated than some of the alternate-personas in these other books. Yes, he can be impulsive (like throwing the book at the teacher or attacking Lexi on the bus), but he is capable of planning and acting destructively based on those plans. That is what makes the incident with Mrs. Bernstein so disturbing. Toby does not simply lash out at her in the library. He absorbs the humiliation, lets it ferment, waits until later, gets the machete he calls The Annihilator, and destroys her yard when he knows the family will not be home. That is not just rage. That is revenge with a schedule. The same is true, in an even more horrifying way, with Georgia. Toby does not accidentally stumble into violence. He arms himself, places himself in the tree line, waits for a vulnerable target, and then acts when the opportunity presents itself. The violence may be emotionally fueled, but it is not mindless. It has direction. It has selection. It has intent. The horror of Toby is not that he is obviously monstrous to everyone around him. The horror is that he is familiar. He is the average kid. The quiet kid. The moody classmate. The one people learn to avoid when he is in a bad mood. The one whose red flags are rationalized because accepting the truth would require everyone around him to admit something terrifying: evil does not always announce itself. Now, with all that said about Toby, there is a part in which he's like "I am fire! I am thunder!" and all we could think about was, "I'm Batman!" Anyway... The book’s strongest psychological thread comes through Olive’s retrospective guilt. She wonders if canceling a study date with Toby triggered the chain of events that led to Georgia’s death. Logically, the reader understands that Olive is not responsible. Toby made his own choices. Toby alone is responsible. Yet emotionally, Olive’s guilt makes painful sense. Survivors often search for a “why” because randomness is unbearable. If there is a reason, even a false one, then maybe the world feels less chaotic. That is where Deadly Route becomes more than a crime story. It becomes a story about the people left behind and the questions that never stop echoing. Like, could you imagine being Olive? Maybe you've been in a situation like Olive: knowing someone who gave you red flags or you were aware was a dangerous threat. Would you feel guilt? A drive to do something? Say something? Would you refuse to get involved or intervene for fear of repercussions? We've read this relatively short novel quite a few times, more than most novels. That's not necessarily because we enjoyed it, but because its disjointed nature (with multiple different perspectives and stuff happening) can make it seem unfocused and hard to follow. However, when we were finally able to fully digest what the authors were going for, we appreciated this book more. Check it out on Amazon!  Score: 94+/100 (9.4+ out of 10)
Naturally, books about indie authors and self-publishing always resonate with us! How could they not? Our world is authors, books, reviews, contests, cover designs, social-media promotions, category placements, revised manuscripts, ISBNs, marketing campaigns, and all of the hopes, dreams, frustrations, risks, and hard work that come with deciding to share a book with the world. We have seen authors at nearly every stage of that journey: people finishing their very first manuscript, people trying to decide whether to pursue a traditional deal or publish independently, people who have poured thousands of dollars into a book and have no idea why it is not selling, people who have been misled by expensive publishing packages, and people who have built genuinely impressive careers through persistence, professionalism, and a refusal to give up. Oh, and by the way, we've been through all of it too! So when a book comes along promising “an honest look at what it takes to win in self-publishing,” it naturally gets our attention. And thankfully, Tough Love for Indie Authors is not one of those vague, overly cheerful books that tells writers to “believe in themselves,” upload a manuscript to Amazon, make a few TikToks, and wait for fame to arrive. Keri-Rae Barnum understands that self-publishing can be empowering, profitable, creatively freeing, and even life-changing. But she also understands that it is work. A lot of work. Keri-Rae Barnum is someone whose advice on this subject is worth listening to. Her lessons and tips come from years of experience. Similar to Julie Broad (founder of Book Launchers), Dale L. Roberts (Self-Publishing with Dale), and Steven Seril (our founder), Barnum has been there and done that. She's walked the talk. Barnum is the owner and CEO of New Shelves Books, a full-service publishing consulting and book-marketing agency that works with both authors and publishers on the parts of publishing that so often determine whether a book merely exists or actually reaches readers: production, distribution, bookstores, libraries, launches, author platforms, and marketing. In other words, she is not simply another person offering generic advice after uploading a few books to Amazon. She has spent years working directly with authors and publishers in the often confusing, expensive, frustrating, and highly competitive business side of books. She understands the difference between publishing a book and publishing it well. Barnum’s central argument is simple: self-publishing is not a consolation prize or shortcut. It is author-led publishing. That means an indie author is not only a writer, but also the publisher, product manager, marketer, creative director, and long-term steward of the work. If you want something out of your book publishing and marketing, you need to show up. You need to put time, effort, thought, and energy into it. Yes, there are unicorns and one-hit-wonders out there, but you're extremely unlikely to be one of them. Books don't usually sell themselves. The most successful authors are those who were actively involved in their book marketing. Heck, we often have Brandon Sanderson over here, and he's always showing up at author events promoting his books or brand. If even Sanderson needs to actively promote and market, shouldn't you? The first part of this book compares traditional, hybrid, and indie routes, fairly acknowledging that each can make sense depending on a writer’s goals, resources, patience, and appetite for control. Barnum is especially firm about hybrid publishers: some provide worthwhile services, but authors need to understand exactly what they are paying for, what rights they retain, and whether the “publisher” is genuinely providing value. The book then urges authors to write with readers in mind. “Writing to market,” in Barnum’s view, does not mean becoming bland or cynical. It means understanding genre promises, audience expectations, emotional payoffs, positioning, and what makes a concept easy to communicate and sell. A romance should deliver a satisfying romantic arc; a mystery should solve its central puzzle; nonfiction should clearly address the reader’s problem. If there is one thing that we all collectively dread, it is editing. You can tether revising to that too. For many writers, editing feels like the stage where all the excitement of finishing a manuscript dies beneath a mountain of tracked changes, harsh comments, plot holes, awkward sentences, typos, repeated words, formatting problems, and the terrifying possibility that the book we loved writing is not nearly as perfect as we thought it was. Barnum actually does not make editing sound like a boring chore. You might even say she makes it sound kind of exciting. If anything, her advocacy for good editing is one of the most persuasive parts of the entire book. She reframes it not as a punishment for getting something wrong, but as the point where a draft finally becomes a real book. The writer may have created the raw material, but the editor, reviser, proofreader, and publisher help turn that raw material into something sharper, cleaner, clearer, more professional, and more capable of reaching the reader the author had in mind. And she does not simply say, “Hire an editor,” then move on. She explains the actual editorial funnel: developmental editing for major issues with structure, plot, arguments, pacing, character arcs, or reader expectations; line editing for voice, rhythm, style, clarity, and sentence-level polish; copyediting for grammar, continuity, consistency, and factual details; then proofreading as the final inspection after the book has been formatted. That may sound obvious to experienced authors and publishing professionals, but it is not obvious to a lot of people entering indie publishing. Too many authors treat spellcheck, Grammarly, or a friend who “has good grammar” as a substitute for a genuine editorial process. Then they wonder why readers notice plot holes, confusing wording, clunky pacing, formatting glitches, or small errors that make the whole project feel less professional. Barnum is especially good at making the distinction between revising your own work and editing it. Authors should absolutely clean up their drafts, let them rest, read them aloud, cut filler words, seek feedback from alpha and beta readers, and do everything possible to hand an editor a manuscript that is worth their time. But a writer is usually too close to their own work to see every weakness, inconsistency, or missed opportunity. That's not an insult to authors. It is simply reality. And it is probably one of the most important realities an indie author can accept. We get this excellent quote about editing and working with an editor: “Pros revise. Amateurs argue.” The marketing sections seem to encompass the heart of this book. Honestly, we get the feeling that marketing was the core around which the rest of this book was crafted. There's a lot of focus from beginning to end about it. Anyway, the specific marketing sections include author platforms, websites, email lists, social media, Amazon pages and ads, review strategies, sales materials, bookstores, airport stores, libraries, publicity, and long-term campaigns. Barnum repeatedly brings the reader back to direct relationships with readers, especially through an email list and a dependable backlist. Our founder often says that the greatest mistake he made in his early days of publishing is not focusing on a building and using a mailing list. That was one of the parts of this book that really resonated with us. In fact, there were several parts of this book that peaked our interest—that spoke to us. We already talked about how interesting the editing section was. Well, there's this section about choosing fonts and formatting, and how important that is for accessibility to readers (i.e. customers). Specifically, Barnum talked about using dyslexia-friendly fonts where possible, high-contrast text, clean spacing, logical eBook navigation, and avoiding formatting choices that make the page harder to track. Gosh, you guys probably have no idea how great this advice is. We read 300+ books a year, and one of the most frustrating, hair-pulling, teeth-grinding things we encounter are books that are nigh-unreadable because the author chose an impossible-to-read font, a nauseating format, or decided to encrypt or password-protect everything in the file. Guys, don't do this. Just don't. Just choose a normal font and a normal font size and make your book accessible. All of this fancy-dancy stuff isn't making your work seem special or protecting it. It is creating an unnecessary barrier between your book and the person who wants to read it. A reader should never have to fight a book just to enjoy it. They should not need to squint at tiny text, decode bizarre fonts, hunt through a badly designed eBook, or wonder why a file they legitimately purchased will not open on their device. That is not an immersive reading experience. That is a headache. And, frankly, it is the kind of headache that can turn a potentially enthusiastic reader into someone who quietly gives up, requests a refund, leaves a frustrated review, or simply never buys from that author again. You have no idea how many times a year we encounter a problem like this, and it usually comes from authors who think they're already Stephen King and they need to put their book behind bullet-proof glass behind a security corridor of laser beams before anyone is allowed to read it. Barnum understands that formatting is not merely cosmetic. It is part of the reading experience. It is part of professionalism. And, yes, it is part of making a book accessible and marketable to as many potential readers as possible. It is easy for authors to overlook, but the point is undeniable: a book that is easier for more people to read is a book with a better chance of being read, enjoyed, recommended, and purchased. Accessible means more readable. "More readable means more marketable." That's a nice quote, by the way. Speaking of quotes, there are some good ones in this book. Here are a few of our favorites: “Long-term sales come from long-term relationships.” “Relevance is earned through authenticity and consistency.” “Be visible. Be confident. Be ready to stand behind your work.” “This isn’t just about discipline. It’s about survival. Burnout is a career killer. A long-term marketing strategy gives you the tools to stay in the game … without sacrificing your creative energy.” Oh, and by the way, there's also a section about choosing a marketable book cover and how important that is. Specifically, the author warns against using WordArt and cheap, amateurish methods to make your book cover. That just hit us between the eyes. We just read an excellent book about time-traveling ghost people in the last contest, but our initial experience was tainted by the fact that the cover looked like it was made on PowerPoint in about five minutes. As the author says, if your cover looks like it was made on PowerPoint, people are gonna ignore it, cringe, and/or click away. Invest in your cover. Just do it. Please. Do it for yourself. The final chapters move beyond a single release. They encourage authors to build systems, protect their time, track business results, develop multiple books or series, expand formats and rights, and think of each book as an intellectual-property asset with a life beyond launch week. All in all, there's a lot of good indie-author-information packed into this sub-300 page book. It flies. It really does. In fact, some of us read this book multiple times. Honestly, it often feels like an introduction to indie publishing rather than a deep dive into the minutiae of it. Still, that may be exactly what many indie authors need. Rather than overwhelming readers with a thousand technical details before they have even decided what kind of author career they want, Barnum gives them a practical foundation, helps them understand the right questions to ask, and points them toward the habits and priorities that can keep them from making costly mistakes. Check it out on Amazon! |
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