Marathon reader 🏃📚
I spent years sprinting through stories only to realize I wasn't letting them stay. This is my space to slow down and properly honor the books I finish.
Pull up a chair — let’s talk books.
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My Thoughts on "The God of the Woods" by Liz Moore
My second book of the month—a multi-layered mystery—did not disappoint. In fact, I was so utterly engrossed in the plot that I binge-read the entire book in less than 24 hours. It’s exactly the type of atmospheric thriller I wish I could unread, just so I could experience the shock and brilliance of reading it again for the very first time.
Dates read: June 5, 2026 to June 6, 2026
Favorite quote: “Rich people, thought Judy—she thought this then, and she thinks it now—generally become most enraged when they sense they’re about to be held accountable for their wrongs.”
Warning: spoilers ahead.
Reflection: The God of the Woods is far more than a standard, formulaic 'missing child' story; it is a sprawling, character-driven drama spanning the 1950s, 60s, and 70s that unfurls across a wealthy family's wilderness estate and a nearby summer camp. Beneath the propulsive mystery lies a devastating social commentary on class and gender. Moore uses the Van Laar family to expose the suffocating gender dynamics of the era, particularly among the wealthy. Women are treated as accessories or incubators for heirs. When Peter III’s emotional cruelty fractures his wife's mental health, the narrative cleverly highlights how the patriarchy silences women by labeling their genuine trauma as madness. Bear's drowning wasn't just a freak accident—it was the direct, toxic byproduct of a home built on domestic subjugation.
Similarly, the conflict between the Van Laar and the Hewitts represents a brilliant critique of American class structures. For decades, the Van Laar family used their immense wealth to exploit local labor, rewrite local history, and bury their own ugly secrets. In a world where the ultra-wealthy constantly insulate themselves from consequences, it was incredibly cathartic that the Hewitt family, who had suffered exploitation under both Peter II and Peter III, were ultimately the ones to bring the dynasty to justice simply by bringing the truth to light.
What surprised me? The poignant conclusion of the story, where it is revealed that Barbara Van Laar did not meet a tragic fate, but had actually run away to a remote cabin on an island owned by the Hewitts (aided by T.J. Hewitt herself), delivers a profound sense of catharsis. It not only brings immense relief to know that Barbara is safe, but it also provides a beautiful, retroactive sense of closure for her long-lost brother, Bear. Both siblings were, in vastly different ways, victims of the Van Laar empire of privilege. However, where Bear was tragically consumed by it, Barbara was successfully able to break its chains. By taking a framed photograph of her brother with her, she ensures that his memory is finally liberated from their toxic family estate, allowing them both to finally find peace in the wilderness.
Dialogue: Liz Moore does a masterful job showing that the true 'monster' in the woods wasn't a mythical creature or a random predator, but the suffocating entitlement and domestic abuse within the Van Laar household itself. Do you prefer mysteries where there is a clear, traditional antagonist, or do you find stories like this (where the real villain is a toxic social system) to be far more terrifying?
My Thoughts on "The Wager: A Tale of Shipwreck, Mutiny, and Murder" by David Grann
I'm kicking off June with another gripping work of historical narrative nonfiction. David Grann's The Wager has been anchored on my WTR list for quite some time, and it delivered a masterclass in survival, mutiny, and human nature—once again proving that nonfiction can be just as thrilling as fiction.
Dates read: June 1, 2026 to June 5, 2026
Favorite quote: "Just as people tailor their stories to serve their interests—revising, erasing, embroidering—so do nations. After all the grim and troubling narratives about the Wager disaster, and after all the death and destruction, the empire had finally found its mythic tale of the sea."
Reflections: The story follows the crew of the HMS Wager, a British man-of-war ship that wrecked on a desolate island off the coast of Patagonia in 1741. What makes Grann’s recounting so gripping isn't just the physical horror of the shipwreck (the scurvy, the starvation, and the unforgiving elements) but the psychological decay that follows. As the traditional naval hierarchy begins to fracture, two opposing sides emerge—those who stayed loyal to Captain David Cheap and the English imperialist cause, versus those following the lead of Royal Navy Gunner John Bulkely, who endeavored to return the survivors of the shipwreck to England.
Grann depicts Cheap as a tyrannical, increasingly unstable figure, ultimately leaving Bulkeley and his faction with no choice but to mutiny, casting the captain and his loyalists aside on what became known as Wager Island. Yet, even after both factions miraculously survived the Patagonia elements and returned to England, the warfare didn't end—it simply moved into a court-martial. In a surprising twist of naval politics, neither side was convicted of wrongdoing, despite the blatant illegalities committed on the island. Personally, I found it impossible not to side with Bulkeley. While Cheap became so blindly wedded to the British imperialist cause that he grew obsessed with maintaining rank—resorting to brutal lashings and even shooting a crew member in the face—Bulkeley was driven by a practical, human motivation: saving as many lives as possible. He recognized that blindly following a captain in a psychological downward spiral would doom them all.
What surprised me? I don't doubt that Grann’s portrayal of the Indigenous peoples who encountered the survivors—namely the Kawésqar and the Chono—was intentionally designed to contrast starkly with the moral bankruptcy of the Wager crew. He depicts them as deeply humane, resourceful, and entirely mastered over an environment that was actively killing the British. Tragically and ironically, the Englishmen continued to assert racial superiority, referring to their literal saviors as 'savages' despite being at their complete mercy. Because of this, I felt a distinct sense of relief when the Kawésqar people recognized the chaotic, corrupt nature of the shipwrecked men and quietly sailed away, leaving them to the consequences of their own devices.
Dialogue: David Grann does an incredible job painting the moral gray areas of this disaster. If you were stranded on that desolate Patagonian island under a captain who was actively unraveling and turning to violence, would you have stayed loyal to the crown's chain of command like Cheap, or would you have joined Bulkeley's mutiny to save your crewmates?
May wrap-up time! My reading wrapped up with 7 books and a massive range of thoughts.
It was a month defined by incredible writing styles and some fascinating internal character studies. Piranesi and A Fever in the Heartland were the undisputed standouts of the month, earning perfect scores. I also squeezed in some Panem history, a bit of non-fiction communication analysis, and a classic fantasy journey that I had some complicated feelings about.
Hit 42/50 for my 2026 reading goal and feeling good about the momentum. 🎯 What did you read and love in May?
My Thoughts on "A Fever in the Heartland: The Ku Klux Klan's Plot to Take Over America, and the Woman Who Stopped Them" by Timothy Egan
History is a genre I rarely opt to read, but Timothy Egan’s narrative nonfiction masterpiece left me completely reeling. A Fever in the Heartland doesn't just recount events; it drags you face-to-face with the hideous, suppressed realities of our nation's past, proving that real history can be infinitely more terrifying than any fiction.
Dates read: May 25, 2026 to May 31, 2026
Favorite quote: “When hate was on the ballot, especially in the guise of virtue, a majority of voters knew exactly what to do.”
Trigger warnings: extreme racism, hate speech/bigotry, graphic sexual assault, physical torture, suicide, domestic violence
Reflections: Judging by the heavy range of trigger warnings accompanying this book, it goes without saying that the crimes of D.C. Stephenson are beyond reprehensible. But Egan's narrative reveals a horror that goes far deeper than a single man's depravity; it details how Stephenson weaponized a brilliant, calculated web of deceit to conquer the ranks of the KKK and capture the entire state of Indiana. He was a master con man who sold hatred disguised as patriotism and family values, all while secretly operating as a violent predator. By buying off judges, politicians, and police forces, Stephenson built a fortress of corruption that made his personal sadism functionally untouchable. When he ultimately abducted and tortured Madge Oberholtzer, it was the horrific climax of a man who genuinely believed he was the law—making the story of his sudden, chaotic downfall look less like a standard legal victory and more like a desperate, narrow escape for American democracy.
What surprised me? What makes Timothy Egan’s book feel less like history and more like an active warning sign is how neatly D.C. Stephenson’s 1920s playbook mirrors our current political landscape. The Second Klan didn't rise on the margins; it grew by capturing the mainstream through an explicitly nativist, "100% American" populism. When we look at the current administration’s aggressive rhetoric surrounding immigration and the emboldening of white nationalist factions, it becomes chillingly obvious that the rhetorical strategies of a century ago were never truly buried—they were just archived for later use.
Dialogue: As someone who rarely reads history, this book was a stark reminder that reality can be infinitely more terrifying than fiction. For those of you who read a lot of historical nonfiction, do you find that exploring these dark, buried chapters of our past gives you clarity on our present world, or does it just make navigating modern politics feel more exhausting?
My Thoughts on "Supercommunicators: How to Unlock the Secret Language of Connection" by Charles Duhigg
As a teacher, I’m naturally expected to be a master of communication. But the reality is that I’m an introvert working a distinctly extroverted job, and I often feel like I leave a lot to be desired in the delicate art of navigating everyday conversations. It was exactly for this reason, seeking a survival guide for meaningful connection, that I decided to pick up Supercommunicators.
Dates read: May 22, 2026 to May 24, 2026
Favorite quote: “Effective communication requires recognizing what kind of conversation is occurring, and then matching each other. On a very basic level, if someone seems emotional, allow yourself to become emotional as well. If someone is intent on decision making, match that focus. If they are preoccupied by social implications, reflect their fixation back to them.”
Reflections: Duhigg argues that communication inevitably falls apart when two people are having entirely different types of conversations. While that framework is useful, I found that distinguishing between a practical, analytical discussion and an emotional one felt like second nature to me—largely due to my experience as a teacher. In an education setting, you are forced to be a master of code-switching. In any given hour, I am constantly shifting gears between a high-stakes professional meeting, an empathetic check-in with a student, and casual, personal conversations. Because educators are already conditioned to read these interpersonal rooms, this part of the "secret language" felt less like a revelation and more like a structured label for what I already do every day.
What surprised me? Yet, as practical and well-written as the book undoubtedly was, it didn't ultimately deliver what I was looking for. I picked up Supercommunicators hoping for a nuanced framework on how to better navigate difficult, emotionally charged conversations—such as when a friend comes to me to vent about a crisis. Instead, the book's primary takeaway for these moments was simply to avoid offering unsolicited advice and to lend a supportive, listening ear. Since that is already my default approach to friendship, the advice felt less like an evolutionary toolkit and more like a basic confirmation of my existing instincts.
Dialogue: As an introvert, "just listening" comes naturally to me, but the hard part is handling the internal pressure of wanting to say the perfect thing when a friend is trusting you with a problem. For my fellow introverts out there: what is your go-to strategy for showing up for people in difficult conversations without completely draining your social battery?
Having recently finished Katabasis by R.F. Kuang, which is frequently compared to Piranesi, I went into Susanna Clarke's novel expecting a familiar structural blueprint. However, what I experienced was entirely distinct—and dare I say, a masterclass that completely outshines the former.
Dates read: May 19, 2026 to May 21, 2026
Favorite quote: “It does not matter that you do not understand the reason. You are the Beloved Child of the House. Be comforted.
And I am comforted.”
Warning: spoilers ahead.
Reflections: The gradual, fragmented unearthing of Piranesi’s original identity as Matthew Rose Sorensen is easily the most enthralling aspect of the novel. Because the narrative is anchored entirely within his gentle, trusting point of view, the discovery isn't treated as a triumphant mystery solved, but as a deeply complex psychological crisis. Clarke forces us to sit inside his mind as he pieces together his old life from journals he can barely comprehend. The true brilliance of this journey lies in the agonizing internal conflict it creates: to regain his identity as Matthew Rose Sorensen means he must lose his sense of safety as the beloved child of the House. It turns a standard amnesia trope into a quiet, devastatingly immersive study of self-preservation and grief.
What surprised me? When you look past the surface-level marketing hype, the only true comparative aspect between Piranesi and Katabasis is the foundational trope of a younger intellectual being kidnapped and imprisoned in an alternate realm by an ambitious occultist. But beyond that initial inciting incident, the parallel completely shatters. Where Valentine Ketterley traps Matthew Rose Sorensen in a breathtaking, serene labyrinth of marble halls and ocean tides, Kuang constructs a descent defined by visceral, existential dread and hostile psychological warfare (literal Hell). Clarke uses this captivity to craft a tender, epistolary mystery about a soul finding divinity in isolation; Kuang uses it to explore the sharp, survival-driven edges of dark academia. Ultimately, treating these two books as lookalikes ignores their fundamentally clashing philosophies on world-building, trauma, and tone.
Dialogue: It frustrates me how often books are lumped together just because they share a basic trope like a 'magical labyrinth,' when their tones couldn't be more different. Have you ever picked up a book expecting a certain vibe based on a popular comparison, only to find it was a completely unique masterpiece on its own?
My Thoughts on "Assassin's Apprentice" by Robin Hobb
Warning: this review contains some highly unpopular opinions about one of the most revered cornerstones of modern high fantasy. For years, Robin Hobb’s Assassin’s Apprentice has been pitched to me as an absolute must-read for avid fantasy fans. But after finally diving into the Realm of the Elderlings, I have to be honest—I didn't find Fitz's introduction nearly as enthralling as the hype led me to expect.
Dates read: May 13, 2026 to May 18, 2026
Favorite quote: “Don’t do what you can’t undo, until you’ve considered what you can’t do once you’ve done it.”
Warning: spoilers ahead.
Reflections: While it is entirely clear that Hobb put immense thought into developing the rich history and distinct atmosphere of the Six Duchies, the actual machinery of the plot leaves a lot to be desired. Strip away the beautiful prose, and the narrative framework relies on a highly predictable fantasy blueprint: a marginalized bastard son, a cartoonishly villainous royal uncle, and a slow-burn training montage with a secretive mentor. For a book titled Assassin's Apprentice, the clandestine education lacks innovation, often feeling more like a tedious checklist of fantasy chores than a thrilling introduction to a deadly craft. It’s a frustrating contrast; Hobb creates brilliant, terrifying concepts like the Red Ship Raiders and 'Forging,' only to sideline them in favor of courtly politics that feel incredibly unoriginal to anyone well-versed in the genre. I will acknowledge, however, that Assassin's Apprentice was published in 1995, meaning many of the elements that feel like standard tropes today were actually cementing the genre back then.
What surprised me? The fantasy elements in the book mainly center around Fitz's rare dual-wielding of the Skill and the Wit, but I found the execution of both powers to be frustratingly vague. Hobb leans heavily into an ultra-soft magic style where both systems function more like psychological metaphors than structured arts. The Skill—a form of royal telepathy—manifests as abstract mental hazes and internal exhaustion, making telepathic conflicts feel entirely nebulous to the reader. Meanwhile, the animal-bonding magic of the Wit rarely rises above passive, instinctual empathy. Because neither system is grounded by clear rules, limitations, or costs, Fitz’s position as a uniquely gifted dual-wielder loses its spark. Instead of navigating a complex, high-stakes magical paradox, it feels like he is simply drifting between two clouds of abstract terminology.
Dialogue: Going into a book that is constantly pushed as an absolute 'masterpiece' sets expectations sky-high, which made Assassin’s Apprentice feel like a bit of a letdown for me. Have you ever picked up a foundational, universally loved fantasy classic only to find that the tropes felt unoriginal and the pacing fell completely flat?
My Thoughts on "Sunrise on the Reaping" by Suzanne Collins
The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes showed Dr. Gaul and a teenage Snow scrambling to make the Hunger Games "entertaining" enough for people to care. In Sunrise on the Reaping, we see the terrifying success of their experiment. Forty years after the events of the first prequel, Sunrise gives a brilliant, sobering look at how the myths of the past are actively used to crush the rebellion of the present.
Dates read: May 10, 2026 to May 11, 2026
Favorite quote: “They will not use my tears for their entertainment.” — Haymitch Abernathy
Warning: spoilers ahead.
Reflection: Having read The Ballad immediately before Sunrise allowed me to benefit from the narrative continuity. In Ballad, we see the tenth Hunger Games as a failing, low-budget experiment held in a crumbling amphitheater. In Sunrise, forty years have passed, and the fiftieth Games (the Second Quarter Quell) are a high-tech, terrifyingly polished media spectacle. With Snow’s origin story fresh in my mind, his older self became a much more chilling figure. The paranoia he displays in Sunrise isn't just political strategy; it’s the exact same hyper-focus on self-preservation that drove him to the lake house in Ballad. His cruelty to Haymitch feels like a direct continuation of his need to crush anyone who threatens his control.
Speaking of which, I appreciated how Collins laces Lenore Dove’s character with historical echoes of Lucy Gray, effectively turning her into a living ghost of the tenth Hunger Games that continues to haunt Coriolanus Snow forty years later. When Haymitch uses the arena's forcefield to win the Quarter Quell, he embarrasses the Capitol. But by executing Lenore Dove with a poisoned bag of gumdrops, Snow isn't just punishing Haymitch, he is finishing the job he started forty years prior. Killing a rebellious, songwriting Covey girl from District 12 who was loved by a defiant victor is Snow’s horrific way of finally closing the book on Lucy Gray Baird. It is his ultimate assertion of total control over the ghosts of his youth.
What surprised me? Maysilee Donner stole the show for me. When Maysilee is introduced, she seems like she fits the "delicate Capitol favorite" mold as a well-off, merchant girl. As soon as she steps on the train to be sent off to the Capitol, she immediately shatters that stereotype. She isn't a passive victim; she is lethal, calculating, and highly tactical with her poison darts. Above all, Maysilee is the reason Haymitch doesn't completely lose his humanity in the arena. Their alliance isn't just about tactical survival; it’s a mutual recognition of shared grief and a refusal to let the Capitol turn them into mindless animals. She grounds him, and her loss is the precise moment his outer armor permanently hardens.
Dialogue: Reading The Ballad and Sunrise back-to-back made the echoes between the tenth and fiftieth Games so incredibly loud—especially seeing how Snow’s paranoia evolved over forty years. For those who have read both, do you think experiencing them close together changes how you view Snow’s calculated cruelty toward District 12?
My Thoughts on "The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes" by Suzanne Collins
Growing up, I was a fan of the Hunger Games trilogy, but returning to Panem as an adult felt simultaneously nostalgic and novel. In the original series, we saw the world through Katniss's survival-focused lens; in The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes, we are forced into the perspective of the oppressor.
Dates read: May 2, 2026 to May 10, 2026
Favorite quote: "Nothing you can take from me was ever worth keeping."
Warning: spoilers ahead.
Reflection: I’ve read countless stories of heroes, but The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes is quite possibly the first time I’ve been forced to narrate the slow, methodical rise of a villain. Initially, Coriolanus Snow is portrayed as a pitiful figure—a teenage boy desperately trying to patch the holes in his family’s legacy while hiding his literal hunger. We see flashes of a "better" man in his compassion for Sejanus and his genuine attraction to Lucy Gray. However, Collins masterfully shows how his innate hunger for power and hyper-focus on self-preservation act as a corrosive agent on his morals. By the end, Snow doesn't just betray the people who loved him; he systematically rebrands his own empathy as a weakness to be purged. It’s a haunting look at how a person doesn't just "turn" evil, but slowly chooses it, one selfish "necessity" at a time.
What surprised me? I’m still torn on whether Snow ever truly intended to run away with Lucy Gray, or if the "escape" was merely a performance he was putting on—even for himself. In the beginning of their flight, he seems to embrace the "'experiential value" of a life with her. However, the moment he discovers the hidden weapons in the lake house, his internal monologue shifts from romance to survival and, eventually, to erasure. It raises a haunting question about his character: Was his love for Lucy Gray ever a choice, or was it just a temporary diversion until the "will to power" became an option again? The ambiguity of that final walk into the woods suggests that Snow’s true intention was always self-preservation; Lucy Gray was just the person he happened to be with when the exits started closing.
Dialogue: Snow (influenced by Dr. Gaul) argues that humans are naturally chaotic and need the "cage" of the Games to stay in line. Do you think Snow was right about human nature, or did the brutal systems of the Capitol simply create the monster they expected to see?
I’m back from my April hiatus and kicking off May with a review that completely caught me off guard! Having loved the lyrical wonder of Alix E. Harrow’s The Ten Thousand Doors of January years ago, I thought I knew what to expect. However, The Everlasting trades the whimsical for a much darker, sharper fantasy edge that felt less like a dream and more like a visceral challenge.
Dates read: April 29, 2026 to May 2, 2026
Favorite quote: “You know that history is mostly happenstance. Accidents piled on top of mistakes, a series of dice rolled in dim rooms by careless hands. It is not a lesson, until we learn it. It is not a story, until we tell it. And every story serves someone.”
Warning: spoilers ahead.
Reflections: While every main character in The Everlasting is rich enough to warrant their own deep-dive study, I couldn't help but feel that the narrative occasionally buckled under the weight of its own ambition. Harrow attempts to tackle a massive array of themes, from the scars of colonialism to the subversion of domestic roles, and at times, they compete for the spotlight. Owen Mallory is a perfect example of this complexity: he is a man twice-marginalized, first as an ethnic outsider in Dominion society despite his upbringing, and second as a father who consciously chooses a maternal, nurturing role within his family. While these layers make him a fascinating protagonist, they also contribute to the sense that the book is trying to solve every societal puzzle at once.
What surprised me? The ending reveal of Una Everlasting's origins as a calculated instrument for Vivian Rolfe’s ambitions did not feel like a compelling drive for the plot. Overall, I found that the story overinflated the impact of historical legends on modern-day political decision-making. While the concept of a "living myth" is fascinating, the transition from ancient lore to current policy felt disjointed. It requires a suspension of disbelief that the Dominion’s sophisticated political machinery would revolve so entirely around a mythological pivot point. In this regard, it is questionable whether the book successfully bridged the gap between "scholarly myth" and "real-world leverage." If Vivian Rolfe’s ambitions are purely political, why is an ancient instrument the only or best way to achieve them?
Dialogue: Harrow manages to weave together themes of colonialism, gender subversion, and historical myth, but I found myself wondering if it was almost too much for one narrative. Do you prefer a story that tries to tackle every societal complexity at once, or one that picks a single "anchor" theme and dives deep?
April flew by! It was a chaotic month, and I barely found the minutes to open a book, let alone write about them. I have a major backlog of reviews to compose, but I’m hoping to clear the deck this weekend! Until then, here’s my April wrap-up.
March wrap-up! This month, I balanced some very heavy, existential non-fiction with high-stakes fantasy and "cozy" magical realism. Looking forward to my April reads!
I’ll be honest: I wasn't prepared for My Friends. Backman's latest book reminded me of what it feels like to be human. My Friends is a messy, beautiful, and occasionally heartbreaking look at the "found family" we build throughout our lives.
Dates read: March 22, 2026 to March 24, 2026
Favorite quote: "Adults always think they can protect children by stopping them from going to dangerous places, but every teenager knows that's pointless, because the most dangerous place on earth is inside us. Fragile hearts break in palaces and in dark alleys alike."
Warning: spoilers ahead.
Reflections: Sacrifice as a demonstration of love is the pulsing heart of My Friends, and no one embodies this more than Joar—the fiercely loyal, volatile anchor of the group. While he may not be traditionally sensitive, Joar displays a profound emotional intelligence by recognizing and shielding Kimkim’s artistic vulnerability. By selling his own bicycle to buy his friend art supplies, Joar isn't just giving a gift; he is literally funding an escape route he knows he can’t take himself. While he pushes the protagonist to leave behind a world where only "hard men" survive, Joar remains behind, anchored by the heavy price of protecting his mother from an abusive home. He represents the harshest reality of found families: that sometimes, the person who builds the bridge for everyone else is the one who has to stay on the other side to keep it from collapsing.
What surprised me? Throughout the novel, I was emotionally bracing for a violent end for Joar—expecting either a tragic death or a life behind bars for the murder of his abusive father. Backman, however, subverts this foreshadowing with a far more complex reality. Instead of a climactic act of violence, Joar is handed a lifetime of quiet endurance: his father becomes an invalid following a harbor accident, and Joar spends his adult years caretaking the man who once tormented him. While his mother finds safety and happiness elsewhere, Joar remains the "stay-behind" protector. When we finally meet him again, he is under house arrest—not for the tragedy we feared, but for a characteristically Joar reason: protecting a stranger from abuse. It’s a poignant reminder that for some, 'saving' others isn't a single heroic act, but a lifelong sentence of showing up, even when it costs them everything.
Dialogue: Backman depicts Joar as the anchor—the person who keeps the group together but pays the highest price for it. In a "found family," do you think it’s possible for everyone to move forward together, or is there always one person who has to hold the bridge while the others cross?
My Thoughts on "Man's Search for Meaning" by Viktor E. Frankl
We’ve all had those moments where we question our life choices. Whether it’s a soul-sucking job or an unexpected accident that alters our trajectory, these stressors can easily spiral into an existential crisis. However, Viktor Frankl argues that living ultimately means taking up the responsibility to find the right answers to the problems life sets before us. It isn't about asking "Why is this happening to me?" but rather "What is this situation asking of me?"
Favorite quote: "We needed to stop asking about the meaning of life, and instead to think of ourselves as those who were being questioned by life—daily and hourly."
Reflections: Logotherapy was a concept entirely new to me until I picked up Frankl’s work. At its heart, it is the belief that the search for meaning, not pleasure or power, is the primary motivating force in our lives. Drawing from the harrowing observations of his time as a prisoner in Nazi concentration camps, Frankl noted a stark pattern: those who possessed a 'why' to live for were the most likely to endure the 'how' of their suffering. Whether it was the hope of a reunion with a loved one, a masterpiece left unfinished, or an unshakeable faith, that meaning acted as an anchor. To help us find our own anchors, Frankl identifies three pathways: creative values (what we give to the world), experiential values (what we take from the world in beauty or love), and attitudinal values (the stance we take toward a fate we cannot change).
What surprised me? As I read deeper into Frankl's work, I couldn't help but notice a beautiful overlap between Logotherapy and Buddhist philosophy. Both traditions begin with a radical acceptance of suffering as an inescapable part of the human condition. In Buddhism, mindfulness teaches us to create a "gap" between our impulses and our actions. Similarly, Frankl argues that our ultimate freedom lies in the space between stimulus and response. Whether through ancient Eastern meditation or modern Western psychology, the message is clear: when we cannot change our circumstances, we are challenged to change ourselves.
Dialogue: Of Frankl’s three pathways to meaning—creating something, experiencing something beautiful, or choosing our stance toward suffering—which one has been your strongest anchor lately?
My Thoughts on "The Hunger of the Gods" by John Gwynne
The brutal, Norse-inspired intensity of the Bloodsworn Saga reaches a fever pitch in this second installment. While The Shadow of the Gods laid the groundwork with its atmospheric exposition, The Hunger of the Gods pushes the narrative into a relentless rising action. It is a book of bone-crunching shield walls and ancient grudges, meticulously building toward a climax that feels both inevitable and terrifying as we look toward the trilogy's conclusion.
Favorite quote: Fear death enough times, and you become used to the company of those raven-wings.
Warning: spoilers ahead.
Reflections: Following Biórr’s devastating betrayal of the Battle-Grim at Oskutreð, his narrative arc has taken a fascinating turn by intertwining with Orka’s. He remains one of the most compellingly gray characters in the saga. While his remorse for betraying Agnar and his former comrades is palpable, it is constantly at war with his fierce, trauma-bonded loyalty to the Tainted. Having lived a life as a thrall, Biórr isn't just fighting for Lik-Rifa; he’s fighting for a world where his kind aren't kept in chains. Seeing him caught between the guilt of his actions and the conviction of his cause makes his role in the upcoming conclusion one of the biggest wildcards in the trilogy.
A character I certainly did not expect to emerge as a vital thread in this tapestry was the cowardly but proud Guðvarr, nephew to Jarl Sigrun. While the heroes are driven by vengeance or glory, Guðvarr’s journey is defined by raw survival. His arc in this second installment is arguably the most harrowing; he is a man constantly out of his depth, having narrowly escaped Orka's wrath only to fall into the clutches of Skalk. As a spy for Queen Helka’s Galdurman, he represents the human cost of the gods’ return—a pawn caught in a game of shadows where one wrong move means a fate far worse than a clean death on the battlefield.
The second installment concludes with Jarl Sigrun’s shocking betrayal of Queen Helka, a move that throws the power structure into total chaos and leaves Guðvarr in an impossibly tense position. While he is certainly not a character I’ll find myself rooting for, I am fascinated to see if his uncanny knack for survival will allow him to navigate these collapsing alliances, or if his luck will finally run out at the edge of Lif’s blade. Personally, after everything Lif has endured, it feels like the only just conclusion would be for him to finally avenge his brother and father.
What surprised me? One of the most head-scratching moments in the sequel was the literal short-lived revival of Orna, the eagle god. After the atmospheric build-up of Skalk’s galdur-magic, seeing Orna eliminated almost immediately in a duel against Lik-Rifa felt like a jarring subversion of expectations. However, looking closer at the mechanics of the scene, it’s clear that Orna was never meant to be a long-term player. Her violent, sky-shaking distraction was the essential smoke screen that allowed Jarl Sigrun’s betrayal to unfold in the shadows below. While it was disappointing to see a god exit the fray so quickly, her brief life served as a brutal reminder of Lik-Rifa’s absolute dominance.
Dialogue: The Hunger of the Gods left the world of Vigrið in absolute chaos. After that cliffhanger betrayal by Jarl Sigrun, which character’s path are you most anxious to follow into the final book?
My Thoughts on the "Project Hail Mary" Film Adaptation
I know my blog is usually for book reviews, but after walking out of the theater today, I couldn't not talk about the film adaptation of Project Hail Mary. Having only just finished the book last month, the world was still vivid in my mind—and I’m thrilled to say the movie didn't disappoint. Seeing the bromance between Ryland and Rocky on the big screen was everything I hoped for.
Date read watched: March 20, 2026
Rating: ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
Warning: spoilers ahead.
Reflections: Inevitably, the film had to rely on narrative economy to keep the plot moving. For example, the book’s long, arduous process of building a translation dictionary was condensed into a cinematic montage, bringing our two heroes together in a matter of minutes. While I missed the detailed aspect of the novel, the film made up for it with incredible visual clarity. Ryan Gosling captured Ryland Grace's reluctant hero energy perfectly, and the decision to use a robotic puppet for Rocky made their chemistry feel tangible. I especially appreciated seeing the mechanics of the tunnel between the Hail Mary and the Blip-A; it was a complex piece of space-engineering that finally clicked for me once I saw it on the big screen.
Additionally, one of the most rewarding aspects of the film was the 'fan service'—not the cheap kind, but the kind that filled the gaps of our imagination. Seeing Ryland don a Xenonite suit to explore the Blip-A, for one, was a visual feast; one of the novel's quietest letdowns was Grace's disappointment at never having the chance to step inside the Eridian ship. Furthermore, the decision to show Stratt on a cooling Earth was a masterstroke of pacing. Seeing the encroaching ice age juxtaposed with the arrival of the taumoeba samples and Grace's recordings provided a visceral sense of the stakes. It transformed the ending from a personal victory for Ryland and Rocky into a global sigh of relief.
What surprised me? The film’s portrayal of Eva Stratt felt significantly more humane than the icy, utilitarian force we met in the book. The addition of a karaoke scene at the crew’s send-off party felt jarringly out-of-character for someone so singularly focused on the survival of the species, yet it served a clever narrative purpose: it made her ultimate betrayal of Ryland feel deeply personal. By showing her as a teammate first, the movie amplified the shock of the sedation scene. Interestingly, the film gives Stratt a moment of visible remorse—a stark contrast to the book's version, who viewed Ryland’s unwilling sacrifice as a simple, necessary line item in her global survival plan.
Dialogue: For those who have both read and watched Project Hail Mary, which change did you find most effective? And which one did you wish had stayed exactly like the book?
I didn't pick up Theo of Golden because it was trending on bestseller lists. Instead, I was pulled in by the simple elegance of its cover. There was a promise of stillness there that I couldn't ignore. As I read, every scene seemed to play out in my mind swathed in a soft, pale light—a visual echo of the cover that suggests this story isn't just a narrative, but a mood.
Favorite quote: "And I learned something from Mr. Theo. God gave us faces so we can see each other better. I used to not look at people's faces so much. But I'm learning. Just like how I'm looking at you right now." — Kendrick
Warning: spoilers ahead.
Reflections: Theo’s ability to recognize a person’s hidden burdens through their portrait is less about clairvoyance and more about attentiveness. By simply looking at a portrait, he could recognize the grief, hope, or loneliness that a character was desperately hiding. In this regard, Theo sees the narrative behind the facade. It reminds me of the idea that we all carry a hidden version of ourselves that only comes out when we are truly seen.
The most radical thing Theo did for the people of Golden, however, was to remain unhurried. In a world that demands a reaction to everything, Theo’s quiet discernment offered a sanctuary of stillness. Characters who entered his orbit agitated and fragmented left feeling whole and quieted. He didn't offer solutions to their problems; he offered a perspective that made the problems feel manageable. He proved that sometimes, the best way to change someone’s life is simply to be the person who isn't trying to change them.
What surprised me? The final hundred pages introduced a jarring tonal shift, accelerating from a peaceful flow into a flurry of tragedies. I found myself lamenting that Theo’s final earthly experience was one of violence rather than the golden peace he spent the latter years of his life cultivating. Witnessing Ellen and Simone's assault, right beside the very fountain that had hosted so many of his heartfelt connections, felt like a cruel subversion of the story’s warmth. It was particularly heartbreaking that this occurred on the heels of Simone’s cello recital; just as the music seemed to finally cement Golden into an interconnected community, the cruelty of the world broke back in. While this ending underscores the fragility of life, I couldn't help but feel it robbed Theo of the quiet dignity the rest of the book worked so hard to establish.
This tragedy, thought, serves as the impetus for the book's most significant reveal: the truth of Theo’s past and his connection to Asher. This recontextualizes Theo’s radical empathy not just as a personality trait, but as a legacy. By understanding that Asher’s portraits were the foundational link between Theo and Golden, we realize that Theo’s journey was a quiet pilgrimage. He wasn't just looking into the souls of strangers; he was tracing the brushstrokes of someone he deeply loved, making his service to the community a final act of devotion to Asher.
Dialogue: Theo of Golden is a story of profound peace, yet it ends in a flurry of tragedies. Do you think a story needs that touch of harsh reality to make its message about kindness feel earned, or do you prefer it when a cozy narrative stays protected from the darkness of the world until the very end?
