Hell Bent, by Leigh Bardugo: As someone admittedly not a frequent reader of fantasy, I suppose it makes sense that I enjoyed the first Alex Stern book – Ninth House – more than this one; this sequel goes full force into demons and devils and heaven and hell where the first dipped more of a toe in. It was generally fun, though.

Dirt Creek, by Haley Scrivenor: A quality mystery/examination of a small town, reminiscent of Jane Harper’s The Dry.

The Diamond Eye, by Kate Quinn: I loved Quinn’s The Rose Code, but this one felt both overwritten and overlong, with fifteen battles where five would have done for the plot and prose that shaded purple at times. I will say the conclusion was satisfying.

Who Was Changed and Who Was Dead, by Barbara Comyns: After reading Cursed Bread and loving it I saw this recommended as a comp – published almost forty years ago and set in England instead of France, but based on the same historical event. The writing is mesmerizing, an off-kilter Mother Goose rampaging through a demented watercolor painting of the countryside. Macabre and amazing even if it all ends a bit abruptly.

The Quiet Tenant, by Clémence Michallon: Oh boy did this one build tension effectively. We start with a woman who has been locked in a shed for five years and move from there to a setting with fewer physical bonds but just as many psychological ones.

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The Sun Walks Down, by Fiona McFarlane: Slow-paced but dreamy. I know have a predisposition toward books set in Australia, but this was especially appealing.

Natural Beauty, by Ling Ling Huang: The premise was great but everything did unravel after the setup was established, getting very silly in the end.

Tell Us No Secrets, by Siena Sterling: Was this YA? I don’t think it was intended to be, but…a very rote, highly on the nose, somewhat didactic entry to the “something bad happened at boarding school” genre (which does contain some great books). Nothing new is being said here, even if it’s geared toward a YA audience.

We Need New Names, by NoViolet Bulawayo: This is billed as a novel and does have a throughline, but felt very impressionistic and very much a set of thematically linked stories. It didn’t all quite hang together for me – amazing pieces that felt stronger on their own.

Prom Mom, by Laura Lippman: I never fail to be impressed by Laura Lippman’s writing and plotting. Initially I thought this was going to take a twist that disappointed me, but I should have known better. The characters were all unlikeable in various degrees and ways, which I’ve seen critiqued as a failure of the book, but seemed clearly intentional to me!

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Homegrown: Timothy McVeigh and the Rise of Right-Wing Extremism, by Jeffrey Toobin: This is a unique book in that (as I learned in the introduction) it’s incredibly uncommon for a complete set of court documents and communication between lawyer and client to be made publically available. As such, it’s very complete. But it’s almost exclusively focused on McVeigh and the Oklahoma City bombing, and I was hoping for more about the January 6th Capitol riots. There’s a connection drawn between them and frequent references to Jan. 6th, but very little about the day and event itself. This isn’t a fault of the book, but I was disappointed by the more circumscribed scope. (Also, I only realized half of the grossness of Jeffrey Toobin before I read this, and even that I was remembering partially wrong.)

Yellowface, by R.F. Kuang: A wild ride – funny and horrifying. Obviously there are some similarities in subject between this and Last Resort, but they’re also alike in causing me to audibly gasp and think no, no, no whenever the main character made one more awful decision. The ending strained at the boundaries of farce a bit; no matter.

Traffic, by Ben Smith: I knew far more about the early days, rise, and fall of Gawker than I did about the trajectory of Buzzfeed. Really interesting to read about the parallel but very different journeys of the founders, the writers in the early days, and the more recent events, especially since (in Gawker’s case) I watched it happen in real time and have met or am adjacent to some of the people involved.

Cursed Bread, by Sophie McIntosh: WOW. This was an incredible gut punch of a book. I had to laugh at a one-star Goodreads review that simply read “bread smut.” Not completely wrong, but I found this stunning. Definitely McIntosh’s best so far.

Pathogenesis: A History of the World in Eight Plagues, by Jonathan Kennedy: I’m never going to turn down a book about plagues! Loved the thoughtful structure of the book – which is not actually about eight distinct plagues but rather eight periods of history and the characteristic plagues that defined them – and most of the conclusions.

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Ninth House, by Leigh Bardugo: I wasn’t sure I would be able to buy into a mystery whose plot hinges on ghosts, demons, and magic, but dare I say this was a romp. Silly in places, but very atmospheric, and I’ll definitely pick up the sequel.

Small Game, by Blair Braverman: I found this fun and overall satisfying, and though I’ve seen some quibbles about the ending, it worked for me.

To Be Taught, if Fortunate, by Becky Chambers: More outer space, in this case quieter and consumed by the human elements and questions of ethics rather than technology. At times it felt slightly didactic, and the ending wasn’t especially satisfying, but the depictions of other worlds and of a crowd-funded version of NASA were engaging.

Everybody Knows, by Jordan Harper: Oof this was well-plotted but made me feel somewhat gross. Definitely a page turner, clearly inspired by real, horrific elements of Hollywood, and perhaps slightly less ambiguous about the two main characters’ moralities than it intended to be (a fair amount of posturing about “finally doing the right thing” that felt…insubstantial). The author is a man and the female narrator is written believably but the characterization of the teenage girl is laughable.

The Ferryman, by Justin Cronin: I’m sorry but this was so dumb. You might be thinking, well, Claire, what did you expect? I would answer…something more like The Passage, which has a much less silly plot (granted, mileage may vary) and, at least in my recollection, has totally fine prose. The writing here felt like it may have been aiming for “fable” but instead was simply bad. As for the plot, maybe it could have been redeemed with better writing – it’s nothing especially new, but I’ve enjoyed similar ideas in Black Mirror and some other books – but I’m doubtful.

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The Thing in the Snow, by Sean Adams: Truly fun. I’ve been on a spree of seeking out texts and shows that are set in the arctic, or the far north, or the extreme cold (Artic Circle, a Finnish series available on an obscure (to me) offshoot of Amazon Video called Topic, fit my asks perfectly – eery lapland setting, new pernicious disease (I know, I said I have pandemic fatigue – but it wasn’t a true pandemic! it stayed local) – although it dissolved a bit in its second half and also had a truly weird domestic subplot). The Thing in the Snow is a great conceit for…madness? Isolation’s effects? Office politics? Just pretty delightful, even if the ending didn’t do much.

The Boy in the Field, by Margot Livesey: I really enjoyed this – the inciting incident is three adolescent siblings finding a wounded boy (or young man, a bit older than them) in a field on their way home from school, and the rest of the novel examines the ways it affects each of them. It’s not heavy handed at all, but rather an exploration of inner lives and how events both mundane and significant affect people’s lives.

The Dance Tree, by Kiran Millwood Hargrave: I cannot imagine how dreadful it would be to live – in general, but specifically as a woman – in the 16th century. Loved that this was set amidst the dancing plague; some elements felt overly telegraphed, but in general a lovely read about a terrible time.

The Space Between Worlds, by Micaiah Johnson: I don’t read a ton of science fiction (though plenty of speculative fiction) but this seemed like a strong entrant to the category, and it continued to surprise me even when I thought I knew where it was going.

Our Wives Under the Sea, by Julia Armfield: Reading this eerie and gripping novel while the Titan submersible was missing was quite something. The book is a brisk, tightly structured (I’m a sucker for the way it was segmented – based on the ever deepening zones of the ocean) exploration of both the most unknown territory – the bottom of the ocean – and the most domestic – a marriage altered by one partner’s experience.

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The Exiles, by Jane Harper: I was very excited to read another Aaron Falk mystery after finding Harper’s last outing (The Survivors) less interesting than The Dry (which is Falk) and The Lost Man (a standalone)…this was satisfying enough as a mystery but didn’t have the same atmosphere those two created.

The Social Climber, by Amanda Pellegrino: For most of this, I found myself thinking “I could have just…not read this” but I did somewhat begrudgingly appreciate the turns it took. The writing, though – not just the writing, but the editing; there were contradictions within sentences, tenses out of place, continuity errors. Strange.

Survivor Song, by Paul Tremblay: I may be tired of pandemic novels, which is not something I ever thought I’d say. This was a neat book, fun in spite of its topic, and I’m not sure I was able to give it its due because of subject fatigue. It is funny, which is a nice feat.

Demon Copperhead, by Barbara Kingsolver: Loved it. I’ve read a number of Kingsolver books – Poisonwood Bible is excellent, Prodigal Summer and Animal Dreams less substantial – but this is clearly her magnum opus. The language is exhilarating, the setting perfectly drawn.

A Head Full of Ghosts, by Paul Tremblay: Another Tremblay that I admired more than enjoyed; it may be that, as with dating, he’s an author I would wholeheartedly recommend for someone else – objectively good – but who’s not quite for me. Smart and meta – a possession that becomes a reality TV show that becomes the subject of a blog – and effectively creepy, but left me a bit cold.

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Medical Apartheid, by Harriet A. Washington: A highly important book whose subject matter was extremely compelling, but whose writing veered didactic and dissertation-like.

The Writing Retreat, by Julia Bartz: This was…very silly.

Normal Family, by Chrysta Bilton: Totally wild – a story by a prolific sperm donor’s first child, whose relationship with him was a cross between parent-child and donor-child and whose mother seems to have known half of Hollywood and politics in the 1980s.

Don’t Think, Dear, by Alice Robb: I always want to read about ballet, but found myself wishing this was a little less survey-like. At one point it seemed like each chapter might follow a specific former ballet classmate of the author, but it didn’t really adhere to that. I think I would have preferred a more straight-up memoir than this pastiche of memoir and history, but I’m probably in the minority on that.

Brotherless Night, by V. V. Ganeshananthan: This is stunning. Set during the start of the Sri Lankan civil war, it’s nuanced, fascinating, and heartbreaking.

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I’m Glad My Mom Died, by Jennette McCurdy: I’ve never seen iCarly, but of course I’ve been hearing about this memoir for months while having it on hold at the library. I felt so terrible for McCurdy, and the book is completely compelling.

Doomsday Book, by Connie Willis: What a delight – somehow this managed to be both absurdist-silly and deeply profound in its story of an academic transported back in time to the era of the Black Death. There was one plot point that escaped me and that I still haven’t figured out, but the weaving of the modern storyline (in 2054, which has an epidemic of its own break out) and the 1300s journey was excellent and the subtleties of the two primary characters’ beliefs were perfect.

Good for a Girl, by Lauren Fleshman: I think I like reading about running in the way I like reading about people climbing Mount Everest, which may be to say that experiencing both by proxy is the closest I’m going to get (yes, I have run before; it makes my tongue hurt). Seeing the machinations behind NCAA and professional track was enlightening and slightly depressing, but the author provides a path forward.

The Trees, by Percival Everett: WOW. I’d not read any Everett before this; the conceit (which I won’t spoil) was incredible, the dialogue hilarious, and the whole book stunning. As with The Push, I really appreciated how much the title was doing. Although this is a singular work, it did remind me (tonally and in the sense of being, inexplicably, a caper) of Deacon King Kong, and the prose reminded me of Barry Hannah at times. The character names are hilarious except for one predictable groaner (well, set of groaners).

I Remember You, by Yrsa Sigurðardóttir: An Icelandic ghost story. I think some things were lost in translation on the sentence level (lots of words repeated in close succession, even some typos) but overall I enjoyed this. There were a few too many elements that were telegraphed heavily (to the point where I wondered if they would turn out to be intentional fake-outs) and some of the characters’ internal monologues felt off, but I was impressed by the intricacies of the plot, which had quite a few threads.

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Spectacle, by Pamela Newkirk: This story of Ota Benga, a Mbuti “pygmy” man who was captured by a white American man and exhibited (yes, exhibited) for some time at the Bronx Zoo in the 1900s, was extremely sad and well-researched. As important as the story is, and as skillful as the author’s writing, it felt lacking through no fault of its own – only because there was so much history missing/never recorded.

The Push, by Ashley Audrain: I read this in a day or two and found it hard to put down, but the territory (new mother, child who shows signs of sociopathy) felt too well-trodden (it’s impossible not to think of The Bad Seed or We Need to Talk About Kevin) and the ending slightly silly. That said, I admired the way the title functioned on numerous levels.

The End of Drum Time, by Hanna Pyväinen: I loved this – the writing is tremendous and the setting (1850s in the very northernmost part of Scandinavia, where Norway, Sweden, and Finland border one another and the Sami people herd reindeer) was incredibly drawn.

I Have Some Questions For You, by Rebecca Makkai: I’ve seen so many critiques of this (and raves as well) – it does too much, the second person address is cloying, the protagonist is unlikeable – and I have to say none of that made any difference in my enjoyment and fascination with this. Yes, it takes on a number of different current issues, which is part of what I liked about it, and it explores the uncomfortable grey areas of justice and memory. Highly recommend.

Cloud Cuckoo Land, by Anthony Doerr: What an absolutely genius book with an extremely dumb title! The different pieces and protagonists of this novel fit together so perfectly and the themes built so deftly that I can almost forgive the title, but why?? When I first started the book I thought “oh, “cloud cuckoo land” is a reference to a real myth and so the author’s hands were somewhat tied in that sense,” but I actually think it’s a myth of Doerr’s own invention. It also inevitably brings to mind Cloud Atlas, which (despite its many protagonists) is not at all similar. Anyway – I’ll read this again and again; it’s brilliant.

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The Housekeeper and the Professor, by Yoko Ogawa: I was a few pages into this when I realized it wasn’t my first Ogawa novel (I read The Memory Police a few years back). It’s a quiet book, maybe a little mundane for me, but enjoyable in its way.

The Fervor, by Alma Katsu: Much more satisfying than The Deep; maybe not quite the magic of The Hunger. Eerily timely with the weather balloons being shot down over the US, as a major plot point (not a spoiler) involves balloon-like objects falling from the sky.

No One is Talking About This, by Patricia Lockwood: How I loved this. The first half feels like an erudite version of reading a Twitter stream, and the second half takes the title from ironic to sincere. Lockwood’s voice and language are just so good.

The Keep, by Jennifer Egan: Fantastic. I almost got a little ruffled early on when I realized there was a narrative conceit (especially when it seemed like it could go in the direction of “most of this is being written by a NON-WRITER” which always strikes me as a cop-out), but quickly forgave that and fully bought into it (Egan does not, in the end, include any writing inferior to her usual deftness). It’s hard to say too much about the book without giving things away, but it’s a pretty brilliant exploration of being free and being trapped.

Trespasses, by Louise Kennedy: I would say an uncharitable read of the plot is that it’s predictable and a more generous read of the plot (and what I came around to ultimately) is that its events are inevitable. I’m fascinated by this time period in Ireland and I enjoyed this, though it didn’t astound me.

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