Editorial Reviews for Nominees
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 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!
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 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!  Score: 92/100 (9.2 out of 10)
Can a church exist beneath an interstate? No steeple. No stained-glass windows. No Sunday-best clothes. No polished pulpit. Just battered blankets, shared coffee, warm casseroles, wounded veterans, and a small circle of people refusing to let one another disappear. That premise is the heart and soul of Where is Your Church by Scott G.A. Metcalf. Where Is Your Church is a first-person, faith-centered inspirational narrative about a returning Iraq veteran in San Antonio who feels called to serve homeless veterans. Carrying trauma of his own and a Bible given to him during deployment, he begins visiting encampments under bridges, in parks, and near abandoned buildings. He brings food, coffee, blankets, and, most importantly, time. He learns not to lead with a sermon or try to “fix” people, but to show up consistently, listen, and treat them as human beings rather than problems. The book follows the growth of that outreach. Meals become shared tables; isolated veterans begin to form a fragile community; and the narrator meets people carrying PTSD, addiction, injuries, survivor’s guilt, loneliness, and the humiliation of feeling forgotten. The major rupture comes when he finds three men dead at an encampment, including Thomas and a younger man whose name he never learned. Their deaths turn his private calling into a stronger commitment to advocacy and pastoral work. The central question comes from Michael: “Where is your church?” The narrator concludes that church is not fundamentally a building, denomination, sermon, or Sunday ritual. It is the community created when people share food, protect one another, listen without judgment, and refuse to let suffering people become invisible. Chapter 7 delivers the title answer: “You’re sitting in it.” The final chapters move toward formal ministry, seminary, pastoral leadership, and the book’s larger concept of “the church that walks,” meaning faith expressed through active compassion in the places where people are hurting. This book is incredibly well-intentioned. The author clearly has a good heart. Its strongest principle is that ministry begins with presence, not judgment, not even evangelism or advice-giving. According to the narrator: “My role, as I saw it, was to be present, to offer a moment of respite, a tangible expression of care.” The narrator does not immediately dump Bible verses on cold, hungry, traumatized people. He feeds them, sits with them, learns their names, and keeps returning. That part feels humane and worthwhile. The meal scenes are among the best material because they give the book something concrete: food, warmth, memory, trust, and a temporary sense of home. The title idea is also effective. “Church” as a community of people who care for one another is a meaningful challenge to Christians who may equate faith entirely with buildings, programs, appearances, or attendance. One thing that gives Where is Your Church its heart is the variety of people the narrator meets along the way. There is Smitty, the guarded former mechanic whose careful acceptance of a meal becomes one of the narrator’s first lessons in earning trust; Marcus, the tense young Marine whose silence says as much as his words; and Duke, a former roofer whose injury, painkiller addiction, and loss of home and family show how quickly a “normal” life can collapse. These are not people who need a stranger to swoop in, give a speech, and solve everything. They need to be treated like people again. Then there are individuals like Maria, whose anxiety, independence, and difficult memories make accepting help its own kind of battle; Liam, a young Afghanistan veteran who hides raw pain behind bravado and cynical humor; Frank, with his quiet strength and practical wisdom; and David, the reserved artist whose sketch of the group captures something the others struggle to say out loud. David sees more than a gathering of lost people beneath a bridge. He sees an “us.” That small moment is actually one of the better representations of what the book is trying to accomplish. Silas becomes especially important because he helps the narrator understand that the work is not really about soup, socks, or blankets. It is about seeing the person beneath the hardship. Silas also becomes one of the clearest voices for the book’s central idea. After searching for belonging in more traditional places, he realizes that the real congregation may already be sitting around the fire: people listening to one another, sharing what little they have, and refusing to let each other face the darkness alone. In that sense, Silas is not just another encounter. He is one of the characters who best helps the book explain what “church” means. Through these encounters, the narrator learns that those living on the margins are not empty vessels waiting to be rescued. They can be generous, insightful, funny, protective, creative, faithful, and deeply compassionate toward one another, even when they have almost nothing. They teach him humility, patience, the importance of listening, and the fact that a warm meal, a familiar face, or a small piece of normalcy can sometimes mean more than the person giving it will ever fully understand. We're gonna level with you: we're forced to compare this book with the author's other book about the same subject, Soldiers in the Sandbox, which was a beautifully-written, heartwrenching, captivating depiction of a soldier returning home from war. It was one of our rare Ultimate Champions of the last contest, 1st-place in Fiction! Where is Your Church, on the other hand, is just not on the same level of Soldiers in the Sandbox as far as quality goes. Yes, both books are incredibly eloquent. Both books are arguably flowery and overwritten. However, Where is Your Church takes overwritten, repetitive prose to another level. This is one of the most overwritten and repetitive books we've ever read, up there with Clifton Wilcox's books. In fact, it has a lot of the exact same annoyances as Wilcox's books, specifically in overusing words and phrases like "a testament to..." and "crucible." It sometimes feels like a broken record. Such a beautiful thing turns into a headache after reading the same passages, ideas, and sentiments over and over again, just worded in a slightly different way. If you trimmed off all the fluff, fat, and repetition, this book would probably only be about one-third or half its length. That's how repetitive it is. Readers don't have to be told dozens upon dozens of times that the concrete is cold. We get it. The traffic rumbles overhead. We get it. The veterans have haunted eyes, guarded expressions, and a need to be seen. We get it. The narrator brings soup, coffee, casseroles, blankets, socks, and a willingness to sit with them. We get it. And we are not saying those things are unimportant. They are the entire emotional foundation of the book. But the author explains their importance so often, and in such similar language, that the power begins to wear off. A scene that could have been moving in five pages is sometimes stretched across twenty. A lesson that could have landed beautifully in one paragraph is repeated in four slightly different metaphors. There are passages that genuinely moved us. There are images that stick with us, especially the meals, the fires, the hesitant conversations, and the veterans gradually realizing that someone actually cares enough to return. But the book desperately needs an editor willing to say, “Yes, this sentence is beautiful. No, we do not need three more sentences saying almost the exact same thing.” Sometimes, less is not only more. Sometimes, less is what allows the beautiful thing to remain beautiful. Now, that's not to say that all the writing is bad or that this book isn't good. We're giving it a 9.2 out of 10 for a reason: it's incredibly well-intention, it has a lot of heart, and the writing is occasionally evocative. For example, you get these really visceral and unique quotes and passages that look and sound amazing, especially in isolation. For example, you get phrases like “the pregnant silences,” “Elena’s garden was a microcosm of her own journey,” “the scent of gratitude, a subtle perfume,” “the perfume of possibility,” and “each act of kindness a hymn of hope.” Now, none of those phrases are automatically terrible on their own. In a shorter book, used sparingly, some of them might even be fairly evocative. But this is how the book communicates almost all the time. A character cannot simply pause. No, we must sit in “the pregnant silences.” A garden cannot simply reflect a person’s recovery. It has to be a “microcosm” of their journey. Gratitude cannot just exist. It has to become a scent, then a perfume, then somehow permeate the narrator’s very being. Soup and bread cannot simply smell good or make people feel hopeful. No, their aroma has to become “the perfume of possibility.” A small act of compassion cannot simply be kind. It has to become “a hymn of hope.” And eventually, it starts feeling like the author is trying to turn every bowl of soup, every pause in conversation, every blanket, every fire, every glance, and every human interaction into the final paragraph of an inspirational Hallmark card. It feels a lot like what Justin Kojok was trying to do in Driving For Justice, another incredibly repetitive, overwritten, and overly sentimental book. There is a very real difference between writing beautifully and refusing to ever let anything be simple. Sometimes a silence is just a silence. Sometimes a garden is just a garden. Sometimes people are grateful. Sometimes soup smells like soup. Sometimes someone being kind is already meaningful enough without needing to become a metaphor, a sacrament, a symphony, a perfume, a testament, and a hymn all at once. Ultimately, this book's writing is its biggest double-edged sword. It's simultaneously beautiful and simultaneously too much. But what remains stellar about this book is how it shines a light on our greatest citizens: those who served our country and deserve our care and attention. How can we fault this message? How can we fault the author for trying? We may have not loved or enjoyed the delivery, but we love the heart and the spirit of this book. Check it out on Amazon!  Score: 95/100 (9.5 out of 10)
What a morbidly fascinating subject matter. And what a well-researched book concerning it! Why Rampage Killers Emerge: Conditions and Characteristics is a serious, research-heavy criminology/psychology book arguing that sudden public mass violence is usually not a spontaneous “snap,” nor the product of one easy explanation such as video games, psychiatric medication, bullying, or mental illness alone. Funk calls the offenders he studies “autogenic” rampage killers: largely lone attackers whose violence is public, compressed in time, aimed mostly at arbitrary victims, not motivated by financial gain, and not primarily a tactical act for an organized ideological cause. The book’s central framework has four broad preconditions: perceived physical inadequacy; destructive or oppressive environments; neuropsychological impairments; and pathological personality traits. Funk repeatedly emphasizes that these are not causes or excuses. They are vulnerabilities or developmental conditions that may combine with grievance, isolation, distorted thinking, resentment, fantasy, and personal choices over time. The book uses case histories, perpetrator writings, biographies, research studies, and a purposive appendix sample of 112 offenders to argue that the overlap among these conditions matters more than any one factor by itself. The book’s biggest strength is that it refuses simplistic scapegoats. It does not blame violent media, SSRIs, mental illness, bullying, bad parents, guns, or ideology by themselves. That is a genuinely important corrective. Funk is most persuasive when he shows how isolation, grievance, perceived humiliation, distorted beliefs, access to weapons, personality dysfunction, and a growing revenge fantasy can feed one another. It is also impressively thorough. The amount of case material is enormous, and the author does more than summarize headlines. He looks at journals, recordings, court statements, warning signs, personal histories, and repeated behavioral patterns. The appendices, notes, tables, and figures make it clear that this was a major research undertaking rather than a casual true-crime book. Actually, the tone of this book is surprisingly unbiased and measured, especially given the emotionally charged subject matter. In fact—you know what?—it's quite detached. It doesn't sound like the author has a motive. It doesn't sound like the author wants to glamorize the violence or put a spotlight on the killer(s). Instead, it really feels like the author is just presenting matter-of-fact information as is. That's quite impressive. Funk does not sensationalize these perpetrators, turn them into dark celebrities, or use their crimes as an excuse to push one simplistic political, cultural, or ideological narrative. He is careful to distinguish explanation from excuse and to remind readers that the overwhelming majority of people who struggle with trauma, depression, social isolation, disability, bullying, family instability, or psychiatric disorders never become violent. That restraint gives the book real credibility. Rather than insisting that one troubled childhood, one medication, one video game, one gun, one rejection, or one diagnosis explains everything, Funk consistently returns to convergence: the dangerous accumulation of grievance, entitlement, distorted cognition, social withdrawal, emotional deterioration, violent fantasy, and, in some cases, access to the means to carry out an attack. It is a far less convenient answer, but it is probably much closer to the truth. When a horrifying act of public mass violence occurs, people understandably want one clear answer. It was the video games. It was the medication. It was bullying. It was bad parenting. It was mental illness. It was ideology. It was guns. It was social media. It was society. And, to be fair, every one of those things may sometimes be part of a larger conversation. But one of the greatest strengths of Why Rampage Killers Emerge: Conditions and Characteristics is that it refuses to pretend that an atrocity can be explained away with one neat, politically convenient, emotionally satisfying answer. This book runs through numerous examples of mass murderers throughout history. It explores these examples in exhaustive detail. You know what? We're really tempted to just not mention these killers by name. In our minds, they're horrible, terrible, despicable people who did horrible, terrible, despicable things. They robbed people of their happy endings. They robbed people of their lives. They robbed families of their loved ones. They traumatized neighborhoods and communities. Let' challenge ourselves to do that. But let's talk vaguely about some of the examples from the book without mentioning names. One example involves an academically accomplished professional who appeared to spend years accumulating personal and professional grievances. Setbacks were not processed as disappointments, frustrations, or unfair moments that could be survived. Instead, they seemed to become proof that other people were conspiring to deny this person the recognition, status, and treatment they believed they deserved. Funk traces a long pattern of explosive reactions, entitlement, interpersonal conflict, and blame that existed well before the eventual act of violence. The point is not that professional rejection “caused” murder. The point is that rejection became another brick in a wall of grievance that this person had been building for years. Another case involves a young person whose life contained a frightening convergence of troubling behavior, social withdrawal, family dysfunction, violent interests, alarming communications, and access to a weapon. This may be one of the book’s most heartbreaking examples because it does not feel like a story in which absolutely nobody could have seen anything coming. It feels like a story in which warning signs accumulated, adults missed opportunities to intervene, and a dangerous internal world was allowed to keep developing in the shadows. Elsewhere, the book explores two deeply troubled young men whose friendship became a destructive feedback loop. One appears more calculating, controlling, and energized by deception. The other appears more depressed, isolated, and emotionally lost. Together, however, they helped build each other into something worse. They reinforced rage, fantasy, alienation, and revenge until those things became more real to them than the human beings around them. Funk does not treat this as a dark buddy story or some kind of twisted legend. He treats it as a warning about manipulation, secrecy, and what can happen when damaged people begin validating each other’s worst impulses. There is also the example of a young man whose loneliness, envy, romantic frustration, and grandiose sense of entitlement hardened into a belief that other people owed him affection, admiration, sex, and validation. That distinction is crucial. The book does not blame loneliness itself, nor does it blame the people who rejected him. It shows how a person can take personal pain, refuse accountability, turn disappointment into resentment, turn resentment into hatred, and eventually convince himself that innocent people deserve punishment for not giving him the life he imagined he was entitled to have. And then there are the cases involving people whose lives seemed to be unraveling through isolation, instability, perceived failure, paranoia, substance abuse, family strain, employment problems, or untreated psychological distress. Again, the book never argues that people experiencing these hardships are destined to become violent. Most never do. But Dr. Funk shows how, in certain individuals, these factors can combine with pathological personality traits, violent fantasy, grievance collecting, and a willingness to blame everyone else for their misery. That may be the most haunting thing about this book. It does not present these atrocities as random lightning strikes out of a clear blue sky. It presents them as terrible storms that can gather over time. Not every storm becomes a tragedy. Not every warning sign means someone is dangerous. Not every lonely, depressed, bullied, rejected, traumatized, socially awkward, mentally ill, or angry person will ever hurt another human being. But when warning signs begin to overlap with obsession, entitlement, escalating threats, violent fantasies, manipulation, secrecy, access to weapons, and an increasingly hostile worldview, we cannot simply shrug and assume it is nothing. We do not need to make these people famous to learn from the devastation they caused. We do not need to repeat their names, celebrate their notoriety, or treat them as fascinating antiheroes. The victims deserve more of our attention than the people who took so much from them. But we do need to understand the patterns. Because understanding the patterns may help us recognize danger before another family loses someone they love. We also learned a few things we didn't realize after years and years of reading about these mass-death/mass-shooter stories. For example, we didn't realize how led along and submissive one of the Columbine shooters was. We were under the impression that it was an equal partnership in a death pact. Perhaps the part of this book that interested us the most were the defenses that mass-killers sometimes use to try to play the courts. This book does a surprisingly good job at running down the realities of the insanity defense and what it means to be incompetent to stand trial. There's actually a pretty big difference. And the author, thankfully, highlights how rare and unsuccessful these usually are. The book also covers topics like BPD, paranoia, narcissism, antisocial tendencies, obsessive behavior, delusions, dissociation, depression, and other pathological or neuropsychological conditions. But, once again, one of the book’s strongest qualities is that it does not treat any diagnosis as a crystal ball. Now, with all that said, this book is naturally going to be incredibly upsetting to some people. The details, even presented factually and unglamorously, are still grim, shocking, tragic, and sad. There is one example that upset us a lot personally, and that is the example of the grocery-store shooter who became obsessed with Ember’s Ghost Squad, a fictional animated world. If you know, you know. We're not going to name this murderous piece of crap. Anyway, what bothered us about this section is that the killer, who is biologically male—cis male—is constantly referred to by female pronouns. Under most circumstances, we'd be cool, respectful, and accepting of that. However, this individual is not trans. This individual was sick, deranged, mentally ill, confused, and out of touch with reality. To refer to him by female pronouns seems wrong and disingenuous. It gives all trans people a black eye because it puts this piece of crap--this murderous fraud--this fake--in the same category as genuinely trans people, who AREN'T violent, murderous, or deranged like this individual was. We'd say the same thing about the 2007 Connecticut home invasion killer who Wikipedia lists by a chosen female name and female pronouns. Yeah, we push back against that. So, this guy had a choice? You know who didn't have a choice? The innocent woman he strangled to death. The two innocent daughters he and his accomplice poured gasoline over and burned alive-- two innocent girls whose lives and innocence they took. These pieces of crap--this grocery store killer and this Connecticut home invasion killer--are not trans; they are frauds who suffered from gender dysphoria and mental illness. They are fakes. And we don't validate fakes. We don't give credibility to fakes. True trans and queer people do not act like this. They don't harm people. They aren't dangerous. They aren't murderers. In fact, most of them are some of the kindest, most generous and gentle souls out there. Ok, that's something we needed to get off our chest. The research in this book is exceptional. Check it out on Amazon!  Score: 90/100 (9.0 out of 10)
The End: Alpha is a Christian dystopian/post-apocalyptic resistance novel set in 2113, after a catastrophic virus, political collapse, and the rise of Constantine Jedidiah Goodfellow, now known as Emperor Nero. Nero is a narcissistic trillionaire technocrat who has seemingly deluded himself (and most of the world) into believing that he is the Antichrist (with a capital A) and ruler of the world. He has turned the world against Christians, branding them through a fake “virus scan” census and hunting them with robotic killing machines called Guardians and aerial units called AirGuard. The story opens with Sage, a young Christian survivor, living in hiding with other “undesirables” in a bombed-out church shelter in Maple Park, Illinois. What's with all these apocalyptic books and the need for them to take place in Illinois? Are you guys ok in Illinois? Anyway... Hopefully this isn't so sacrilegious to say, but this book made us think: what if prophecies of this sort don't unfold because of magical, divine, or supernatural means, but because of a human drive toward self-fulfilling prophecies? What if they come true via rational, realistic, grounded means? What if we just love digging our own graves and lying in them by propagating these prophecies? What if some texts plant a seed of mania that psychopaths and sociopaths then go overboard with? We actually see glimpses of this on the streets of major American cities every day: the crazy homeless guy shouting at the top of his lungs that the devil made him do stuff and/or that the end is nigh. That's just a thought. Do you know what's strange? This book actually made us think a lot about Shakespeare's Macbeth--which is a much better story with a much better protagonist and villain, don't get us wrong (even the author probably wouldn't deny that)—however, it similarly explores the idea of self-fulfilling prophecies. Macbeth was led to believe he would become king, then that he was invincible, unkillable, and that he would reign for decades to come because of the vague yet seemingly optimistic prophecies of the three witches. However, all of those prophecies were only true from a certain point of view. Most notably, Birnam Wood came to Dunsinane because Malcolm ordered parts of the trees to be cut and carried to disguise their numbers, and Macduff proved to be "not of woman born" because he was birthed through a C-section. Macbeth followed and fulfilled all of these prophecies, and, arguably, he had never learned of them from the three witches, he might've never attempted to fulfill them. He would've never written to Lady Macbeth about their promises. He would've never done any of the killing. Arguably. Likewise, this book really made us wonder if Goodfellow would've ever become Nero if he wasn't made aware of the prophecies of the Antichrist. Anyway, onto the other characters in the book. Sage is the emotional heart of the book. He is young, angry, traumatized, faithful, jealous, brave, and deeply wounded. He has lost his adoptive family, lives with a glowing Christian mark on his neck, and survives with his best friend Hunter, his love interest Charlie, and their leader/mentor Swifty. Sage’s chapters carry the survival-thriller side of the book: hiding, fleeing, fighting Guardians, losing friends, finding new shelters, and wrestling with whether faith means endurance, forgiveness, revenge, or action. Thomas Drexler is the military/strategic backbone of the story. He helped create Nero’s Guardian technology before defecting and becoming a key figure in The Defiance. He is a wanted traitor in Nero’s eyes, but also one of the few people capable of fighting Nero’s system from the inside. His chapters reveal the broader war, the hacking/backdoor angle, the resistance network, and eventually the huge truth that he is Sage’s biological father. Maximillian, later revealed as Darius Antone Forrester, is one of the most interesting parts of the book. He begins as Nero’s grotesquely loyal worshipper, a “High Vassal” who adores Nero with cult-like devotion. His chapters are disgusting, flamboyant, creepy, and intentionally excessive. But over time, a “still, small voice” begins working on him. His storyline becomes a conversion/awakening arc, ending with him rejecting Nero, wounding him, realizing the “god-king” can bleed, escaping in an AirGuard Epsilon, and reclaiming his real name. The main plot follows Sage’s group as they move from shelter to shelter after suspected informants expose them. They flee the church, survive close encounters with Guardians, lose people like Sister Theresa, Leona, Fritz, and Luca, and eventually reach a larger Christian refuge at a high school. That refuge feels like hope for a moment, but Nero’s forces attack, flooding the mechanical room and scattering or killing many of the survivors. Now, while that might sound tense and action-packed, a lot of this book is actually more static and philosophical. A lot the characters stand and sit around thinking about and discussing things including the possibility that Nero is a flawed human—a sinner—just like them who they should be praying for as Christ commanded we pray for our enemies. We found that very interesting, because we don't remember a time in Left Behind, Christ Clone Trilogy, or any other piece of apocalyptic literature in which someone actually encouraged Christians to pray for the Antichrist. Usually, they pray for a meteorite to hit his helicopter or something like that. Now, we have to say: something seems a little off with this book. It feels really clunky, blocky, and choppy. It feels like each character and each scenario exists in a box. It almost feels like this whole book is happening on a small stage in a theater with some kids dressed like trees in the background while some actors feed and fan a guy dressed like Kuzco from The Emperor's New Groove. Nero just comes across as extremely cartoonish, almost unbelievably so. And the problem with that is it prompts the question: why would anyone follow this guy? Believe this guy? Do what this guy says? Yes, there are times when he's supposed to be trying to draw false sympathy and trying to manipulate the crowd into siding with him and blaming Christians, but it just feels really inauthentic and disingenuous. Yes, people are stupid, but are they really that stupid? We didn't find Nero to be very charismatic or convincing at all. In fact, we found him to be more sniveling and annoying. Most of the time, Nero just seems to lounge around and get catered to and fawned over. We compared him to the guy from Emperor's New Groove, but he also kinda reminded us of the pompous Space Emperor from the "Space Emperor" SNL skit, you know the skit in which the royal snack guy, Shegan, keeps feeding him "delicious delights" just so the emperor can show off how powerful and in control he is. Maximillian kinda reminded us of Shegan, the snack guy. We couldn't shake that thought the whole time. With Nero, it was hard for us to imagine a handsome charismatic political leader who people were willing to follow. He came across as a pompous younger guy with a higher pitched voice, crazy hair sticking up like a Super Saiyan or Cats from Zero Wing, and wild clothing like Seymour from Final Fantasy X. No, that's not how his appearance is described in the book, but that's how we imagined him with the way he acts, the way he's viewed and treated in this world, and just the tone of this book in general. Maybe it's just that this book has a really futuristic, sci-fi vibe to it. This book has a pretty heavy Christian leaning, which we didn't mind. In fact, we kinda liked it. We'd even dare say it was probably the best aspect of this book. It's interesting to read about how Christians might think and act in the end days when they're being persecuted. Would they run and hide? Lie about their faith? Or would they stay steadfast and proclaim the name of Jesus even if it meant certain death? Check it out on Amazon! Review of “Entrepreneur Secrets: Real Stories of Purpose, Profit, and Power” by Peter Remington6/30/2026  Score: 96/100 (9.6 out of 10)
Entrepreneur Secrets by Peter Remington (with 24 contributing business leaders) is an excellent business and personal growth/development book! While practical, it also has a great motivational/inspirational lean. We couldn't help but be fired up by it! The book’s heart is clear right away: entrepreneurs are framed as risk-takers, builders, mentors, job creators, and community leaders. The foreword argues that entrepreneurship is not just about business ownership, but about creating meaning, helping employees and families, serving communities, and building legacies. There is also a strong charitable angle, since the book says all proceeds go to Kids’ Meals, a Houston charity feeding preschool children. The book moves through many industries: real estate, public policy, restaurants, architecture, insurance, fashion, wellness, nonprofit leadership, art, emergency medical services, accounting, beauty, coaching, and more. Each chapter is basically a personal testimony mixed with practical advice. Bill Baldwin’s chapter focuses on real estate, local expertise, relationships, realistic expectations, niche-building, and community involvement. His “five things every entrepreneur should know” section is one of the most concrete business-advice sections in the book, especially his warning to assume sales may be half of what you expect and expenses may be double. Matt Brice’s chapter about opening Federal American Grill’s Hedwig Village location right as COVID hit is one of the strongest narrative chapters because it has an actual crisis, a pivot, community support, leadership under pressure, and a clear example of survival through adaptation. Beth Harp’s Kids’ Meals chapter gives the book some of its deepest purpose, showing nonprofit entrepreneurship as mission-driven leadership rather than just fundraising or operations. A lot of the later chapters continue that same pattern: reinvention, survival, and purpose. Gretchen Gilliam’s chapter about The Hive uses the beehive metaphor well, showing entrepreneurship as collaboration and community-building. Saba Syed’s chapter about Oasis Moroccan Bath is another standout because it combines personal rebuilding, cultural identity, motherhood, faith, and the risk of introducing an unfamiliar wellness concept to Houston. Peter Remington’s closing chapter turns “S.W.I.N.G.E.R.” into a motivational framework about success, work ethic, integrity, growth, enthusiasm, and resilience. This is a warm, generous, highly inspirational business book. Its biggest strength is that it makes entrepreneurship feel human. These are not cold case studies about revenue models and market positioning. They are stories about people being knocked down, starting over, learning from mistakes, helping others, building teams, and trying to leave something meaningful behind. The best chapters are the ones that give specific stories and specific business lessons. Matt Brice, Bill Baldwin, Beth Harp, Gretchen Gilliam, Saba Syed, and Taft McWhorter stand out because their chapters feel grounded in lived experience. You can see the business, the risk, the pivot, and the emotional stakes. The weaker side is that the book can become repetitive. Many chapters return to similar ideas: believe in yourself, follow your purpose, keep going, build relationships, serve others, and do not quit. Those are good messages, but across 237 pages, some readers may want more hard numbers, sharper conflict, more operational detail, or more “here is exactly what went wrong and how I fixed it” material. One of our favorite aspects of this book is the excellent writing combined with how deeply human and personal these contributions are. There are some great quotes and passages. For example: "Growth doesn’t end; it evolves." "Life has a way of getting better." "Whether you’re 25 or 65, there’s no expiration date on a dream." "...necessity is the mother of all transformation." “Lack of evidence is not evidence of lack.” "Your mindset in the morning can determine your day, and your mindset at night can determine your dreams." “Knowledge isn’t just power; it’s preparation.” Need a kick in the butt and a boost of motivation? Check it out on Amazon!  Score: 94+/100 (9.4+ out of 10)
Life and How to Live It- Volume One: Begin the Begin is a brutally candid coming-of-age memoir by Chaz Holesworth, covering his life from his 1978 birth through a personal collapse at age seventeen in 1995. Despite the title, this is not a self-help book. It is the story of a kid trying to survive poverty, addiction, family instability, religious control, shame, grief, and the belief that he may never get out. Chaz grows up in Kensington, Philadelphia, with a father whose long-term heroin addiction devastates the household and a mother who, desperate for safety and meaning, embraces an extremely strict fundamentalist church. The family lives with severe neglect and deprivation, while Chaz also endures bullying, childhood boundary violations, fear, and a church-school environment that teaches him to distrust his own thoughts, emotions, interests, and identity. It should also be mentioned that this can be considered an LGBTQ+ memoir, if that's something that interests you. Music becomes his lifeline. R.E.M., Tori Amos, Nirvana, Nine Inch Nails, Depeche Mode, and the alternative-rock world give him a vocabulary for feelings that religion and family life have made him afraid to express. Discovering R.E.M.’s “Losing My Religion” is especially important because it begins to crack open the narrow world he has been given. The songs, records, concerts, friendships, and eventually romantic relationships become evidence that there may be another way to live. As a teenager, he starts working, gains access to music and friends, runs away from home, and eventually moves in with his grandmother. For a while, Bensalem Baptist Academy and his relationship with Laura offer a fragile hope that he can finish school, be loved, and build a future. But the school expels him, Laura’s parents force them apart, and he is pushed back toward the restrictive church-school system he had tried to escape. The book ends with another expulsion, a confrontation with his father, a serious emotional breakdown, and Chaz stepping into an uncertain secular life without the structure that had controlled him. This is actually the second book by Chaz Holesworth we've read. In fact, we read this series out of order (because that's the order they were submitted in). Gosh, we wish we would've read this one first! It provides a lot of context to what happened in book 2. It's also a bit more focused on the author's relationships with people, particularly family members and love interests, which we really enjoyed and appreciated. This is a powerful memoir because it feels lived-in rather than cleaned up for the reader’s comfort. Chaz does not present himself as a hero who always makes the right choice. He is funny, angry, insecure, romantic, immature, perceptive, and often painfully honest about his own mistakes. That makes the book feel human. The strongest part is how it shows that poverty, addiction, religious fear, inadequate education, family trauma, and mental health struggles do not exist separately. They pile on each other. His father is not reduced to a monster, and his mother is not reduced to a villain. Both clearly hurt him, but the book also makes it clear that both were damaged people trying, and often failing, to survive their own lives. Music is also much more than decoration here. R.E.M. is practically a character in the memoir. The album commentary occasionally slows the pacing, especially for readers who are not deeply invested in 1980s and 1990s alternative music, but it also explains how Chaz stayed alive emotionally. Music gives him language, community, rebellion, comfort, and a path toward becoming someone outside the identity imposed on him. Now, in the previous book (or the sequel, if we're getting technical), music, musicians, and bands absolutely dominated almost every aspect of Chaz's life. It always seemed to be on his mind, to an obsessive degree. In fact, a lot of the second book seemed overly fixated on music and a distaste for organized religion, particularly Christianity. However, what's great about this book is that it provides a ton of context to that. It also provides a bit of relief and an escape from all of that. We now have a better understanding of why the author viewed organized religion with so much disdain in the second book. He was severely mistreated, persecuted, manipulated, and filled with shame and guilt by the terrible religious people and institutions he encountered. There's actually a lot of irony in this book and the life of the author. Perhaps the biggest example of this is how his father suffered from a long-term heroin addiction and heavy alcohol use—things which society and organized religion generally view as negative. They are, indeed, negative. However, it's interesting and ironic how Chaz's father actually seems like the normal one (the normal parent) in the family. That’s because his mother’s obsessive religiosity became so all-consuming that it often made her appear less grounded than Chaz’s deeply addicted father. His father’s problems were obvious: heroin, alcohol, instability, absence, and poor decisions. But his mother’s damage came packaged as righteousness, protection, salvation, and “God’s will.” She became so consumed by the church’s teachings that normal childhood experiences, secular music, movies, friendships, dating, questioning, self-expression, and eventually Chaz’s own independence could all be treated as threats to his soul. Rather than helping him process fear, trauma, insecurity, or abuse, the religious environment often filled him with more shame, guilt, and terror about Hell. His father was dangerously flawed, but he could still offer Chaz moments of ordinary life, freedom, humor, music, movies, and connection. His mother, meanwhile, increasingly allowed doctrine and fear to shape nearly every part of her son’s world. That does not make Chaz’s father a good parent. It makes the situation even sadder. The parent society would most quickly condemn, the addicted father, could sometimes seem more normal than the parent who believed she was saving her child. Some of the moments Chaz has with his dad are some of the best in the book. His dad was the only member of the family who actually attended his pageant. He and his dad bonded over watching Star Wars together. After a severe medical emergency which leaves his father disoriented and unable to answer basic questions, his father is still able to say, "That's my son, Charlie" (the only question he got right). Look, many of us at OCA are Christian or come from an Abrahamic religious background. We're so sorry to the author for the terrible things that supposedly-religious people did to him. That's not the way Christians are supposed to be. That's not the way Christianity is supposed to work. The author actually does a good job pointing this out, alluding to how Jesus taught us to be loving and accepting—"Judge not, that ye be not judged." While the criticisms of religion in this book made us feel uncomfortable or were even upsetting to us, they still seem justified given the context of what Chaz experienced. We can't hold that against him. He has the right to say that a group of people were terrible to him, so he doesn't want to be like them (or one of them). Chaz also described rich moments with other people in his life like his sister, Cathy, the "queen of mean." Chaz refers to her as the "lightweight champion" of people who make drama in the household (his parents are the "heavyweights"). Aside from his complicated relationship with his father, some of Chaz’s most memorable and revealing connections are with the young women who enter his life. Tonya, Christine, Jeanne, Laura, Mary, and Sue each bring out a different side of him: the awkward romantic, the deeply insecure dreamer, the loyal friend, the sensitive music obsessive, and the teenager who wants love so badly that he can sometimes overwhelm himself with hope. Christine is especially interesting because their relationship does not settle into a simple romance. After a brief courtship, they become close friends who tease, argue, exchange gifts, explore Philadelphia, and help each other through difficult moments. Their bond becomes especially moving when Chaz stays beside Christine during her father’s final days, even singing “Hero” with her at his bedside. In many ways, Christine becomes less a girlfriend than a sister-like presence and one of the few people with whom Chaz can be emotionally open. Jeanne, the “Boardwalk Queen,” represents the rush of first serious love. Their Wildwood romance, long phone calls, mix tapes, and Chaz’s exhausting bus trip to Pearl River give the memoir some of its sweetest and most wistful material. Laura, meanwhile, becomes perhaps the book’s most developed romantic relationship. She seems to offer Chaz a real possibility of tenderness, mutual understanding, education, and a future beyond Kensington. Even their happiness is threatened by the controlling religious environment around them, which makes their relationship feel both hopeful and fragile. These relationships matter because they show that Chaz is not only reacting against pain. He is actively searching for connection, affection, and someone who might see value in him when he has spent most of his life being made to feel ashamed, unwanted, or trapped. Chaz also has some beautiful moments with random strangers. For example, during a concert, someone sprays mace into the crowd, causing Chaz great pain and partially blinding him. He finds comfort in a random female concertgoer to holds his face and reassures him that it will be ok. There's another irony we found with this book: clearly, music, concerts, and bands are an escape for the author from the more stressful things in his life. However, from a reader's perspective, the stressful things in his life, and the many relationships he has with family members and others, are an escape for us. There was another part of this book that really caught our attention: when Chaz was nearly scammed into entering his book into a poetry anthology. What's ironic is we think we know the anthology he was talking about. We think it was called something like "Stars in Our Hearts" and it required all entrants to be willing to buy it and tell their loved ones to buy it at an exorbitant price. Lastly, this book is strangely funny in a uniquely Chaz-ish way. For example, he says, "I swear to God, to Michael Stipe, I swear on my life and soul… " instead of just swearing to God like most people do. He says, “One of the groups of kids had a gang named WTO which meant Whites Take Over. Yet even with such a family-friendly name, they still chased two white kids from the other side of the El away.” We just found "with such a family-friendly name" to be such a snarky way of saying things. Check it out on Amazon! |
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