Since the publishers insisted Bright and Tender Dark is not a thriller or mystery (not genres I typically enjoy), I decided to stretch my reading muscles and try something different. I loved the first several chapters of Pearson's novel about a murdered college student. The book alternates between time periods - Karlie is murdered in early 2000 and her roommate re-examines this chapter of her life nearly two decades later. Besides alternating timelines, the story is also told through myriad characters.

At first, I enjoyed the varying points of view as there seemed to be an interesting through-line in the novel. Yet as I read further, I realized many of these viewpoints didn't add anything to the story and seem to distract from the most important plotlines. For example, one chapter follows Joy (Karlie's roommate)'s son who never met Karlie and adds nothing to Joy's reflections or investigations of the crime. Pearson has a penchant for fancy vocabulary and it didn't suit every character despite these uncommon words being sprinkled through nearly every chapter. The editors also seemed to miss Pearson's love for describing character's faces in varying forms of light - there are so many examples of faces being illuminated by everything from flashlights to car dashboards.

By the end of the book, I found myself losing patience. The characters don't tie together in a meaningful way at the end, and while we do find out what happened to Karlie on the fateful night of the murder, some of the key players aren't explored until near the end of the novel (they are, to be fair, introduced fairly early in the book, but just left as passing references). So, while this started a four star read, it felt like a weak two star read by the close of the novel. I don't know that I would read another book by Pearson (but, on the bright side, I didn't find the book too gory or gratuitous so maybe I will continue to branch out in that sense!).

Zig Zag Boy is Tanya Frank's story of her son's psychotic break at age 19 and the years that follow as they come to terms with his ongoing psychosis. As a mother, the portions of the book that focus on her and her son, and their relationship, are visceral and heart-wrenching. Frank is unsparing in discussing their battles with health care providers and insurance in both the U.S. and England, her son Zach's turmoil on antipsychotic meds and the difficulties he faces when unmedicated, the struggle in getting an accurate (or at least consistent) diagnosis, and their forays into conventional and alternative medicines and treatments. I also appreciated that Frank doesn't shy away from talking about their friends and family, and how other relationships and facets of their lives change significantly, sometimes irreparably. And while Frank's whole-hearted love and adoration for her son shine throughout, this does not inoculate her from caregiver burnout and fatigue.

Interspersed throughout the book are passages about nature and elephant seals. While these portions are interesting, they are not as strong or as captivating as the more personal anecdotes. Overall this is a strong and compassionate memoir that provides an open and honest look at mental illness and its concomitants.

Margot is a strange, and often bleak, work of fiction. The synopsis of this book does not feel like a good reflection of it. I expected to read a story of a woman coming into her own during the women's lib/feminist atmosphere of the 60s. Steavenson lingers in Margot's childhood longer than I anticipated, and once Margot is coming of age and pursuing higher education, it often feels like she is ineffectual and not self-aware. Instead, Margot is often going in whatever direction the wind takes her. Even as her world becomes more open to gender equality, Margot is often the victim of circumstances and of the men in her life (as well as her own mother).

Steavenson is an unusual writer and I was ambivalent about her writing style. I would not characterize her writing as lyrical, yet she often uses poetry constructs like rhyming and alliteration in her descriptions. Sometimes these were effective devices, and other times they were simply distracting. Steavenson does capture the era well, but I never felt connected to Margot or sensed her as a real person, and the ending of the book left me feeling that she had not really grown/changed or succeeded in any meaningful way. Without revealing spoilers, I found the end disappointing and frustratingly irresolute. This is the only work I've read by Steavenson but I'm not sure that I would pick up another.

Pari's novel has a slow start and is a little difficult to become invested in. The early portion of the novel has a lot of descriptive passages that don't particularly add anything to the plot or characters (i.e. long-winded descriptions of clothing or surroundings). I also found the italicized portions that preceded each part distracting, and while the language is lovely in these stylized sections, they don't add to the overall story.

What is great about this novel is its themes of family and found family, and the strong female characters who are complex and realistic. There is a sense of immersion into the world of an Iranian American family and their complicated relationships. However, many of the male characters are overly simplistic - particularly the protagonist's father, Yusef, who is a bully with few redeeming qualities.

The end of the novel is not entirely satisfying, and the addition of new characters and plot points near the end dilute the story. Overall, the book could have been great rather than just good with some additional editing and focus.

Blind Man's Bluff is James Tate Hill's aptly named memoir about losing his vision as a teenager and the resulting years in which he attempts to hide his vision loss, especially from strangers. While this could have been a sad story, Hill is full of self-effacing humor and dry wit that make this an enjoyable read. While his farce in hiding his vision loss may sound strange at first, Hill felt like an awkward teenager upon losing his sight - old enough to know life with vision, but not old enough to feel confident in his new state as a vision impaired person. The story follows him full circle from diagnosis to acceptance and all of the phases in between, as well as the effects this had on his personal life, including a troubled marriage. There were aspects of his life that he breezes past, where I found myself wanting more, but all in all, an interesting and honest memoir.

I don't typically like the fiction trope of a child and elderly person becoming friends - it is often handled in a manner that makes for saccharine reading. However, Emily Spurr has disabused me of that notion with two perfectly spirited but cantankerous characters, Rae and Lettie.

Rae is a ten year old and the narrator of this novel. While she doesn't always sound/act exactly like a ten year old, she is generally "believable" as a child who is being forced to grow up too quickly. It took me a beat to realize that when she is talking in second person, she is talking to her dead parent. For much of the book, I thought this deceased character was her father; without the 3rd person gender signifiers like he/her, I just assumed for no reason it was her father until something clued me in (much further in the book) that it was her mom (the book synopsis does refer to her mom but I try not to reread those when I start a book because I don't like even small spoilers). I wish this element of the novel had been expressed more clearly.

The book is atmospheric, which helps in the early chapters when Rae has almost no interactions outside of those with her dog, Splints. The pacing is still a bit slow at first, but I was captivated once Lettie and Rae begin communicating in earnest. They have a unique relationship, and each is independent and hiding the dark parts of themselves. While both receive help and help each other in some ways, this isn't a simple story of friends saving each other. Overall, this is a fantastic debut novel and I look forward to more books by Spurr.

Smith's debut is a powerful and unflinching look at loss, grieving, and finding life afterwards. It is not for the emotionally faint of heart; not only did Smith lose a young child but her subjects include a double amputee, burn victims, fellow bereaved parents, a stroke survivor, and more. Smith's own story is revealed slowly over the course of the book, and while I have read books by bereaved parents before, Smith's view is unique as her loss unfolds over decades - there was something particularly gutting about reading accounts of memorializing adult birthdays and events - such a crystal clear reminder of how losses like this live within us forever. Still, there is strength, there are moments of hope and optimism, and much inspiration to be found within this book.

Of Women and Salt is a book about unseen forces and how they shape us. For a relatively short book, it covers a lot of ground - two families and a timeline that crosses through many generations. We see the effects of generational trauma on several women, and witness the loss and gain of fortunes. Despite all of this, I never felt there was anything missing or any confusion while reading this lyrical novel. The settings are rich, from Cuba to the U.S., and the characters are complex and interesting. Readers should be aware that Garcia does tackle some difficult topics that may not be for everyone - addiction, sexual abuse, and death, to name a few. Still, there is hope and beauty in this book, and the beginning and ending of the story have a wonderful (yet realistic) symmetry. I highly recommend this novel and I look forward to reading more from this fabulous debut author.

I live less than two and a half hours from Camp Etna and had never heard of the community or the religion of Spiritualism before this book. Ptacin alternates between explaining the tenets of the religion, discussing the history, and sharing her encounters with current Spiritualists. I found her experiences at camp and with current Spiritualists immersive and fascinating. Ptacin engages in such activities as table tipping, aura reading, mediumship, ghost "hunting," and dowsing, and maintains an openness and willingness to engage that is refreshing. While the history of the religion, and its critics/opponents through the years, are certainly pertinent and valuable to the overall story, I wish that these sections had been pared down in favor of more current encounters. For example, there are classes offered in mediumship and it would have been fascinating to read about Ptacin's experiences with more classes as a participant rather than as a journalist (while she participated as a client, she never attempted to learn any skills outside of dowsing). Overall, this is a unique and illuminating look at a little known, and lesser understood, religion and its proponents.

Ordinary Girls is Diaz's colorful memoir of growing up in Puerto Rico and Miami. It is written with disarming frankness despite the multitude of challenges that she endured growing up: violence, abuse and neglect, poverty, frequent moves, a parent with mental illness, racism, homophobia, gangs, rape, drug abuse and addiction, dropping out of school, running away from home, and multiple suicide attempts. Diaz writes about the important people and settings of her young life with vibrancy and doesn't shy away from portraying herself honestly, even when it isn't in a positive light.

The memoir begins in a linear fashion, but as it progresses it switches to a more thematic organization. The end, in particular, feels fragmented and rushed as it quickly shifts between several places and points in history. Diaz attempts to tie in Puerto Rico's colonial history with current events in Miami, along with her own life and visits back and forth between the U.S. and P.R. At times, it is difficult to keep track of Diaz's age and situation as she rapidly shifts between time periods throughout the book (sometimes she attempts to tie loose ends together about a person or place and will try to explain 'a year before....' and 'six years later' but 'before this happened...') creating confusion. There were also times that the level of detail seemed inappropriate - there are sexual encounters described in excruciating detail yet major aspects of her marriage are glossed over.

Despite some confusion and disorganization, Ordinary Girls is a fascinating look into a difficult life.

This is a difficult book to rate and review. The prose and characters are four to five stars, but the plot and details of the third book within Golden Child diminished my overall enjoyment of the book greatly.

Having read A Place for Us, the first book under SJP's imprint, I was incredibly eager to read Golden Child, the second book published by SJP. I was immediately drawn into Adam's straight-forward but lovely prose, and the dialogue of the already realistic characters places the reader in the setting of Trinidad so effectively. Adam introduces her characters in the first book of the novel largely through Clyde, a husband and father of twins, but the second book takes the reader back in time several years and shifts mainly to Paul's perspective (one of the twins), as well as that of a kindly priest/teacher. I typically don't enjoy this technique of shifting back in time and shifting perspectives at the same time (it can feel gimmicky), but these techniques are incredibly effective to the plot and structure of Golden Child. Adam's pacing and revealing of contrasting perspectives serves to show Paul in two starkly different lights - that of a trouble-maker who is incapable of learning, and that of a gentle boy who feels his fate has been sealed by his retardation (using the term from the novel, not my own). The plot comes to its climax in the third book and this is where the novel began to disappoint me. I don't read for happy endings or plots that are easily tied up in a neat package - I like complex characters and dynamics. However, Adam steps too far into gratuitous violence/abuse in the third book; it is both difficult to stomach and not fitting with the tone of the rest of the novel. Without providing spoilers, Adam could have achieved the same end result through less gruesome means. This is a stunning debut novel but one I would recommend with reservations.

Two to two and a half stars.

Wamariya's story of becoming a refugee and fleeing her home with her sister is an important and relevant story. The beginning and the end of the memoir were effective and interesting, but the middle often felt muddled. Her and Weil's decision to alternate chapters between life as a refugee with life in the United States served to demonstrate Wamariya's disorientation and confusion in her different lives, but as a reader it made it hard to follow both tracks. I often had to refer back to previous chapters to remember her age, location, and other important elements. This technique also undermined the fact that Wamariya remained a refugee for several years because the book constantly jumped forward to her later years. There is an underlying anger throughout this book, that while completely understandable, sometimes makes the story hard to engage with. However, there were many eye-opening and illuminating moments scattered throughout the book.

The Milk Lady of Bangalore is a charming and eccentric blend of memoir and non-fiction told through a bovine lens. While providing a unique and quick peek into India's cultures, religions, history, caste system and languages, it is also a simple tale of a friendship that crosses many of these apparent barriers. Narayan never preaches and manages to avoid dry informational passages; her writing is consistently approachable and often humorous. While cows are the thread tying the whole story together, readers don't need to have a fascination with these creatures to enjoy Narayan's book. I've never read Narayan's previous work, but I loved her perspective as an alternating U.S./Indian citizen and look forward to reading more.

The book jacket for Dawn Davies' essays led me to believe this would be a series of essays about an angst-filled and reluctant mother, but I was pleasantly surprised to find a set of eclectic personal essays that range in topics and tone. The essays are not necessarily sequential and the end result is a kaleidoscopic view of Davies' life - she honestly reveals both heart-breaking and humorous stories of her life without all of the connective tissue that can sometimes bog down a typical memoir. The essays that resonate the most are those at the beginning and end of the collection where she honestly explores loss, death, illness, and parenting in trying circumstances.

Many of the essays do explore parenting but I would not describe this as a book about motherhood, nor does Davies ever appear as the reluctant mother the book jacket implies; rather she is devoted and often easy to relate to. The essays in the middle of the collection are often funny but some felt like "filler" essays of the type you might read in a women's magazine. However, the biggest detractor to the book was Davies' habit of slipping into 2nd person perspective when relating personal stories, sometimes for whole essays and sometimes for short passages. Still, Davies' heart and talent shine throughout and this is a lovely collection.

This is a stunning memoir. While the subject matter is deeply sad, the book's tone ranges from heartbreaking to witty, from light and chatty to seriously reflective. Riggs (perhaps from her background in poetry) has a gift for distilling a theme or subject matter to its essence. Metaphors that could become bizarre are instead highly effective in her hands. This is the rare and gorgeous memoir that inspires rereading.

I have read most of Strout's novels and short story collections, but had not read My Name is Lucy Barton prior to reading Anything Is Possible. While I typically don't enjoy short stories as much as novels, I was excited to read this as I love Olive Kitteridge and Amy and Isabelle - all characters that are not only realistic, but jump off the page with facets that remind me of people I know. The characters in Anything Is Possible are believable, but lack the familiarity and complexity of some of Strout's other characters. However, the characters are all loosely tied together via Lucy Barton and I am more intrigued by Lucy after reading these stories.

Perhaps because of the brevity of the stories, there is some depth missing in characterization, and at times Strout makes broad leaps in an attempt to tie together characters or events from different time periods. More than once, a character is described as thinking of someone for no reason, or having a memory unbidden by anything going on the present - it is as if she is apologizing for the clunky attempts to tie stories together. While this book may lack the brilliance of Olive Kitteridge, it is still a quick read with diverse stories that range from strange to sweet.

This book is unique; written mostly in vignettes, it conveys Shapiro's memories and experiences not only in her eighteen year marriage, but in raising her son, losing her parents, and working alongside her husband (also a successful writer). These vignettes are heartfelt and distilled; Shapiro can convey heart-wrenching sorrow or wry wit, sometimes with just a few sentences. Her passages on memory reminded me a bit of Sarah Manguso's Ongoingness: The End of a Diary, however Hourglass is less obtuse and more accessible. Because this book doesn't follow a linear structure, Shapiro sometimes loops around to the same topics or themes multiple times. This repetition can be tiresome but it is a short book and a quick, enjoyable read nonetheless.

Three and a half stars.

It was fascinating to read a fictional account of a major historic event in my home state. My familiarity with the area (coastal Maine) brought this book to life and added to the intensity and immediacy of the story. I knew nothing of this devastating fire but it was easy to imagine being forced towards the ocean for refuge. Shreve does a fantastic job of creating a sense of the time (late 1940s) and many of her characters jump off the page. The first third of the book in particular creates a "slow burn" (pun intended) that made this quite a page-turner.

Where the book lacked a bit for me was in some of the plot points following the fire. Just as Grace is gaining independence and individual strength, somewhat trite romantic encounters and muddled subplots diminish both her independence and the story line. Some of these later characters feel somewhat contrived, and the end of the book does devolve a bit into a thriller rather than the beautiful fiction it starts out as. Still, it was difficult to put this book down and Grace is an easy character to root for.

It has been approximately eight years since Lisa Carey's last novel, so I was thrilled to see a new novel on the way, and even more excited to see that it is set in Ireland. Carey writes beautifully and transports her readers, whether to different time periods, countries or realities, and The Stolen Child is no different. Her writing is gorgeous, lyrical at times and replete with the Irish mythology and magical realism that she is perhaps best known for. Part of what makes The Stolen Child unique is the complexity of the characters and Carey's ability to make a seemingly unlikable character such as Emer sympathetic. All of the characters become embroiled in tragedy at various points in the novel but the reading rarely feels overly dark, perhaps because the setting (St. Brigid's Island off the coast of Ireland) is so lush and embedded in its own history and lore of saints, a goddess, fairies and a magic well. It is a place where anything can happen, and unbelievable things do occur, but in Carey's hands they are deftly and carefully handled so the book never treads into the realm of a children's fairy tale; there is a gravitas to the magic at work here.

The plot itself is also complex and sometimes a bit tricky to follow as it meanders between several different characters' storylines in different time periods. Eventually the stories are seamlessly brought back together but the novel can feel a bit fragmented at times. While The Stolen Child may not quite rival the turn-paging magic of The Mermaids Singing, it is a wonderful escape.

Overcoming hardship is inspiring on its own, but reading Brookins' story of her family not only enduring harrowing abuse and stalking but truly rising above it to become stronger as individuals and as a family is awe-inspiring. As a mother, it is mind-blowing to think of having four children under 18 on a building site, let alone having three of them assisting in building a house (with no prior experience) while keeping a toddler safe and worrying about being stalked by a mentally ill ex. Brookins is truly an inspiration and brave to share her story so openly and honestly.

The chapters of Brookins' book alternate between Rise (building the house together) and Fall (flashbacks to episodes of abuse and trauma at the hands of her ex-husbands). The Fall chapters detract from the flow of the book and can be confusing as they are not written in chronological order with each other. Also, while this method of alternating between flashbacks and present tense is common and often successful, it doesn't entirely work in this memoir given the sharp contrast in tone between her stories. The final chapter (an epilogue of sorts) feels a bit rushed with some of the resolutions to their issues seeming abruptly explained. Still, this is a worthwhile and thought-provoking read that sheds light into the intensity and pervasiveness of abuse on victims' lives.