Archive
Book Review: The Dragon from Chicago: The Untold Story of an American Reporter in Nazi Germany by Pamela D. Toler
Discover the untold story of Sigrid Schultz, the fearless American journalist who exposed the rise of Nazi Germany—at a time when women were underrepresented in jouranlism.
Summary:
Schultz was the Chicago Tribune ‘s Berlin bureau chief and primary foreign correspondent for Central Europe from 1925 to January 1941, and one of the first reporters—male or female—to warn American readers of the growing dangers of Nazism.
Drawing on extensive archival research, Pamela D. Toler unearths the largely forgotten story of Schultz’s years spent courageously reporting the news from Berlin, from the revolts of 1919 through Nazi atrocities and air raids over Berlin in 1941. At a time when women reporters rarely wrote front page stories, Schultz pulled back the curtain on how the Nazis misreported the news to their own people, and how they attempted to control the foreign press through bribery and threats.
Review:
This wasn’t on my TBR or wishlist, but when I saw the cover and subtitle at the library, I had to pick it up. I love a troublemaking woman journalist trope—and this was that trope in real life, plus WWII! This nonfiction history book delivers, and in a reader-friendly way.
Despite its depth, this book reads almost as easily as fiction. The author takes care not to put words in the mouths of historical figures—every direct quote comes from letters, interviews, or official documents—yet the scenes are vivid and easy to follow. Each phase of Sigrid Schultz’s life gets just the right amount of attention, from her childhood in Chicago, to her teen years in Europe, to her time as a pioneering journalist. There’s even a well-developed chapter about her post-journalism years in Connecticut, which many historical biographies tend to gloss over.
When I review historical nonfiction, I like to share a few standout insights without giving away everything—so here’s what stuck with me the most.
Sigrid’s sense of identity was deeply American—despite living abroad from age 8 onward. She was so committed to her citizenship that she turned down a full-ride scholarship for singing because accepting it would have required her to renounce her U.S. citizenship.
Her personal life was shaped by loss. Sigrid lost her fiancé in WWI and her second great love to illness in the 1930s. It’s a stark reminder of how much death and grief defined the early 20th century. She didn’t choose to be an independent woman supporting herself and her mother—it was a necessity.
The 1916–1917 German food crisis led to absurd propaganda. Wartime shortages meant that Germans were forced to survive almost entirely on rutabagas. The government tried to spin it, dubbing them “Prussian Pineapples” and publishing recipes for rutabaga soups, casseroles, cakes, bread, coffee, and even beer (yes, rutabaga beer). (📖 page 17).
Although Sigrid’s reporting on the Nazis’ rise to power was the most gripping part of the book—especially during the 1936 Berlin Olympics, when the world was watching—what lingered with me was the story of her later years.
After WWII, Sigrid lost out on professional opportunities because she opposed the Allied occupation of Germany, believing that “any army of occupation is apt to be fascist in its tendencies”—regardless of the occupier’s intent. While I support people having strong ethical stances, her unwavering focus on this issue contributed to a series of choices that prevented her from adapting to the postwar world.
She struggled to transition from journalism to writing for magazines and books, finding it difficult to adjust her style. While the world moved on to focus on the Red Scare, she remained laser-focused on the rise of fascism, convinced it would resurface again. Her stubbornness and focus were, in many ways, her strengths—she even fought off eminent domain in Connecticut, keeping her home from being turned into a parking lot until her death. But they were also a hindrance. It’s real food for thought: when should we adapt, and when should we hold our ground? The balance between the two can shape an entire life.
The book primarily touches on diversity through Sigrid’s observations of the Jewish persecution during the rise of the Nazi regime. Unlike figures such as Corrie ten Boom or Oskar Schindler, she wasn’t someone routinely saving Jewish lives—but she did take small, meaningful actions when possible. One notable example: she convinced a friend to “buy” a Jewish man’s library, allowing him to falsely appear financially stable enough to get a green card—effectively saving his life.
She was also among the first reporters at the liberation of concentration camps and covered the Dachau war crimes trials. The book also explores the possibility that her mother was secretly Jewish, though it remains uncertain.
That said, the book is overwhelmingly told through a white woman’s lens, with little focus on wider global perspectives beyond Sigrid’s own.
Overall, this is an engaging, accessible read, written for popular audiences rather than academic historians. It offers fresh insights into WWII journalism, even for those already familiar with the era, and provides a fascinating look at a pioneering woman in media history. Recommended for readers interested in WWII, investigative journalism, and women’s history. For a more lighthearted take on trailblazing women in journalism, check out Eighty Days, the story of investigative journalist Nellie Bly’s race around the world.
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4 out of 5 stars
Length: 288 pages – average but on the shorter side
Source: Library
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Book Review: Witchcraft for Wayward Girls by Grady Hendrix
A chilling blend of historical fiction and supernatural horror, this novel explores what happens when pregnant teenage girls—hidden away in a 1970s home for wayward girls—discover the dark power of witchcraft.
Summary:
They call them wayward girls. Loose girls. Girls who grew up too fast. And they’re sent to the Wellwood Home in St. Augustine, Florida, where unwed mothers are hidden by their families to have their babies in secret, give them up for adoption, and most important of all, to forget any of it ever happened.
Fifteen-year-old Fern arrives at the home in the sweltering summer of 1970, pregnant, terrified and alone. Under the watchful eye of the stern Miss Wellwood, she meets a dozen other girls in the same predicament. There’s Rose, a hippie who insists she’s going to find a way to keep her baby and escape to a commune. And Zinnia, a budding musician who knows she’s going to go home and marry her baby’s father. And Holly, a wisp of a girl, barely fourteen, mute and pregnant by no-one-knows-who.
Everything the girls eat, every moment of their waking day, and everything they’re allowed to talk about is strictly controlled by adults who claim they know what’s best for them. Then Fern meets a librarian who gives her an occult book about witchcraft, and power is in the hands of the girls for the first time in their lives. But power can destroy as easily as it creates, and it’s never given freely. There’s always a price to be paid…and it’s usually paid in blood.
Review:
I had previously read Grady Hendrix’s My Best Friend’s Exorcism and remembered liking it more than I actually did. When I revisited my review, I realized I had enjoyed the concept far more than the execution—and unfortunately, that’s exactly how I feel about this book as well.
One thing I didn’t realize before picking this up is that Hendrix is a male author. I read My Best Friend’s Exorcism digitally, so it wasn’t until I saw the author photo on my library copy that it became obvious. Now, that’s not to say men can’t or shouldn’t write about women’s issues—but in my experience, if a book is expressly about women’s experiences (such as pregnancy and abortion), I tend to dislike it when it’s written by a man. Hendrix acknowledges this in a note, explaining that his inspiration came from a family member’s experience as a wayward girl, and I appreciate the personal connection as well as the research he put in. That said, I still struggled with the execution. In retrospect, this also explains issues I had with My Best Friend’s Exorcism—especially the queer-baiting between the two best friends. The way their relationship was written didn’t quite reflect how best girlfriends interact. I now wonder if Hendrix was inserting subtext without realizing it. But I digress—back to this book.
This is a long book, and it takes quite a while before the supernatural horror elements appear. When they do, they feel sporadic—as if the book can’t quite decide whether it wants to be historical fiction or horror. According to the author’s note, an earlier version was pure historical fiction, and it shows. The witchcraft elements feel both tacked-on and underwhelming, lacking the impact they seem to be aiming for. The spellcasting scenes, in particular, drag on too long—the book repeatedly emphasizes how rituals are tedious, repetitive, and boring, and then actually makes the reader sit through them in full dialogue.
The novel also struggles with whether the witches are heroes or villains. At first, they seem to empower the girls in a feminist, girl-power way, but later, they’re positioned as the main threat. I can see the poetic logic in showing that these girls had no real options, but at the same time, a novel like this needs a stronger thematic core—a sense of hope, justice, or at least a clear vision for a better future. On the plus side, I never knew what would happen next or how it would wrap up. Even when I felt frustrated, I kept reading simply because I needed to know how it all ended.
While the book does include a Black teen girl at the home, the handling of race and racism felt superficial at best. The only acknowledgment of racism in 1970s Florida is a scene where the home’s director initially wants to separate the Black girl from the others, only for a hippie character to protest and swap rooms with her. That’s it. This felt wildly unrealistic for the time period.
Beyond this, there are three other Black characters: the cook, the maid (her sister), and a driver. While these are historically accurate roles, the cook is a blatant magical negro trope, complete with a sassy personality and a role that exists entirely to serve and clean up after the white girls. I cringed. A lot. The white characters take advantage of her kindness without any acknowledgment of how their actions impact her life. I also disliked how Black characters’ skin tones were described.
Readers should be aware that this book includes:
- Graphic descriptions of self-injury related to spellcasting.
- Traumatic childbirth.
- Forced institutionalization & adoption.
- Emotional abuse.
- Mentions of CSA & child abuse (off-page).
- A spellcasting scene with explicit Christian blasphemy. (Expected for witches, but I do think it could have achieved the same effect without spelling out the blasphemy.)
Ultimately, this is historical fiction with horror elements rather than a true horror novel. It would have benefited from stronger thematic direction and a more nuanced approach to diversity, avoiding the Magical Negro trope. The book understands that these wayward homes were a problem, but it doesn’t seem to take a stance on what should have been done differently. It sends mixed messages about abortion, single teen motherhood, and autonomy—leaving it feeling murky rather than impactful. Recommended for readers who enjoy historical fiction with a touch of horror—and who don’t mind waiting for the horror to arrive. For those interested in the real history behind these homes, The Girls Who Went Away is a must-read.
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3 out of 5 stars
Length: 482 pages – chunkster
Source: Library
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Book Review: A Cyclist’s Guide to Crime and Croissants by Ann Claire
A charming cycling tour in the French countryside takes a deadly turn in this cozy mystery, perfect for fans of Emily in Paris—if Emily spoke French and solved murders between croissant breaks.
Summary:
Nine months ago, Sadie Greene shocked friends and family by ditching her sensible office job in the Chicago suburbs and buying a sight-unseen French bicycling tour company, Oui Cycle. Now she’s living the unconventional life of her dreams in the gorgeous village of Sans-Souci-sur-Mer. Sans souci means carefree, but Sadie feels enough pressure to burst a tire when hometown friends arrive for a tour, including her former boss, Dom Appleton. Sadie is determined to show them the wonders of France and cycling—and to prove she made the right move.
She hopes her meticulously planned nine-day itinerary will win them over, with its stunning seascapes, delicious wine tastings, hilltop villages, and, of course, frequent stops for croissants. When Dom drags his heels on fun, Sadie vows he’ll enjoy if it kills her. That is, until Dom ends up dead. The tragedy was no accident. Someone went out of their way to bring a permanent end to Dom’s vacation.
As more crimes—and murder—roll in, suspicions hover over Oui Cycle. To save her dream business, help her friends, and bring justice, Sadie launches her own investigation. However, mysteries mount with every turn. On an uphill battle for clues, can Sadie come to terms with her painful past while spinning closer to the truth—or will a twisted killer put the brakes on her for good?
Review:
If you’re looking for escapist literature, this cozy mystery delivers. A delightful, trope-perfect entry in the genre, it checks all the essential boxes—a murder that happens off-page? Check. A love interest suspicious of the FMC? Check. A dream career and a picturesque setting? Triple check.
One of the challenges of cozy mysteries is giving the main character an aspirational life without making them unlikable. Sadie, however, is wonderfully relatable. Her backstory is both heartwarming and tragic, making her move to France feel earned rather than enviable. She originally planned to start a bicycle tour business someday with her best friend—until tragedy struck, and her friend was killed in a hit-and-run. This loss becomes the catalyst for Sadie’s life-changing decision, and she makes it happen through a mix of financial prudence (as a former accountant) and a seller who values passion over profit. It’s a compelling, well-crafted setup.
The week of the fateful tour, Sadie’s not-quite-family but family-like friends arrive from the U.S., ostensibly to take her tour—but really, to check up on her. This dynamic adds a layer of personal drama, making the tour more than just a random mix of clients (though there are those, including a sharp-eyed reviewer). The result? Plenty of tension before the mystery even begins.
The French countryside and cuisine are absolutely lovely to read about, and you don’t have to be a cycling enthusiast to enjoy the journey. That said, I personally loved the cycling details, from the Is an e-bike cheating? debate to the hardcore Tour de France trainees Sadie encounters along the way. (If you love cycling too, check out the Bikes in Space anthology I have a short story in.)
Unlike in some cozies, the first murder (yes, first) feels eerily realistic. While I enjoy a good poisoned pie moment, this crime—especially as a cyclist—felt alarmingly plausible, adding genuine weight to the investigation.
One thing I often struggle with in cozies is the detective as a love interest—I tend to find detectives off-putting. However, this one worked for me, largely because his investigative approach felt fresh and culturally distinct. It helped maintain the escapist feel rather than making it feel like a procedural.
Speaking of characters, despite the large cast, I never once lost track of who was who. Each character felt distinct without veering into caricature. That said, the diversity felt a bit Eurocentric—the most notable examples being a Ukrainian refugee and an ex-convict. While I enjoyed both characters, I would have liked to see a bit more variety in representation given the size of the cast.
Halfway through, I was convinced I had solved the mystery. I was wrong. And once the reveal came, I could see exactly where I had been misled—not in a frustrating way, but in a deeply satisfying one.
This is a fun, immersive cozy mystery with a likeable main character, a realistic first murder, and plenty of French countryside charm. Recommended for cozy mystery fans who love an escapist read with a side of cycling, crime, and croissants.
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4 out of 5 stars
Length: 346 pages – average but on the longer side
Source: Library
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Book Review: A Sunny Place for Shady People by Mariana Enríquez, translated by Megan McDowell
A chilling yet deeply human collection of short stories where ghosts, goblins, and the macabre collide with everyday life—showcasing a rising star in Argentinian literature.
Summary:
Welcome to Argentina and the fascinating, frightening, fantastical imagination of Mariana Enriquez. In twelve spellbinding new stories, Enriquez writes about ordinary people, especially women, whose lives turn inside out when they encounter terror, the surreal, and the supernatural. A neighborhood nuisanced by ghosts, a family whose faces melt away, a faded hotel haunted by a girl who dissolved in the water tank on the roof, a riverbank populated by birds that used to be women—these and other tales illuminate the shadows of contemporary life, where the line between good and evil no longer exists.
Lyrical and hypnotic, heart-stopping and deeply moving, Enriquez’s stories never fail to enthrall, entertain, and leave us shaken. Translated by the award-winning Megan McDowell, A Sunny Place for Shady People showcases Enriquez’s unique blend of the literary and the horrific, and underscores why Kazuo Ishiguro, winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature, calls her “the most exciting discovery I’ve made in fiction for some time.”
Review:
This diabolical collection of 12 horror stories, each with at least a touch of the supernatural, blends the speculative with the deeply human. While steeped in Argentinian culture, the themes—grief, fear, injustice—resonate universally.
My favorite stories in this collection explore women’s suffering and resilience. “Metamorphosis” follows a woman undergoing a hysterectomy as she confronts medical misogyny, while “Different Colors Made of Tears” examines the far-reaching impact of domestic violence, even on those who haven’t experienced it firsthand. Other stories explore moral dilemmas, like the tension between wanting to help others while maintaining personal safety, or the existential fear of cancer.
The speculative elements vary in intensity—some stories lean fully into the fantastical, while others offer just a whisper of the supernatural. In “Different Colors Made of Tears,” a vintage clothing shop buys dresses from an elderly man—only to later discover that rumor has it he was abusive to his ex-wife. When women try on the dresses, they see horrific injuries appear on their own bodies, disappearing once the garments are removed. In contrast, “Metamorphosis” unfolds primarily as a starkly realistic medical narrative, with the speculative twist emerging only at the end, when a woman considers an unconventional body modification procedure to reclaim part of her lost uterus.
At times, I found the endings too abrupt. While this can work, in this case, I frequently felt like I was just settling in when the narrative was yanked away too soon. One small nitpick: a story features a character’s uncle who emigrated from Argentina to Vermont, where he became wealthy working for Boeing. Having grown up in Vermont and now working in the nonprofit sector here, I found this detail unrealistic. Vermont has exactly four Boeing employees—it’s just not a company with a presence in the state. A medical center, insurance company, or even Ben & Jerry’s would have been a more believable employer.
While most of the horror is not overly explicit, some stories do push boundaries. On-page content includes death, murder, torture, addiction, medical trauma, and the killing of a cat, while mentions of rape and confinement in tight spaces also appear. The collection is largely set in Argentina, with one story taking place in the U.S. To my understanding, all the characters appear to be white Argentines. Some disabilities, such as endometriosis, are explored, and one story features a gay couple. (Information on the current state of LGBTQIA+ rights in Argentina.) Another follows a woman reflecting on her codependent relationship with a partner struggling with Substance Use Disorder and being unhoused.
Overall, this is a dark, thought-provoking collection that blends psychological and supernatural horror with a sharp social lens. It tackles unsettling themes in ways that are both intimate and chilling. Recommended for readers who enjoy horror that lingers long after the final page.
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4 out of 5 stars
Length: 257 pages – average but on the shorter side
Source: Library
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Book Review: She Who Knows by Nnedi Okorafor
Blending science fiction and fantasy in a near future West African setting, this engaging prequel offers a compelling plot blended with a unique coming-of-age story in a quick read.
Summary:
Najeeba knows.
She has had The Call. But how can a 13-year-old girl have the Call? Only men and boys experience the annual call to the Salt Roads. What’s just happened to Najeeba has never happened in the history of her village. But it’s not a terrible thing, just strange. So when she leaves with her father and brothers to mine salt at the Dead Lake, there’s neither fanfare nor protest. For Najeeba, it’s a dream come true: travel by camel, open skies, and a chance to see a spectacular place she’s only heard about. However, there must have been something to the rule, because Najeeba’s presence on the road changes everything and her family will never be the same.
Review:
This short, powerful book packs quite a punch with its quickly established setting, a main character you can easily root for, and action scenes that will leave you breathless.
This is a perfect example of science fantasy (also called space fantasy), blending elements of both science fiction and fantasy seamlessly. The science fiction aspect is revealed through its post-apocalyptic future—something happened to reset the world. Paper books are rare and kept in a community building, and the salt fields that Najeeba’s people harvest from were created by a drying up of the water. The fantasy elements feel just as integrated, from the “Call” that Najeeba’s people receive when it’s time to go to the salt, to the supernatural powers some individuals can access. (For another science fantasy read, check out my retelling of Thumbelina set on Venus.)
Though part of a prequel series to Nnedi Okorafor’s Who Fears Death, you don’t need to have read that to enjoy this one. I hadn’t read it either, and I never felt lost or like I was missing crucial context. The initial conflict—Najeeba’s desire to do something that’s typically only for boys—is easy to grasp, and the world-building is subtle and effective. By the time the more unique and fantastical elements come into play, I was fully immersed in the world.
Set in a future version of West Africa, this features Black protagonists, with other characters who are Arab. While some of the abilities that develop in the story could be read as an allegory for developing a disability, none are explicitly represented.
The plot kept me hooked, and while I was satisfied with the ending, I found myself eager to explore more of this world. I’m excited to pick up the next book in the series when it’s available.
Overall, this is a quick, engaging read that brings science fantasy to a West African future setting. It’s a refreshing take on the near-future genre, offering a new perspective that I look forward to exploring further.
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4 out of 5 stars
Length: 161 pages – average but on the shorter side
Source: Library
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Book Review: The Importance of Being Earnest by Oscar Wilde
This witty farce cleverly comments on romance and class while offering a glimpse into the sharp mind of a writer who was silenced by society for his homosexuality.
Summary:
Cecily Cardew and Gwendolen Fairfax are both in love with the same mythical suitor. Jack Worthing has wooed Gwendolen as Ernest while Algernon has also posed as Ernest to win the heart of Jack’s ward, Cecily. When all four arrive at Jack’s country home on the same weekend the “rivals” to fight for Ernest’s undivided attention and the “Ernests” to claim their beloveds pandemonium breaks loose. Only a senile nursemaid and an old, discarded hand-bag can save the day!
Review:
I wasn’t sure if a play from 1895 could still make me laugh out loud, but this had me literally laughing out loud throughout. Wilde’s sharp wit transcends time, offering humor that still feels fresh and fun.
The bulk of the humor revolves around romance and relationships, themes that are just as relatable today. One of the young women insists she can only marry a man named Ernest because, well, it’s just such a perfect name. Honestly, it feels like something an influencer might say now. Ridiculous? Yes. But her love interest plays along—an endearing and absurd romance that hits just right. The second couple’s drama, involving letters and the oddity of never having met in person, feels like it could be pulled straight from a modern reality TV show like 90 Day Fiancé. It’s both comical and oddly relatable, even today.
Then, there’s Wilde’s satirical take on class—an aspect of the play that’s still tragically relevant. The scene where the two young women exchange polite (but cutting) quips over tea is perhaps my favorite. The tension between societal expectations and personal desires couldn’t be more brilliantly portrayed.
The final twist? Whip-smart and unexpected, it’s a game-changing moment that had me thinking, “This could fit perfectly into a psychological thriller.” It’s brilliant… and hilarious.
I listened to this as an audiobook (with a live reading featuring James Marsters—swoon!), and I highly recommend experiencing plays this way. The clever dialogue really shines in an audio format, bringing Wilde’s wordplay and humor to life in a way you can’t always capture on the page.
As for diversity, it’s worth noting that Wilde’s characters are overwhelmingly upper-crust white English folk. However, it’s important to remember that Wilde wrote this play before being imprisoned for “gross indecency” (a term used at the time to criminalize homosexuality). The Importance of Being Earnest was his last play, and it showcases his sharpest writing before homophobia curtailed his career. Reading it today offers a poignant reminder of his legacy and the oppressive forces that silenced him.
Overall, this remains a clever, sharp, and incredibly funny play—one that continues to satirize the British class system with a witty edge. It’s a must-read for fans of intellectual humor, fans of Wilde, and anyone who appreciates supporting LGBTQIA+ writers who defied the odds in their time.
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5 out of 5 stars
Length: 89 pages – novella/short nonfiction
Source: Audible
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Book Review: The Serviceberry: Abundance and Reciprocity in the Natural World by Robin Wall Kimmerer
A Potawatomi author and botanist explores the concept of gift economies through the author’s reflections on nature, reciprocity, and the lessons of the serviceberry tree.
Summary:
As indigenous scientist and author of Braiding Sweetgrass Robin Wall Kimmerer harvests serviceberries alongside the birds, she considers the ethic of reciprocity that lies at the heart of the gift economy. How, she asks, can we learn from indigenous wisdom and the plant world to reimagine what we value most? Our economy is rooted in scarcity, competition, and the hoarding of resources, and we have surrendered our values to a system that actively harms what we love.
Meanwhile, the serviceberry’s relationship with the natural world is an embodiment of reciprocity, interconnectedness, and gratitude. The tree distributes its wealth—its abundance of sweet, juicy berries—to meet the needs of its natural community. And this distribution insures its own survival. As Kimmerer explains, “Serviceberries show us another model, one based upon reciprocity, where wealth comes from the quality of your relationships, not from the illusion of self-sufficiency.”
Review:
I was incredibly moved by Robin Wall Kimmerer’s Braiding Sweetgrass, which beautifully wove together the spiritual and the scientific. So, I was excited to dive into her new book, The Serviceberry, which blends natural biology with economics—yes, you read that right.
This short book is gorgeously illustrated by John Burgoyne with thematic line drawings that complement Kimmerer’s reflections. The story centers on her harvesting serviceberries, and this simple activity becomes the starting point for a profound exploration of economic systems.
I’ll admit, before reading this book, I didn’t know much about serviceberries, even though I spent my childhood picking wild berries. After reading Kimmerer’s description and researching more, I’m still not sure I’ve encountered them in the wild myself. I wonder if having a personal connection to the plant would have deepened my connection to the book, much like it did with many of the plants discussed in Braiding Sweetgrass.
The core of the book discusses gift economies—systems of mutual support that thrive on sharing abundance. Kimmerer writes:
Gift economies arise from an understanding of earthly abundance and the gratitude it generates. A perception of abundance, based on the notion that there is enough if we share it, underlies economies of mutual support. (page 75)
Kimmerer uses her own harvest of serviceberries as a metaphor: after gathering more than enough berries, she shares them with her neighbors, who might then return the generosity by baking a pie to share. She connects this to examples like Little Free Libraries and free stands giving away zucchini, offering a hopeful vision of a world where wealth is measured not by money, but by the relationships we build.
However, I struggled to fully embrace this vision. While I appreciate Kimmerer’s focus on the power of sharing, I was reading this book during a time of travel frustration—waiting overnight for a massively delayed airplane—and found myself questioning the likelihood of these ideas. The concept of abundance feels hard to grasp when faced with the reality of scarcity—especially when airlines don’t have enough seats for stranded travelers.
I also hear the idealistic rebuttal: in a gift economy, I wouldn’t need to travel far to see family because we’d all be close by, sharing our abundance. But my personal experience with things like Little Free Libraries, where people dump books in condition too bad for anyone to use, makes me question the idealism of this system. While Serviceberry presents a beautiful vision of generosity, it doesn’t address the real challenges of maintaining such systems at scale.
Despite this, I still value Kimmerer’s generosity in donating all her advance payments to support land protection, restoration, and justice. Her actions speak louder than words, and that’s something I deeply respect.
Overall, this is a quick read that challenges readers to think about economics, abundance, and reciprocity in new ways. While it didn’t convince me of the feasibility of the gift economy, it certainly provided food for thought. I recommend it to those who are interested in reimagining our current economic systems through a natural lens.
If you found this review helpful, please consider tipping me on ko-fi, checking out my digital items available in my ko-fi shop, buying one of my publications, using one of my referral/coupon codes, or signing up for my free microfiction monthly newsletter. Thank you for your support!
4 out of 5 stars
Length: 128 pages – novella/short nonfiction
Source: Library
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Book Review: My Body Is Not a Prayer Request: Disability Justice in the Church by Amy Kenny
A disabled Christian woman shares her experiences with ableism in the church and offers solutions and actionable steps for fostering disability justice and inclusion.
Summary:
Much of the church has forgotten that we worship a disabled God whose wounds survived resurrection, says Amy Kenny. It is time for the church to start treating disabled people as full members of the body of Christ who have much more to offer than a miraculous cure narrative and to learn from their embodied experiences. Written by a disabled Christian, this book shows that the church is missing out on the prophetic witness and blessing of disability. Kenny reflects on her experiences inside the church to expose unintentional ableism and cast a new vision for Christian communities to engage disability justice. She shows that until we cultivate church spaces where people with disabilities can fully belong, flourish, and lead, we are not valuing the diverse members of the body of Christ. Offering a unique blend of personal storytelling, fresh and compelling writing, biblical exegesis, and practical application, this book invites listeners to participate in disability justice and create a more inclusive community in church and parachurch spaces. Engaging content such as reflection questions and top-ten lists are included.
Review:
Intertwining memoir, Biblical commentary, and disability justice scholarship, the author explores disability within the US American Christian church.I picked this book up as research for the second book in my closed-door paranormal romance series, which uses werewolfism as a metaphor for disability (look for it this year!). You can grab the first book on Amazon, Bookshop.org, or other retailers, or request an advanced copy of the sequel.
The book is organized into ten chapters—seven of which start with the title “disability” and three with “disabled.” Each chapter begins with a memoir vignette and delves into the theme of the chapter. One chapter I particularly resonated with is “Disability Blessings.” It opens with the author singing a pop song during a medical procedure, before discussing the societal pressure to “fix” disabled bodies rather than support them. She then brings the conversation to the Bible, exploring the story of Jacob, who becomes disabled after wrestling with God. This disability, Kenny argues, is a sign of blessing, not something to be eradicated.
Faith, then looks like wrestling–all night long–and emerging with a healing limp….I treasure this image, because it allows me to envision my limp as part of my healing instead of something that must be cured or killed off in hopes of inspiring nondisabled people. (page 51)
She ends each chapter with bullet-point listed calls to action for disability justice. For example, in this chapter, the reader is invited to re-explore disability narratives in the Bible and view them through a lens of celebrating disabled people. After this, she features a “top ten” list of things people have actually said to her as a disabled person with each chapter on a theme. The theme of this chapter is “I know how you feel,” with the message being, of course, no one really knows how anyone else actually feels to live in their body.
The themes of the rest of the chapters are curatives, discrimination, doubters, justice, mosquitoes, lessons, disabled foundations, disabled God, and disabled church. The most controversial seems to be that of disabled God, but I found it rather inspiring. For example, the resurrected Christ, God incarnate, has the marks of the nails on his hands and a hole in his side. He invites Thomas to touch these places. Jesus was not resurrected with a “perfect” body, so why is there so much pressure on disabled Christians to “faith their way” to one?
Sometimes the author’s writing challenged me, but I viewed it as an invitation to sit with the discomfort. Why was what the author was saying making me uncomfortable? Was it really how she was saying it or was it just an entirely new perspective being brought to me? For example, I didn’t like that she didn’t disclose exactly what condition she has. But I sat with that and wondered why I felt the right to know?
As someone who is writing about disability through metaphor myself, this book encouraged me to consider my character viewing his werewolfism as a blessing, not a curse. Of course, there is nuance to this. For example, Kenny points out that of course she would prefer to not be in pain. But it’s possible to both dislike the negatives of a disability while also seeing the blessings that come with it. This is a perspective I’m striving to bring to my own book.
Overall, this is an interesting mix of memoir, Christian exegesis, and disability justice. Recommended to Christian readers looking to become better disability justice advocates and disability justice advocates looking to understand the Christian perspective.
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4 out of 5 stars
Length: 208 pages – average but on the shorter side
Source: Library
Buy It (Amazon or Bookshop.org)
Book Review: Monsterland: Encounters with UFOS, Bigfoot, and Orange Orbs by Ronny Le Blanc
Explore the Bigfoot sightings, UFO encounters, and mysterious phenomena of Leominster, Massachusetts—dubbed ‘Monsterland’—through the eyes of author and researcher Ronny Le Blanc.
Summary:
There is an area known to the locals of Leominster, Massachusetts as MONSTERLAND. There are sightings of UFOS, Bigfoot and Orange Orbs. They have been coming and going for years. But where are they coming from? Why are they here? It seems that the state of Massachusetts has had a long history of sightings and encounters with these mysterious entities and they are occurring in the present day. Could all of these events somehow be connected? What is so special about Leominster that they have plagued the area for so long? Author and Researcher Ronny Le Blanc of Leominster thinks that he might have the answers to some of these questions. But the answers received lead to a whole new understanding of the unknown…. Welcome to MONSTERLAND.
Review:
Believe it or not, I picked up Monsterland as research for the second book in my paranormal romance series (Get the first book here). Paranormal romance thrives on supernatural creatures, and I wanted to infuse more local flavor by diving into the biggest tall tales of the area. Ronny Le Blanc is something of a local celebrity here in Massachusetts. While reading this at a coffee shop, people literally pointed and said, “Is that Monsterland?!” with wide eyes. I don’t share Ronny’s true believer status, but I do approach these topics with an open mind.
Ronny grew up in Leominster and opens the book with his own childhood encounter with Bigfoot in the Leominster State Forest. This personal connection sets a relatable tone and serves as a thread he frequently returns to. From there, he dives into local legends, including those rooted in the histories of the Nipmuc – the people Indigenous to the area.
One of the most interesting parts of the book is Ronny’s breakdown of commonalities in Bigfoot sightings. He highlights recurring details: the eerie silence of wildlife right before a sighting, tracks appearing and vanishing mysteriously (sometimes even under rocks), and witnesses reporting immobilization, intense fear, and disorientation. According to Ronny, these phenomena are a defense mechanism of Bigfoot—which, he argues, explains the lack of high-quality footage. (Although he also talks about a Canadian man who’s allegedly been consistently communicating with Bigfeet on YouTube.)
The book takes a turn into the mysterious world of orange orbs. Admittedly, these chapters dragged for me, but they’re crucial to Ronny’s overarching theory: Bigfoot are not mere animals—they’re aliens or interdimensional beings. The orange orbs, he believes, represent an intermediary phase of Bigfoot, explaining the disappearing footprints. He also connects this idea to Choctaw and Yaqui cultural beliefs about spirit beings and orbs.
At one point, Ronny recounts speaking aloud to Bigfoot, asking for proof in the form of a marble—and later finding one inexplicably placed in the middle of his home.
My favorite chapters were the tighter, more focused ones. Some of the longer sections could have benefited from more editing to maintain pacing and clarity. That said, there’s something undeniably special about reading folklore rooted in places I know so well. Ronny does an excellent job drawing connections between stories and theories.
However, I noticed a slight anti-yeti bias—Ronny briefly mentions them as the “least intelligent” of Bigfoot species and then essentially drops the subject. I also think the book would have been stronger with an Indigenous co-author for the chapters exploring Native folklore.
Overall, this is an enjoyable read for both cryptid enthusiasts and open-minded skeptics. Ronny’s storytelling style is engaging, and the included photos add a nice visual layer to the experience. If you’re curious about Massachusetts’s Bigfoot sightings, UFO lore, and the unique believer culture of Leominster, this one’s worth picking up.
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4 out of 5 stars
Length: 275 pages – average but on the shorter side
Source: Library
Buy It (Amazon or Bookshop.org)
Book Review: Model Home by Rivers Solomon
When Ezri’s parents die under mysterious circumstances, they return to their Texan childhood home—possibly haunted—in a gated community where their family is the only Black family.
Summary:
The three Maxwell siblings keep their distance from the lily-white gated enclave outside Dallas where they grew up. When their family moved there, they were the only Black family in the neighborhood. The neighbors acted nice enough, but right away bad things, scary things—the strange and the unexplainable—began to happen in their house. Maybe it was some cosmic trial, a demonic rite of passage into the upper-middle class. Whatever it was, the Maxwells, steered by their formidable mother, stayed put, unwilling to abandon their home, terrors and trauma be damned.
As adults, the siblings could finally get away from the horrors of home, leaving their parents all alone in the house. But when news of their parents’ death arrives, Ezri is forced to return to Texas with their sisters, Eve and Emanuelle, to reckon with their family’s past and present, and to find out what happened while they were away. It was not a “natural” death for their parents . . . but was it supernatural?
Review:
I’ve read most of Rivers Solomon’s books—they’re auto-reads for me at this point. I love their unique perspective and creative twists on speculative fiction. Solomon’s books always challenge me, so even though haunted house stories aren’t my favorite subgenre, I picked it up—and I’m glad I did. This turned out to be a queer psychological thriller that was hard to put down, keeping me up late reading.
The mystery starts early, with Ezri receiving texts from “mom,” but they suspect it’s the “other mother”—the ghost that haunted the family home in a gated community when they were children. It doesn’t take long before Ezri and discovers their parents dead in the backyard in what initially seems like a murder-suicide—but the siblings suspect it’s something far more complicated.
I appreciated how Solomon depicted the family dynamics under stress—three siblings thrown together for an unexpectedly long visit during a family tragedy. It’s the messy, real stuff of love and tension between people who care about each other but don’t always get along perfectly in a pressure cooker situation. The haunting also impacted each sibling differently, not just because of their age but due to the way their parents parented them, shaped by birth order.
I can’t discuss the most shocking part of the book without spoiling the twist. Suffice it to say, it was dark, gritty, and far less supernatural than anything else I’ve read by Solomon. That’s what made it so powerful—it felt so close to being like other psychological thrillers I’ve read but conveyed something profoundly different. It was deeply rooted in the Black experience in America, and it left me almost breathless.
Along with being a story about a Black family, Ezri is nonbinary, and both they and their child have diabetes. I really appreciated how Ezri’s gender identity was never an issue for their family—even when they were a child. This was refreshing and grounded in a sense of acceptance and love.
Please note that this book includes an explicit sex scene that is consensual. It also discusses predation on a minor and child sexual abuse (CSA).
Due to these sensitive topics, this was not a five-star read for me. While the book was beautifully written, I reserve five-star ratings for books I feel personally connected to. Books with such content usually don’t end up in my favorites category. (Grown by Tiffany D. Jackson was a big exception for me.)
Overall, this is a unique take on both the haunted house and psychological thriller genres. It offers a scathingly insightful analysis of being Black in America, while giving voice to a nonbinary sibling. Highly recommended for readers looking for a Black perspective on the haunted American house.
If you found this review helpful, please consider tipping me on ko-fi, checking out my digital items available in my ko-fi shop, buying one of my publications, using one of my referral/coupon codes, or signing up for my free microfiction monthly newsletter. Thank you for your support!
4 out of 5 stars
Length: 304 pages – average but on the longer side
Source: Library
Buy It (Amazon or Bookshop.org)
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This work by Amanda Nevius is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
Opinions of a Wolf 