Jared
Tom Lamont's debut novel, Going Home, tells the story of a motley adult crew unexpectedly tasked with caring for a toddler after his mother's death. The story unfolds through the perspectives of four characters: the child's temporary guardian (Teo), his best friend (Ben), the guardian's ailing father (Vic), and a local rabbi (Sybil). The novel explores themes of fatherhood, friendship, grief, and community, weaving together humor and pathos as the characters grapple with their new responsibilities and their own personal struggles.
As a gay man contemplating adoption, this story resonated with me in ways I hadn't anticipated. The story beautifully captures the essence of what makes a family - and it's not necessarily biological ties, it’s also possible for men to be primary caregivers (however messy that may be). In a literary landscape that often relegates men to peripheral roles in childcare, this novel presents a refreshing perspective where male characters take center stage in nurturing and raising a child. The way the story explores the formation of father-son bonds that aren't rooted in biological connection spoke directly to my own aspirations and anxieties about adoption.
The pacing of the novel perfectly captures the day-to-day reality of adapting to unexpected parenthood. The trials of getting a toddler to get to bed. The world-peace like negotiations to get a child to stop doing something and start doing something else, felt very real.
What makes this novel particularly compelling is its honest portrayal of the characters' struggles and growth. None of the characters are perfectly prepared for their roles and watching them navigate their new responsibilities while dealing with their own personal issues feels authentic and relatable. The book doesn't shy away from showing the messiness of learning to be a parent, but it also celebrates the beautiful moments of connection and understanding that emerge from these challenges.
The representation of male emotional vulnerability and care work is exceptional. Lamont manages to portray these aspects without falling into stereotypes or sentimentality, instead offering a nuanced look at how men can express love, concern, and nurturing in their own ways.
While the novel isn't perfect - some subplots could have been more developed - it earns a solid four stars for its sensitive handling of unconventional families, its positive representation of male caregivers, and its authentic portrayal of the joys and challenges of unexpected parenthood.
Tom Lamont's debut novel, Going Home, tells the story of a motley adult crew unexpectedly tasked with caring for a toddler after his mother's death. The story unfolds through the perspectives of four characters: the child's temporary guardian (Teo), his best friend (Ben), the guardian's ailing father (Vic), and a local rabbi (Sybil). The novel explores themes of fatherhood, friendship, grief, and community, weaving together humor and pathos as the characters grapple with their new responsibilities and their own personal struggles.
As a gay man contemplating adoption, this story resonated with me in ways I hadn't anticipated. The story beautifully captures the essence of what makes a family - and it's not necessarily biological ties, it’s also possible for men to be primary caregivers (however messy that may be). In a literary landscape that often relegates men to peripheral roles in childcare, this novel presents a refreshing perspective where male characters take center stage in nurturing and raising a child. The way the story explores the formation of father-son bonds that aren't rooted in biological connection spoke directly to my own aspirations and anxieties about adoption.
The pacing of the novel perfectly captures the day-to-day reality of adapting to unexpected parenthood. The trials of getting a toddler to get to bed. The world-peace like negotiations to get a child to stop doing something and start doing something else, felt very real.
What makes this novel particularly compelling is its honest portrayal of the characters' struggles and growth. None of the characters are perfectly prepared for their roles and watching them navigate their new responsibilities while dealing with their own personal issues feels authentic and relatable. The book doesn't shy away from showing the messiness of learning to be a parent, but it also celebrates the beautiful moments of connection and understanding that emerge from these challenges.
The representation of male emotional vulnerability and care work is exceptional. Lamont manages to portray these aspects without falling into stereotypes or sentimentality, instead offering a nuanced look at how men can express love, concern, and nurturing in their own ways.
While the novel isn't perfect - some subplots could have been more developed - it earns a solid four stars for its sensitive handling of unconventional families, its positive representation of male caregivers, and its authentic portrayal of the joys and challenges of unexpected parenthood.
Christopher Bollen's latest is a significant leap forward for an author who has already proven himself adept at crafting engaging suspense novels. Having read his previous works - A Beautiful Crime and The Destroyers - I was familiar with his talent for creating rich, relatable characters and delivering straightforward thrillers with just the right amount of suspense. However, Havoc takes it to a new level.
At the center of Havoc is Maggie, an 81-year-old protagonist whose unreliability as a narrator gradually becomes one of the story's most compelling elements. Initially presenting herself as a benevolent widow seeking solace in an Egyptian hotel (during the pandemic, which heightens the tension), Maggie's true nature unfolds in increasingly disturbing ways, particularly through her manipulation of a young boy named Otto.
The novel's pacing is exceptional. I found myself at the halfway point one night, ready to turn in, when suddenly the narrative shifted from a simmer to a full boil. The protagonist does something so unexpected, so shocking, that I couldn't put the book down. I had to see it through to its conclusion, even if it meant losing sleep. This is precisely what great suspense writing should do - compel you to keep turning pages despite your bedtime.
What makes this novel different than his others are how he plays with reader sympathy. For much of the novel, you find yourself aligned with Maggie - after all, who wouldn't empathize with an elderly widow? But as the story progresses, this empathy becomes increasingly complicated. The final third of the book reveals just how manipulated we’ve been, forcing us to confront the reality that our protagonist needs help far more than she deserves our sympathy. (I’m finding it hard to write this as to both encourage you to read it, but also not spoil it.)
The Egyptian hotel setting provides an elaborate backdrop for the psychological drama that unfolds, with Bollen's vivid descriptions bringing the location to life in a way that enhances rather than overshadows the central narrative. The author excels at creating an atmosphere of mounting tension, using the exotic setting to amplify the sense of displacement and unease that permeates each page.
The novel's exploration of themes such as grief, manipulation, and the fragility of the human psyche is handled with subtlety and depth. Bollen avoids heavy-handed metaphors in favor of allowing these themes to emerge naturally through the increasingly complex relationship between Maggie and Otto, and through Maggie's own deteriorating grip on reality.
At the end you’ll be wondering what was real and what was Maggie’s own making. I’ve seen this compared to the movies The Bad Seed and Thelma and the television series The White Lotus. And yes, while it incorporates these familiar stories, Bollen elevates the genre by adding his own distinctive touches, crafting a psychological suspense that haunts me long after the final page.
Originally posted at judgemebymycover.substack.com.
Christopher Bollen's latest is a significant leap forward for an author who has already proven himself adept at crafting engaging suspense novels. Having read his previous works - A Beautiful Crime and The Destroyers - I was familiar with his talent for creating rich, relatable characters and delivering straightforward thrillers with just the right amount of suspense. However, Havoc takes it to a new level.
At the center of Havoc is Maggie, an 81-year-old protagonist whose unreliability as a narrator gradually becomes one of the story's most compelling elements. Initially presenting herself as a benevolent widow seeking solace in an Egyptian hotel (during the pandemic, which heightens the tension), Maggie's true nature unfolds in increasingly disturbing ways, particularly through her manipulation of a young boy named Otto.
The novel's pacing is exceptional. I found myself at the halfway point one night, ready to turn in, when suddenly the narrative shifted from a simmer to a full boil. The protagonist does something so unexpected, so shocking, that I couldn't put the book down. I had to see it through to its conclusion, even if it meant losing sleep. This is precisely what great suspense writing should do - compel you to keep turning pages despite your bedtime.
What makes this novel different than his others are how he plays with reader sympathy. For much of the novel, you find yourself aligned with Maggie - after all, who wouldn't empathize with an elderly widow? But as the story progresses, this empathy becomes increasingly complicated. The final third of the book reveals just how manipulated we’ve been, forcing us to confront the reality that our protagonist needs help far more than she deserves our sympathy. (I’m finding it hard to write this as to both encourage you to read it, but also not spoil it.)
The Egyptian hotel setting provides an elaborate backdrop for the psychological drama that unfolds, with Bollen's vivid descriptions bringing the location to life in a way that enhances rather than overshadows the central narrative. The author excels at creating an atmosphere of mounting tension, using the exotic setting to amplify the sense of displacement and unease that permeates each page.
The novel's exploration of themes such as grief, manipulation, and the fragility of the human psyche is handled with subtlety and depth. Bollen avoids heavy-handed metaphors in favor of allowing these themes to emerge naturally through the increasingly complex relationship between Maggie and Otto, and through Maggie's own deteriorating grip on reality.
At the end you’ll be wondering what was real and what was Maggie’s own making. I’ve seen this compared to the movies The Bad Seed and Thelma and the television series The White Lotus. And yes, while it incorporates these familiar stories, Bollen elevates the genre by adding his own distinctive touches, crafting a psychological suspense that haunts me long after the final page.
Originally posted at judgemebymycover.substack.com.
There is always a dance between the truth and self-justification, between what happened and what we tell ourselves. This dance is central to Mothers and Sons, Adam Haslett’s new novel. This one is for you if you have grappled with personal history and family relationships. And it marks an impressive start to my 2025 reading.
Mothers and Sons focuses on Peter, a gay asylum lawyer, and his estranged mother, Ann, a co-founder of a women's retreat. Through their interweaving narratives, Haslett examines how we construct stories about ourselves and our past—sometimes to heal, sometimes to hide, and sometimes to justify. The novel's genius lies in how it reveals how these personal narratives can simultaneously illuminate and obscure the truth, much like holding a flashlight in a dark room: what we choose to illuminate often leaves other areas in shadow.
The prose is precise and evocative, never wasting a word. Late in the novel, it dawned on me that Peter’s professional work—helping asylum seekers craft their narratives to justify their stay in America—is similar to his struggle to write his own story. Meanwhile, Ann's role as a source of healing for other women while struggling to connect with her son creates a poignant tension that drives the narrative forward. I found myself more drawn to the chapters featuring Peter than Ann, but perhaps that is my bias shining through.
If you are not familiar with Adam Haslett, he is one of the stronger writers out there today. I’d also recommend his last work, Imagine Me Gone. It contains similar themes about the impact of the past and how that shapes the present, family dynamics, and individual struggles. Imagine Me Gone presents a broader family canvas and focuses on a brother-brother relationship; Mothers and Sons—well, the title says it all.
This book will resonate with readers who appreciate nuanced family dramas, those interested in the psychology of relationships, and anyone who has ever struggled to bridge the gap between their perspective and that of a family member. It's also a strong addition to the canon of queer literature, though its universal themes of connection, understanding, and self-discovery transcend any categorization. This book reminds me of my favorites from last year: Hollinghurt’s Our Evenings Rapp’s Wolf at the Table and Attenberg’s A Reason to See You Again. I suppose I have a thing for family dramas since they help me understand my own experiences or at least provide catharsis to process what I've been through.
Bottom Line: This novel not only entertains but also serves as a lesson about our own tendencies to shape and reshape our personal histories. It is an excellent choice to begin the reading year with.
Originally posted at judgemebymycover.substack.com.
There is always a dance between the truth and self-justification, between what happened and what we tell ourselves. This dance is central to Mothers and Sons, Adam Haslett’s new novel. This one is for you if you have grappled with personal history and family relationships. And it marks an impressive start to my 2025 reading.
Mothers and Sons focuses on Peter, a gay asylum lawyer, and his estranged mother, Ann, a co-founder of a women's retreat. Through their interweaving narratives, Haslett examines how we construct stories about ourselves and our past—sometimes to heal, sometimes to hide, and sometimes to justify. The novel's genius lies in how it reveals how these personal narratives can simultaneously illuminate and obscure the truth, much like holding a flashlight in a dark room: what we choose to illuminate often leaves other areas in shadow.
The prose is precise and evocative, never wasting a word. Late in the novel, it dawned on me that Peter’s professional work—helping asylum seekers craft their narratives to justify their stay in America—is similar to his struggle to write his own story. Meanwhile, Ann's role as a source of healing for other women while struggling to connect with her son creates a poignant tension that drives the narrative forward. I found myself more drawn to the chapters featuring Peter than Ann, but perhaps that is my bias shining through.
If you are not familiar with Adam Haslett, he is one of the stronger writers out there today. I’d also recommend his last work, Imagine Me Gone. It contains similar themes about the impact of the past and how that shapes the present, family dynamics, and individual struggles. Imagine Me Gone presents a broader family canvas and focuses on a brother-brother relationship; Mothers and Sons—well, the title says it all.
This book will resonate with readers who appreciate nuanced family dramas, those interested in the psychology of relationships, and anyone who has ever struggled to bridge the gap between their perspective and that of a family member. It's also a strong addition to the canon of queer literature, though its universal themes of connection, understanding, and self-discovery transcend any categorization. This book reminds me of my favorites from last year: Hollinghurt’s Our Evenings Rapp’s Wolf at the Table and Attenberg’s A Reason to See You Again. I suppose I have a thing for family dramas since they help me understand my own experiences or at least provide catharsis to process what I've been through.
Bottom Line: This novel not only entertains but also serves as a lesson about our own tendencies to shape and reshape our personal histories. It is an excellent choice to begin the reading year with.
Originally posted at judgemebymycover.substack.com.
I’ve had this book around since it came out and when I saw it staring at me in the stack I sang, “It's our time, breathe it in…Worlds to change and worlds to win.” (Now if you don’t get that reference, maybe this one isn’t for you).
This is a collection of 11 essays analyzing Stephen Sondheim's musicals (each focusing on one musical). While structured as self-help lessons from each show, the book offers insightful analysis of Sondheim's work. Schoch, a drama professor and former director, thoroughly examines Sondheim's compositions, from technical aspects like writing "Send In the Clowns" for Glynis Johns's limited vocal range to thematic elements like authenticity and artifice.
The writing style felt rather academic, with frequent interruptions to quote song lyrics—just as you'd be getting to a point, there'd be another "here's the Sondheim lyric that proves it." While I enjoyed the book, it's not for casual readers. Unless you're a devoted Sondheim enthusiast or serious theater buff, you won't find much entertainment here, nor will it deliver on its promise to show you "How you have to finish the hat."
Originally posted at judgemebymycover.substack.com.
I’ve had this book around since it came out and when I saw it staring at me in the stack I sang, “It's our time, breathe it in…Worlds to change and worlds to win.” (Now if you don’t get that reference, maybe this one isn’t for you).
This is a collection of 11 essays analyzing Stephen Sondheim's musicals (each focusing on one musical). While structured as self-help lessons from each show, the book offers insightful analysis of Sondheim's work. Schoch, a drama professor and former director, thoroughly examines Sondheim's compositions, from technical aspects like writing "Send In the Clowns" for Glynis Johns's limited vocal range to thematic elements like authenticity and artifice.
The writing style felt rather academic, with frequent interruptions to quote song lyrics—just as you'd be getting to a point, there'd be another "here's the Sondheim lyric that proves it." While I enjoyed the book, it's not for casual readers. Unless you're a devoted Sondheim enthusiast or serious theater buff, you won't find much entertainment here, nor will it deliver on its promise to show you "How you have to finish the hat."
Originally posted at judgemebymycover.substack.com.
In "Come Fly Away with Me," you'll be intoxicated by the allure of air travel during the jet age. Pan Am wasn't just transportation – flying with them was an event dripping with glamour and possibility. The novel transports us to an era when Pan Am stewardesses embodied both sophistication and liberation, their powder-blue uniforms and perfectly coiffed hair becoming symbols of mid-century modern elegance.
Through the intertwining stories of Beverly and Judy, we witness how Pan Am's strict requirements for its stewardesses – young, single, beautiful, educated – created an elite corps of women who became the face of luxury air travel. The airline's exacting standards, while problematic by today's measures, contributed to an aura of exclusivity that made flying Pan Am feel like joining an exclusive club at 35,000 feet.
The novel weaves together the personal liberation these women sought with the broader cultural context of the 1960s. Pan Am stewardesses were among the most traveled women in the world at a time when most women rarely left their hometowns. They served cocktails in the clouds, spoke multiple languages, and navigated international customs - with ease and grace. Their sophisticated image was carefully cultivated – from their white gloves to their ability to serve a perfect omelet – the detail revealed in this book shows the high standards set by jet-age glamour.
What makes this book particularly compelling is its exploration of the paradox these women lived: they were simultaneously symbols of female empowerment and objects of male fantasy. The author doesn't shy away from showing how Pan Am's stewardesses used this duality to their advantage, leveraging their positions to gain independence, travel the world, and escape societal constraints, all while working within a system commodifying their appearance and youth.
The epistolary elements scattered throughout the narrative add mystery and depth, culminating in a revelation that grounds these glamorous heights in stark emotional reality. This literary device effectively demonstrates how beneath the perfectly maintained exterior of Pan Am's golden age lay complex personal stories of ambition, escape, and reinvention.
For anyone fascinated by the romance of air travel's golden age, this novel is a first-class ticket to an era when flying was sexy, sophisticated, and full of promise (there isn't a screaming TSA agent, X-ray machine, cramped coach seat in sight). It reminds us of a time when Pan Am's stewardesses were more than service providers – they were ambassadors of the jet age, representing American glamour and sophistication across the globe. Through its compelling narrative and rich historical detail (seriously, this is a well-researched novel), "Come Fly Away with Me" celebrates the allure of that era and the remarkable women who helped define it.
Thank you, NetGalley, for an early read.
In "Come Fly Away with Me," you'll be intoxicated by the allure of air travel during the jet age. Pan Am wasn't just transportation – flying with them was an event dripping with glamour and possibility. The novel transports us to an era when Pan Am stewardesses embodied both sophistication and liberation, their powder-blue uniforms and perfectly coiffed hair becoming symbols of mid-century modern elegance.
Through the intertwining stories of Beverly and Judy, we witness how Pan Am's strict requirements for its stewardesses – young, single, beautiful, educated – created an elite corps of women who became the face of luxury air travel. The airline's exacting standards, while problematic by today's measures, contributed to an aura of exclusivity that made flying Pan Am feel like joining an exclusive club at 35,000 feet.
The novel weaves together the personal liberation these women sought with the broader cultural context of the 1960s. Pan Am stewardesses were among the most traveled women in the world at a time when most women rarely left their hometowns. They served cocktails in the clouds, spoke multiple languages, and navigated international customs - with ease and grace. Their sophisticated image was carefully cultivated – from their white gloves to their ability to serve a perfect omelet – the detail revealed in this book shows the high standards set by jet-age glamour.
What makes this book particularly compelling is its exploration of the paradox these women lived: they were simultaneously symbols of female empowerment and objects of male fantasy. The author doesn't shy away from showing how Pan Am's stewardesses used this duality to their advantage, leveraging their positions to gain independence, travel the world, and escape societal constraints, all while working within a system commodifying their appearance and youth.
The epistolary elements scattered throughout the narrative add mystery and depth, culminating in a revelation that grounds these glamorous heights in stark emotional reality. This literary device effectively demonstrates how beneath the perfectly maintained exterior of Pan Am's golden age lay complex personal stories of ambition, escape, and reinvention.
For anyone fascinated by the romance of air travel's golden age, this novel is a first-class ticket to an era when flying was sexy, sophisticated, and full of promise (there isn't a screaming TSA agent, X-ray machine, cramped coach seat in sight). It reminds us of a time when Pan Am's stewardesses were more than service providers – they were ambassadors of the jet age, representing American glamour and sophistication across the globe. Through its compelling narrative and rich historical detail (seriously, this is a well-researched novel), "Come Fly Away with Me" celebrates the allure of that era and the remarkable women who helped define it.
Thank you, NetGalley, for an early read.
Heather Gay's "Good Time Girl" is a testament to why millions tune into The Real Housewives franchises. While not groundbreaking, the book offers an intimate glimpse into the life of one of reality TV's most relatable stars. Like the show, it provides the perfect mix of escapism and authenticity that keeps viewers returning for more.
My husband and I watch Real Housewives of Salt Lake City (RHOSLC) because it offers a unique window into our world - Salt Lake City. As a gay couple with mixed religious backgrounds (Jewish and ex-Mormon), seeing the show's portrayal of changing social dynamics in Utah has been both validating and encouraging. Through Heather's honest discussions about leaving the Mormon church and embracing a new life, my husband has found moments of recognition and understanding that mirror his journey.
I particularly appreciate how the show balances authenticity with entertainment. Unlike other Housewives franchises that can feel utterly detached from reality, RHOSLC features women who still maintain some connection to everyday life (I say this with some reservations; we fly coach and have since college, and no, no anniversary trip has us trying on diamond jewelry worth millions; we have also never scammed the elderly and although we rent, it isn’t a Park City mansion). We often recognize local spots and add new restaurants and venues to our must-visit list, making the show part entertainment and part city guide for us.
The enduring appeal of The Real Housewives franchises is that they satisfy many of our needs. They provide escapism through voyeuristic entertainment, allowing us to peek into relatable and outrageous lives. The drama unfolds at a safe distance – we can judge, analyze, and engage without personal consequences. After each episode, there is a text chain to air our grievances or an Instagram account to check in on.
We also get to tap into our fundamental desire for social comparison. We measure our own lives, choices, and relationships against those of the housewives, often leading to a sense of validation or superiority. Despite their privileged positions, the cast members' struggles remind us that wealth and status don't exempt anyone from human problems. How many of us have argued with a friend and thought, “Man, this would make a great episode?” or “Wish the cameras were rolling on this one?” (we’ve all thought it, right?)
We also develop parasocial relationships with these people. We love or hate them. How many times have I heard, “I cannot believe she said that to her?” or “That wasn’t that mean!” We feel connected to these people even if they are one-sided emotional connections. We follow their personal growth, setbacks, and triumphs across seasons (I got teary when Mary was speaking with her son, Robert Jr., about his mental health). These relationships feel authentic despite their mediated nature, creating a powerful hook that keeps us invested.
And so, we need, or desire a memoir. Gay's book mirrors this dynamic, sharing just enough personal revelations (like her Los Angeles one-night stand and chronic bedwetting confession) to keep us invested while maintaining that careful distance that makes reality TV so addictive.
The final chapter, the book’s strongest section, comes at the end: "Receipts, Proof, Timeline". Gay addresses the Monica Garcia controversy that dominated 2024 (sorry, Moo Deng, you’re a close second). This chapter alone justifies the book's existence, offering the kind of behind-the-scenes insight we crave. It's the literary equivalent of those coveted "unseen footage" episodes that keep us glued to our screens. I was left wondering what, if anything, Monica has to say about what was revealed (spoiler: she is not painted in a flattering light) – perhaps a tell-all from Monica is on the horizon (based on what Heather has to say, she could use the money and attention).
Gay maintains her relatability throughout the text, particularly when discussing her journey beyond Mormonism and her evolution as a public figure. The writing effectively demonstrates how she's remained true to her core values while navigating fame and personal transformation.
However, the book suffers from a sense of formula that mirrors the reality TV world it springs from. Much like the later seasons of any Housewives franchise, there's a feeling of diminishing returns as the drama becomes more manufactured and less organic. The revelations, while interesting, rarely scratch beyond the surface level that fans have yet to see on television or social media. For example, her taking a high school road trip to Tijuana was about as exciting as watching paint dry. The details of a one-night stand were banal at best. But again, what will she reveal when she has to balance a public persona she has worked so hard to build?
While "Good Time Girl" may not reach the heights of Gay's debut memoir, it serves its purpose as a comfortable addition to the Real Housewives extended universe. And like any good episode of Real Housewives, it delivers enough tea to keep us tuned in.
Heather Gay's "Good Time Girl" is a testament to why millions tune into The Real Housewives franchises. While not groundbreaking, the book offers an intimate glimpse into the life of one of reality TV's most relatable stars. Like the show, it provides the perfect mix of escapism and authenticity that keeps viewers returning for more.
My husband and I watch Real Housewives of Salt Lake City (RHOSLC) because it offers a unique window into our world - Salt Lake City. As a gay couple with mixed religious backgrounds (Jewish and ex-Mormon), seeing the show's portrayal of changing social dynamics in Utah has been both validating and encouraging. Through Heather's honest discussions about leaving the Mormon church and embracing a new life, my husband has found moments of recognition and understanding that mirror his journey.
I particularly appreciate how the show balances authenticity with entertainment. Unlike other Housewives franchises that can feel utterly detached from reality, RHOSLC features women who still maintain some connection to everyday life (I say this with some reservations; we fly coach and have since college, and no, no anniversary trip has us trying on diamond jewelry worth millions; we have also never scammed the elderly and although we rent, it isn’t a Park City mansion). We often recognize local spots and add new restaurants and venues to our must-visit list, making the show part entertainment and part city guide for us.
The enduring appeal of The Real Housewives franchises is that they satisfy many of our needs. They provide escapism through voyeuristic entertainment, allowing us to peek into relatable and outrageous lives. The drama unfolds at a safe distance – we can judge, analyze, and engage without personal consequences. After each episode, there is a text chain to air our grievances or an Instagram account to check in on.
We also get to tap into our fundamental desire for social comparison. We measure our own lives, choices, and relationships against those of the housewives, often leading to a sense of validation or superiority. Despite their privileged positions, the cast members' struggles remind us that wealth and status don't exempt anyone from human problems. How many of us have argued with a friend and thought, “Man, this would make a great episode?” or “Wish the cameras were rolling on this one?” (we’ve all thought it, right?)
We also develop parasocial relationships with these people. We love or hate them. How many times have I heard, “I cannot believe she said that to her?” or “That wasn’t that mean!” We feel connected to these people even if they are one-sided emotional connections. We follow their personal growth, setbacks, and triumphs across seasons (I got teary when Mary was speaking with her son, Robert Jr., about his mental health). These relationships feel authentic despite their mediated nature, creating a powerful hook that keeps us invested.
And so, we need, or desire a memoir. Gay's book mirrors this dynamic, sharing just enough personal revelations (like her Los Angeles one-night stand and chronic bedwetting confession) to keep us invested while maintaining that careful distance that makes reality TV so addictive.
The final chapter, the book’s strongest section, comes at the end: "Receipts, Proof, Timeline". Gay addresses the Monica Garcia controversy that dominated 2024 (sorry, Moo Deng, you’re a close second). This chapter alone justifies the book's existence, offering the kind of behind-the-scenes insight we crave. It's the literary equivalent of those coveted "unseen footage" episodes that keep us glued to our screens. I was left wondering what, if anything, Monica has to say about what was revealed (spoiler: she is not painted in a flattering light) – perhaps a tell-all from Monica is on the horizon (based on what Heather has to say, she could use the money and attention).
Gay maintains her relatability throughout the text, particularly when discussing her journey beyond Mormonism and her evolution as a public figure. The writing effectively demonstrates how she's remained true to her core values while navigating fame and personal transformation.
However, the book suffers from a sense of formula that mirrors the reality TV world it springs from. Much like the later seasons of any Housewives franchise, there's a feeling of diminishing returns as the drama becomes more manufactured and less organic. The revelations, while interesting, rarely scratch beyond the surface level that fans have yet to see on television or social media. For example, her taking a high school road trip to Tijuana was about as exciting as watching paint dry. The details of a one-night stand were banal at best. But again, what will she reveal when she has to balance a public persona she has worked so hard to build?
While "Good Time Girl" may not reach the heights of Gay's debut memoir, it serves its purpose as a comfortable addition to the Real Housewives extended universe. And like any good episode of Real Housewives, it delivers enough tea to keep us tuned in.
"The Nightmare Before Kissmas" promises an enchanting holiday romance that blends the magic of Christmas with queer representation but, unfortunately, falls short of delivering on its potential. This YA/New Adult novel, which follows Nicholas "Coal" Claus, the reluctant heir to Christmas, attempts to merge holiday whimsy with political intrigue but ultimately creates a messy, overlong narrative that loses sight of its core romantic elements.
The premise is appealing: a Christmas prince who falls for the Halloween prince while navigating family expectations and an arranged marriage—however, the execution has much room for improvement. At over 350 pages, the story feels bloated and meandering, with repetitive internal monologues and political subplots that detract from rather than enhance the central romance.
The world-building, while creative in concept - with different holiday courts each having their own royal families - never quite coheres into a satisfying whole. The attempt to critique capitalism and commercialization through Santa's empire-building ambitions feels heavy-handed and at odds with the lighter romantic elements the book aims for.
Perhaps the biggest disappointment is the romantic relationship itself. Despite being marketed as a rivals-to-lovers story, Coal and Hex's relationship lacks genuine conflict or tension. Their attraction is immediate and largely surface-level (they 'bump' into each other, and immediately start making out), with their interactions often devolving into cringeworthy dialogue and purple prose, particularly in the intimate scenes. The promised rivalry never materializes, leaving readers with an underdeveloped romance and lacking emotional depth.
The book does have some bright spots. Some of the familial relationships, particularly between Coal and his brother Kris, are well-drawn. There are moments of genuine humor, and the representation of queer characters in a holiday setting is refreshing. Afterall, that is what drew me to this book in the first place.
However, these positive elements can't overcome the fundamental pacing, plot structure, and character development issues. The third-act conflict feels contrived, and the resolution could have been more complex. The book's attempt to tackle serious themes about tradition, family expectations, and the meaning of holidays never quite lands, instead feeling superficial and disconnected from the story's romantic core.
While "The Nightmare Before Kissmas" might appeal to readers seeking holiday-themed LGBTQ+ representation and those who enjoy elaborate fantasy world-building, it ultimately fails to deliver a compelling romance or a satisfying fantasy narrative. The book would have benefited from tighter editing, more focused storytelling, and a clearer sense of its identity - whether as a light romantic comedy or a more serious exploration of holiday politics and family dynamics.
"The Nightmare Before Kissmas" promises an enchanting holiday romance that blends the magic of Christmas with queer representation but, unfortunately, falls short of delivering on its potential. This YA/New Adult novel, which follows Nicholas "Coal" Claus, the reluctant heir to Christmas, attempts to merge holiday whimsy with political intrigue but ultimately creates a messy, overlong narrative that loses sight of its core romantic elements.
The premise is appealing: a Christmas prince who falls for the Halloween prince while navigating family expectations and an arranged marriage—however, the execution has much room for improvement. At over 350 pages, the story feels bloated and meandering, with repetitive internal monologues and political subplots that detract from rather than enhance the central romance.
The world-building, while creative in concept - with different holiday courts each having their own royal families - never quite coheres into a satisfying whole. The attempt to critique capitalism and commercialization through Santa's empire-building ambitions feels heavy-handed and at odds with the lighter romantic elements the book aims for.
Perhaps the biggest disappointment is the romantic relationship itself. Despite being marketed as a rivals-to-lovers story, Coal and Hex's relationship lacks genuine conflict or tension. Their attraction is immediate and largely surface-level (they 'bump' into each other, and immediately start making out), with their interactions often devolving into cringeworthy dialogue and purple prose, particularly in the intimate scenes. The promised rivalry never materializes, leaving readers with an underdeveloped romance and lacking emotional depth.
The book does have some bright spots. Some of the familial relationships, particularly between Coal and his brother Kris, are well-drawn. There are moments of genuine humor, and the representation of queer characters in a holiday setting is refreshing. Afterall, that is what drew me to this book in the first place.
However, these positive elements can't overcome the fundamental pacing, plot structure, and character development issues. The third-act conflict feels contrived, and the resolution could have been more complex. The book's attempt to tackle serious themes about tradition, family expectations, and the meaning of holidays never quite lands, instead feeling superficial and disconnected from the story's romantic core.
While "The Nightmare Before Kissmas" might appeal to readers seeking holiday-themed LGBTQ+ representation and those who enjoy elaborate fantasy world-building, it ultimately fails to deliver a compelling romance or a satisfying fantasy narrative. The book would have benefited from tighter editing, more focused storytelling, and a clearer sense of its identity - whether as a light romantic comedy or a more serious exploration of holiday politics and family dynamics.
A powerful and thought-provoking young adult novel that delves into the complex and often challenging world of teenage experiences. Written in verse, the book's unique prose style adds an engrossing and clever dimension to the narrative, making it a captivating read.
Hopkins tackles heavy themes, demonstrating that adolescence is far from carefree. The book explores difficult decisions and mature issues that many teens face, from unexpected pregnancy to sexual identity and suicide. While at times the approach feels heavy-handed, it serves as both a cautionary tale and a potential wake-up call for young readers.
The pacing of the book is generally well-executed, though the resolution feels somewhat rushed. After 500 pages of intense character development, the final 100 pages attempt to wrap up multiple complex storylines, which can feel a bit abrupt.
It's worth noting that "Tilt" has been the subject of book bans, but such censorship seems misguided. While the mature content warrants parental involvement and open discussions, these are precisely the issues that many teens need to confront and understand. The book offers valuable insights and prompts important conversations about the complexities of growing up in today's world. I mean, kids don't stay kids forever - they got to approach these issues sooner or later.
Overall, "Tilt" is a compelling read that, despite its flaws, provides a raw and honest look at teenage life, making it an important addition to young adult literature.
A powerful and thought-provoking young adult novel that delves into the complex and often challenging world of teenage experiences. Written in verse, the book's unique prose style adds an engrossing and clever dimension to the narrative, making it a captivating read.
Hopkins tackles heavy themes, demonstrating that adolescence is far from carefree. The book explores difficult decisions and mature issues that many teens face, from unexpected pregnancy to sexual identity and suicide. While at times the approach feels heavy-handed, it serves as both a cautionary tale and a potential wake-up call for young readers.
The pacing of the book is generally well-executed, though the resolution feels somewhat rushed. After 500 pages of intense character development, the final 100 pages attempt to wrap up multiple complex storylines, which can feel a bit abrupt.
It's worth noting that "Tilt" has been the subject of book bans, but such censorship seems misguided. While the mature content warrants parental involvement and open discussions, these are precisely the issues that many teens need to confront and understand. The book offers valuable insights and prompts important conversations about the complexities of growing up in today's world. I mean, kids don't stay kids forever - they got to approach these issues sooner or later.
Overall, "Tilt" is a compelling read that, despite its flaws, provides a raw and honest look at teenage life, making it an important addition to young adult literature.
I'm late to the game reading Margaret Atwood's "Oryx and Crake." It caught my attention when it was banned here in Utah under HB29 for containing "sensitive materials." I guess that's one outcome of a book ban—it draws more attention to the book.
I started a Book Club here in Salt Lake City at one of Utah's most unique and inviting bookstores, The King's English Bookshop. This book was our first selection.
Being part of this book club was a genuinely inspiring experience. It provided a wonderful place to connect with fellow book lovers and engage in stimulating discussion. The diverse interpretations and perspectives shared during our meeting shed new light on the book and challenged my understanding of the novel.
"Oryx and Crake" is set in a post-apocalyptic landscape. The story follows Snowman, possibly the last human survivor, navigating a world populated by genetically engineered beings.
This was my first Atwood novel, but I know her reputation. Her strength lies in weaving complex themes into a compelling narrative. The book explores genetic engineering, corporate power, environmental collapse, and the consequences of unchecked scientific advancement. Her world-building is intricate and believable, drawing fascinating and alarming parallels to our current society. This may be why it was banned: Too shocking, too close to home. (Although there are references to child pornography and quite a few sexual acts are referenced. I don’t believe this is for a young teenager; I do believe it is for a mature high school student. During our Book Club discussion, parents felt that they would have access to everything in this book if they had a smartphone. At least this book isn’t showing what it references, but it does help spark conversations that should be had between a responsible parent and their teenager).
I also appreciated her use of mixing present tense and flashbacks. This technique aids character development, builds suspense and intrigue, and provides context for present events. You're constantly learning new things about Snowman, Crake, and Oryx and their intertwined pasts that explain their present lives.
Where it fell short for me was Crake's lack of likability. He felt Elon Musk-like to me—but with this written 20+ years ago, Atwood certainly had a sense of things to come. Also, it felt like the pace of the world that was built didn’t match the pace of the book. I wanted it to move along quickly.
Many people felt unsatisfied with the ending's ambiguity. It was the best way to end the novel. Not only does it keep the door open for sequels, but it also left me pondering what might have been versus what was.
As we see headlines of more intense natural disasters, inventors pushing the limits of what's possible, and genetic engineering of food, this book—as "old" as it might be—is prescient and timely. It should be included in great dystopian fiction alongside works like "1984" and "Brave New World." Perhaps it shouldn't be banned because it raises the questions future generations should be considering so they can create a future they want to live in.
I'm late to the game reading Margaret Atwood's "Oryx and Crake." It caught my attention when it was banned here in Utah under HB29 for containing "sensitive materials." I guess that's one outcome of a book ban—it draws more attention to the book.
I started a Book Club here in Salt Lake City at one of Utah's most unique and inviting bookstores, The King's English Bookshop. This book was our first selection.
Being part of this book club was a genuinely inspiring experience. It provided a wonderful place to connect with fellow book lovers and engage in stimulating discussion. The diverse interpretations and perspectives shared during our meeting shed new light on the book and challenged my understanding of the novel.
"Oryx and Crake" is set in a post-apocalyptic landscape. The story follows Snowman, possibly the last human survivor, navigating a world populated by genetically engineered beings.
This was my first Atwood novel, but I know her reputation. Her strength lies in weaving complex themes into a compelling narrative. The book explores genetic engineering, corporate power, environmental collapse, and the consequences of unchecked scientific advancement. Her world-building is intricate and believable, drawing fascinating and alarming parallels to our current society. This may be why it was banned: Too shocking, too close to home. (Although there are references to child pornography and quite a few sexual acts are referenced. I don’t believe this is for a young teenager; I do believe it is for a mature high school student. During our Book Club discussion, parents felt that they would have access to everything in this book if they had a smartphone. At least this book isn’t showing what it references, but it does help spark conversations that should be had between a responsible parent and their teenager).
I also appreciated her use of mixing present tense and flashbacks. This technique aids character development, builds suspense and intrigue, and provides context for present events. You're constantly learning new things about Snowman, Crake, and Oryx and their intertwined pasts that explain their present lives.
Where it fell short for me was Crake's lack of likability. He felt Elon Musk-like to me—but with this written 20+ years ago, Atwood certainly had a sense of things to come. Also, it felt like the pace of the world that was built didn’t match the pace of the book. I wanted it to move along quickly.
Many people felt unsatisfied with the ending's ambiguity. It was the best way to end the novel. Not only does it keep the door open for sequels, but it also left me pondering what might have been versus what was.
As we see headlines of more intense natural disasters, inventors pushing the limits of what's possible, and genetic engineering of food, this book—as "old" as it might be—is prescient and timely. It should be included in great dystopian fiction alongside works like "1984" and "Brave New World." Perhaps it shouldn't be banned because it raises the questions future generations should be considering so they can create a future they want to live in.
Jami Attenberg's "A Reason to See You Again" resonated deeply. If you’ve grappled with family dynamics, loss, and the enduring quest for maternal love, this book will speak to you. This poignant, multi-generational saga of the Cohen (ahem, ahem) family is a masterclass in storytelling, weaving together themes of grief, ambition, and unbreakable family bonds with heart-wrenching honesty.
At the novel's core is the portrayal of Frieda, an overbearing Jewish mother whose grief transforms her into a shadow of her former self. Attenberg's depiction of Frieda's descent into a boozy existence in Miami is raw and painfully authentic. With unflinching clarity, how a mother's inability to nurture in the wake of loss can ripple through generations, leaving her children forever chasing the specter of maternal love they never fully experienced.
The novel brilliantly explores how this void shapes the lives of sisters Shelly and Nancy. Their divergent paths—Shelly's immersion in the tech world and Nancy's early marriage—are beautifully rendered. Attenberg's insight into how we try to "repair and make up for the mother we wanted and never had" struck a nerve and stuck with me after the last page.
Critics of the book highlight its episodic nature and how she quickly glosses over major moments. These criticisms, for me, were its strengths. I loved how she left so much open to interpretation, how I could plug in my own grief, my own reflections, to understand what happened in what was unwritten. I didn’t need Attenberg to show me the depths of the internal struggles; I’ve been there; I can fill in the blanks.
This is not just a must-read; it's a must-feel. And reading it during the High Holy Days was just way too fitting. I will recommend this book to anyone who will listen.
Reviews at: https://judgemebymycover.substack.com/
Originally posted at judgemebymycover.substack.com.
Jami Attenberg's "A Reason to See You Again" resonated deeply. If you’ve grappled with family dynamics, loss, and the enduring quest for maternal love, this book will speak to you. This poignant, multi-generational saga of the Cohen (ahem, ahem) family is a masterclass in storytelling, weaving together themes of grief, ambition, and unbreakable family bonds with heart-wrenching honesty.
At the novel's core is the portrayal of Frieda, an overbearing Jewish mother whose grief transforms her into a shadow of her former self. Attenberg's depiction of Frieda's descent into a boozy existence in Miami is raw and painfully authentic. With unflinching clarity, how a mother's inability to nurture in the wake of loss can ripple through generations, leaving her children forever chasing the specter of maternal love they never fully experienced.
The novel brilliantly explores how this void shapes the lives of sisters Shelly and Nancy. Their divergent paths—Shelly's immersion in the tech world and Nancy's early marriage—are beautifully rendered. Attenberg's insight into how we try to "repair and make up for the mother we wanted and never had" struck a nerve and stuck with me after the last page.
Critics of the book highlight its episodic nature and how she quickly glosses over major moments. These criticisms, for me, were its strengths. I loved how she left so much open to interpretation, how I could plug in my own grief, my own reflections, to understand what happened in what was unwritten. I didn’t need Attenberg to show me the depths of the internal struggles; I’ve been there; I can fill in the blanks.
This is not just a must-read; it's a must-feel. And reading it during the High Holy Days was just way too fitting. I will recommend this book to anyone who will listen.
Reviews at: https://judgemebymycover.substack.com/
Originally posted at judgemebymycover.substack.com.
"Intermezzo" explores grief, family dynamics, and the complexities of human relationships. While it showcases Rooney's signature style of prose and observed characters, the novel falls short of the high bar set by her previous works.
The story revolves around brothers Peter and Ivan after their father's death. Rooney's strength lies in her ability to dissect the minutiae, which shines through in the brothers' strained relationship. The alternating perspectives between Peter and Ivan provide an exciting contrast, offering insights into their distinct personalities and coping mechanisms.
I found the writing to have some sharp moments that remind me why she's become a literary sensation. Her depiction of Dublin is a vivid and fitting backdrop to the characters' emotional journeys. However, "Intermezzo" lacks narrative drive. The plot meanders, and while this approach might be intentional, mirroring the disjointed nature of grief, it left me feeling disconnected from the characters' experiences.
Where the story truly resonated with me was the portrayal of the brothers' relationship. As someone with a complex sibling relationship, I was deeply connected to the tension between Peter and Ivan. The way Rooney captures the undercurrent of unresolved issues and the potential for explosive confrontations felt achingly familiar. When the brothers finally clash, it's with a raw intensity that mirrors the big fights I've experienced with my siblings (I have a scar to prove it). These moments are when the novel feels most alive and emotionally authentic.
My reviews at: https://judgemebymycover.substack.com
Originally posted at judgemebymycover.substack.com.
"Intermezzo" explores grief, family dynamics, and the complexities of human relationships. While it showcases Rooney's signature style of prose and observed characters, the novel falls short of the high bar set by her previous works.
The story revolves around brothers Peter and Ivan after their father's death. Rooney's strength lies in her ability to dissect the minutiae, which shines through in the brothers' strained relationship. The alternating perspectives between Peter and Ivan provide an exciting contrast, offering insights into their distinct personalities and coping mechanisms.
I found the writing to have some sharp moments that remind me why she's become a literary sensation. Her depiction of Dublin is a vivid and fitting backdrop to the characters' emotional journeys. However, "Intermezzo" lacks narrative drive. The plot meanders, and while this approach might be intentional, mirroring the disjointed nature of grief, it left me feeling disconnected from the characters' experiences.
Where the story truly resonated with me was the portrayal of the brothers' relationship. As someone with a complex sibling relationship, I was deeply connected to the tension between Peter and Ivan. The way Rooney captures the undercurrent of unresolved issues and the potential for explosive confrontations felt achingly familiar. When the brothers finally clash, it's with a raw intensity that mirrors the big fights I've experienced with my siblings (I have a scar to prove it). These moments are when the novel feels most alive and emotionally authentic.
My reviews at: https://judgemebymycover.substack.com
Originally posted at judgemebymycover.substack.com.
I realize I'm in the minority here. I wanted to like it—I paid full price for it and went to the author's event, so the anticipation and excitement to read it were there. However, "Bury Your Gays" was a disappointing and frustrating read that failed to deliver on multiple levels. As a gay reader, I felt obligated to pick it up, but that same identity made the experience insufferable.
The plot takes bewildering left turns, introducing elements like robots, AI, and a secret studio, creating figments of imagination that seem entirely out of place. Including people made of robots further adds to the confusion, leaving the reader wondering, "What on earth is happening?" While I'm open to suspending disbelief, the world-building here is inadequate to support these fantastical elements. Also, the prose was unremarkable.
Perhaps most jarring is the outdated portrayal of coming-out stories. Set in a supposed future, the narrative feels stuck in 2002, rehashing themes that feel increasingly irrelevant in contemporary LGBTQ+ literature. This anachronistic approach undermines the futuristic setting and fails to resonate with this reader.
In conclusion, "Bury Your Gays" is a disjointed, confusing, and outdated attempt at LGBTQ+ fiction that misses the mark on multiple fronts. It's a reminder that even well-intentioned representation can fall flat when not executed thoughtfully.
I realize I'm in the minority here. I wanted to like it—I paid full price for it and went to the author's event, so the anticipation and excitement to read it were there. However, "Bury Your Gays" was a disappointing and frustrating read that failed to deliver on multiple levels. As a gay reader, I felt obligated to pick it up, but that same identity made the experience insufferable.
The plot takes bewildering left turns, introducing elements like robots, AI, and a secret studio, creating figments of imagination that seem entirely out of place. Including people made of robots further adds to the confusion, leaving the reader wondering, "What on earth is happening?" While I'm open to suspending disbelief, the world-building here is inadequate to support these fantastical elements. Also, the prose was unremarkable.
Perhaps most jarring is the outdated portrayal of coming-out stories. Set in a supposed future, the narrative feels stuck in 2002, rehashing themes that feel increasingly irrelevant in contemporary LGBTQ+ literature. This anachronistic approach undermines the futuristic setting and fails to resonate with this reader.
In conclusion, "Bury Your Gays" is a disjointed, confusing, and outdated attempt at LGBTQ+ fiction that misses the mark on multiple fronts. It's a reminder that even well-intentioned representation can fall flat when not executed thoughtfully.
Updated a reading goal:
Read 52 books by December 31, 2024
Progress so far: 50 / 52 96%
"Fall for Him" is a fast-paced, sweet gay romance that is a light, entertaining read. As my bookseller aptly described it, it's "popcorn for the brain" - a quick, enjoyable distraction that doesn't require much mental effort.
While not typically my preferred genre, I appreciated the change of pace. The story revolves around Derek and Dylan, whose banter, though saccharine at times, provides a consistent thread of lighthearted humor throughout the narrative. (And there is sex... a lot of it. Which was refreshing as so many similar books shy away from going deep into the bedroom, pun intended.)
However, the novel leans heavily on familiar tropes: the big, supportive family on one side contrasted with a dysfunctional family on the other. These elements felt somewhat predictable and reminiscent of other works in the genre, particularly KT Hoffman's "The Prospects" - a book I found more engaging.
The romance between the main characters is sweet and develops at a brisk pace, which suits the book's overall tone. However, the relationship might feel a bit superficial for readers accustomed to more complex narratives or character development.
In conclusion, while "Fall for Him" didn't quite win me over, it successfully delivered on its promise of being a light, romantic read. It's perfect for those moments when you're in the mood for something uncomplicated and cheerful, even if it doesn't leave a lasting impression.
"Fall for Him" is a fast-paced, sweet gay romance that is a light, entertaining read. As my bookseller aptly described it, it's "popcorn for the brain" - a quick, enjoyable distraction that doesn't require much mental effort.
While not typically my preferred genre, I appreciated the change of pace. The story revolves around Derek and Dylan, whose banter, though saccharine at times, provides a consistent thread of lighthearted humor throughout the narrative. (And there is sex... a lot of it. Which was refreshing as so many similar books shy away from going deep into the bedroom, pun intended.)
However, the novel leans heavily on familiar tropes: the big, supportive family on one side contrasted with a dysfunctional family on the other. These elements felt somewhat predictable and reminiscent of other works in the genre, particularly KT Hoffman's "The Prospects" - a book I found more engaging.
The romance between the main characters is sweet and develops at a brisk pace, which suits the book's overall tone. However, the relationship might feel a bit superficial for readers accustomed to more complex narratives or character development.
In conclusion, while "Fall for Him" didn't quite win me over, it successfully delivered on its promise of being a light, romantic read. It's perfect for those moments when you're in the mood for something uncomplicated and cheerful, even if it doesn't leave a lasting impression.
I realize I'm in the minority here. I wanted to like it—I paid full price for it and went to the author's event, so the anticipation and excitement to read it were there. However, "Bury Your Gays" was a disappointing and frustrating read that failed to deliver on multiple levels. As a gay reader, I felt obligated to pick it up, but that same identity made the experience insufferable.
The plot takes bewildering left turns, introducing elements like robots, AI, and a secret studio, creating figments of imagination that seem entirely out of place. Including people made of robots further adds to the confusion, leaving the reader wondering, "What on earth is happening?" While I'm open to suspending disbelief, the world-building here is inadequate to support these fantastical elements. Also, the prose was unremarkable.
Perhaps most jarring is the outdated portrayal of coming-out stories. Set in a supposed future, the narrative feels stuck in 2002, rehashing themes that feel increasingly irrelevant in contemporary LGBTQ+ literature. This anachronistic approach undermines the futuristic setting and fails to resonate with this reader.
In conclusion, "Bury Your Gays" is a disjointed, confusing, and outdated attempt at LGBTQ+ fiction that misses the mark on multiple fronts. It's a reminder that even well-intentioned representation can fall flat when not executed thoughtfully.
I realize I'm in the minority here. I wanted to like it—I paid full price for it and went to the author's event, so the anticipation and excitement to read it were there. However, "Bury Your Gays" was a disappointing and frustrating read that failed to deliver on multiple levels. As a gay reader, I felt obligated to pick it up, but that same identity made the experience insufferable.
The plot takes bewildering left turns, introducing elements like robots, AI, and a secret studio, creating figments of imagination that seem entirely out of place. Including people made of robots further adds to the confusion, leaving the reader wondering, "What on earth is happening?" While I'm open to suspending disbelief, the world-building here is inadequate to support these fantastical elements. Also, the prose was unremarkable.
Perhaps most jarring is the outdated portrayal of coming-out stories. Set in a supposed future, the narrative feels stuck in 2002, rehashing themes that feel increasingly irrelevant in contemporary LGBTQ+ literature. This anachronistic approach undermines the futuristic setting and fails to resonate with this reader.
In conclusion, "Bury Your Gays" is a disjointed, confusing, and outdated attempt at LGBTQ+ fiction that misses the mark on multiple fronts. It's a reminder that even well-intentioned representation can fall flat when not executed thoughtfully.
As a newcomer to T. Kingfisher's work, "A Sorceress Comes to Call" was a delightful venture outside my usual reading comfort zone. This novel proved to be unexpectedly enjoyable and brisk, keeping me engaged from start to finish.
Kingfisher's storytelling shines through in this tale as she weaves a narrative that surprised me. The plot's unpredictable nature added an element of excitement, making it difficult to anticipate where the story would lead next. However, I found myself thoroughly satisfied with the direction it ultimately took. I'm not one for fantasy - as rules that break reality confound me - but I was able to suspend belief for this one.
At the heart of the story is a theme that resonates deeply: a child's struggle under the shadow of a narcissistic mother. This relatable dynamic drew me in, compelling me to root wholeheartedly for the young protagonist, Cordelia. Kingfisher's nuanced portrayal of this complex relationship adds depth to the narrative, making it more than a fantastical adventure.
As a newcomer to T. Kingfisher's work, "A Sorceress Comes to Call" was a delightful venture outside my usual reading comfort zone. This novel proved to be unexpectedly enjoyable and brisk, keeping me engaged from start to finish.
Kingfisher's storytelling shines through in this tale as she weaves a narrative that surprised me. The plot's unpredictable nature added an element of excitement, making it difficult to anticipate where the story would lead next. However, I found myself thoroughly satisfied with the direction it ultimately took. I'm not one for fantasy - as rules that break reality confound me - but I was able to suspend belief for this one.
At the heart of the story is a theme that resonates deeply: a child's struggle under the shadow of a narcissistic mother. This relatable dynamic drew me in, compelling me to root wholeheartedly for the young protagonist, Cordelia. Kingfisher's nuanced portrayal of this complex relationship adds depth to the narrative, making it more than a fantastical adventure.