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Jones recreates the way our minds work, the way we believe all the terrifying things we would never give voice to because they are too outrageous or too silly, but that which we KNOW in our bones to be absolutely irrefutable. It’s a tightrope walk, and we are never more vertiginously vulnerable than when we do open up and spill those thoughts to another person. Add to that the restrictive nature of toxic masculinity (a term I don’t normally use but which is usefully evocative here), and it’s a fascinating mix. This story starts slow and builds. The reader hitchhikes into the mind of Lewis. Initially, he seems deranged, seeing things that aren’t there, worrying an incident from years before until he changes the shape of it to fit his paranoia. But then the story takes off at a gallop, and the second half of the novel is a breakneck ride. The conceit is out there, but all that front loading succeeds in making you accept its plausibility. It is true horror, dropping bombs of violence that are all the more visceral for their casual nature. I found myself rereading passages, thinking that maybe I misunderstood the breathless accounts of extreme and dehumanizing carnage, only to realize that the acts had indeed occurred on the page and that I did not want to revisit them. And those gory scenes raise the question of what it means to be a human, to inhabit the natural world while holding oneself apart from it all, above all the blood, bone, and tissue. Whatever answer you arrive at when you read this novel, there is no shortage of evidence to sift through in these crime scenes. Gallery, Pocket Books, Publication Date 7/14/20

I love Felicia Day. She is perky (a word I hate, but which actually applies perfectly here), but also highly self-aware, self-deprecating, and funny. I’ve been a fan since Dr. Horrible and the Singalong Blog & The Guild. I liked her last book, You’re Never Weird on the Internet (Almost) and recommend it. So, I wanted to like this new book. And I do. Her voice is still unique. She’s still upbeat and hilarious, even when talking about painful moments and crippling anxiety. “She’s a self-doubting introvert, just like me!” I think it’s just the book’s topic that is not very exciting to me. Or rather, the topic – unleashing your creativity – is one that has been done over and over (ironically). I’ve read a mountain of books on overcoming writer’s block or achieving flow. And, as with any self-help-related treatise, such problems are difficult to overcome. So, many people turn to multiple sources for help. I love the title, Embrace Your Weird, and it actually dovetails quite nicely with another book I reviewed recently, Jenny Slate’s Little Weirds. Both explore the struggle to create. But Embrace is formulated as a how-to manual, complete with workbook. Granted, the exercises encourage you to doodle and list and, essentially, deface the book itself which is satisfyingly subversive (though not great for library books…) However, that’s been done before, with the super popular Wreck This Journal, for example. So have many of the exercises Day encourages. There just wasn’t anything groundbreaking about the content, which is a shame because she’s made a name for herself by so things differently. But, I’ll gamely go along with some of the exercises, because they are, in fact, tried and true. And she’s funny. And I’m a fan. Gallery Pocket Books. Publish date 10/1/19

Nunez quotes Simone Weil, “The love of our neighbor in all its fullness simply means being able to say, ‘What are you going through?’” But she could have just as easily quoted Sartre, “Hell is other people.” Nunez conveys the daily anguish of attempting to communicate with those around her, from her character’s most intimate friends to total strangers. None of the characters are named. The main character is merely “the woman” and the other characters are defined according to her relationship with them. And isn’t that remarkably spot on about the human condition? In many ways, the people and places we know cease to exist when we aren’t interacting with them. The lack of character names serves to anonymize them, while making their relationship to the main character somehow more meaningful. That same lack foregrounds the reader’s empathy and encourages us to identify with the character. Furthermore, the writer quotes extensively from philosophers and other thinkers. The novel is grounded with all the weight of historical minds, while sharply contrasting with the nameless characters. We know the details about these dead people, but have to strain to tease apart the complexities of the fictional characters. The novel opens with the main character attending a doomsday lecture about the futility of life since the planet and its inhabitants are too late to reverse course. (Uplifting, I know.) And that futility haunts the main character through an arc that, during a global pandemic, will grab you and force you to face what’s to come. Riverhead Books. Publish date 9/8/2020

Jonathan Lethem reinvents his oeuvre in nearly every novel. I can’t think of many writers who leap so fearlessly from one genre to the next, riffing on formulas while blowing up notions of what can and cannot be done in conventional forms. The Arrest tackles a common trope, but with an intriguing twist. In this post-apocalyptic setting, all technology, from airplanes to guns, has simply ceased to function. The main character, Sandy Duplessis, is a sad sack who just happened to be visiting his organic farmer of a sister on the east coast when the world falls apart. They form a small communal enclave that seems idyllic until Sandy’s past inexplicably shows up, and the community is forced to respond. I almost always enjoy Lethem’s novels, and this one is something of a return to his more freewheeling genre-busters like Gun, With Occasional Music and Girl in Landscape . Read this book, and then read his others if you haven’t already. Harper Collins Publishers, Publication Date 11/10/20

First, I love the cover of the book. A tiny man rolls a giant peach up a mountain, a la Sisyphus. I’ve followed David Chang since he began publishing Lucky Peach magazine (I was a die-hard McSweeneys fan, and LP was one of their projects). The magazine was smart, irreverent, and even though I’m not immersed in the food world, the magazine made me feel like one of the cool kids. It was much like when I read Anthony Bourdain’s Kitchen Confidential . Even if you weren’t one of them, you just got it. And wanted to know more about it. Sadly, Chang discusses the loss of his friend Bourdain and doesn’t shy from a very frank and critical look at his own mental health. In fact, his struggles with depression and other challenges are the main thrust of the book, which is not what I expected. Don’t get me wrong. There’s plenty of details about his approach to cooking and the restaurant business, but he gives equal weight to the problems that almost derailed his career. While the cover is great, the introductory chapter of Eat a Peach is what thoroughly hooked me. Although I liked Chang, I’ve been burned recently by lackluster memoirs by people too young to have actually lived a life worth writing about. So, when Chang sets out in the intro with self-deprecating humor, I was nonplussed. But then he calls himself on it and proceeds to deconstruct the process of coming up with a cover image. I’ll leave those gems for you to uncover. Eat a Peach is a worthy read, whether you’re a chef, a foodie, or just think you’re cool. Crown Publishing, Publication Date 9/8/20

Although I hadn’t read the Young Adult novels from which Attack Surface  spins off, I was already familiar with Cory Doctorow’s work and eagerly anticipated this release. The novel, squarely aimed at an adult readership, delves into weighty, unsettling themes that set it apart from its predecessors. Its darkness isn’t just in the plot but in the moral and ethical questions it raises—questions that resonate deeply in a world increasingly shaped by technology and surveillance. The science fiction elements are both intriguing and disquietingly plausible. Doctorow constructs a near-future landscape that feels unnervingly close to reality, where technological advances blur the lines between empowerment and oppression. The "spy versus spy" narrative structure injects a taut, gripping energy into the story, but what truly defines Attack Surface  is its protagonist, Masha. Masha is both a fascinating and frustrating character. Troubled and troubling, her decisions are questionable—sometimes outright indefensible—from the very beginning. While the reader gains intimate access to her thoughts and rationalizations, it’s often difficult to sympathize with her, and that discomfort feels intentional. Doctorow doesn’t hand us a protagonist we can easily root for; instead, he challenges us to confront the moral ambiguities of complicity and resistance in a world built on surveillance and control. The novel’s greatest strength lies in its incisive exploration of power—who holds it, how it’s wielded, and at what cost. Technology in Attack Surface  feels almost sentient in its ubiquity and hostility, but Doctorow makes it clear that the true danger lies not in the tools themselves but in the human hands—and national interests—that control them. This recognition is chilling, especially as we reflect on how willingly we, as individuals and societies, have ceded power to technologies that govern, monitor, and manipulate our lives. Ultimately, Attack Surface  is a thought-provoking and sobering read. It asks its audience to reckon with the unsettling realities of the present as much as the fictionalized future it portrays. Doctorow’s world-building is sharp and immersive, but it’s the moral dilemmas, not the technological ones, that linger long after the final page. For anyone concerned about the intersections of technology, governance, and individual autonomy, this novel offers both a warning and a call to action. Macmillian-Tor/Forge, Publication Date October 13, 2020

In A Touch of Jen , Alicia and Remy come across as beings that mimic humanity, seemingly basing their behavior on the shallow, curated world of Instagram. Their unsettling nature immediately sets the tone for the novel, evoking a chilling "uncanny valley" effect where the line between the familiar and the alien is blurred. As the narrative unfolds, their otherworldly presence becomes a vehicle for exploring identity, perception, and the intricacies of human interaction. The atmosphere surrounding Alicia and Remy is distinctly reminiscent of the body horror aesthetics found in David Cronenberg’s films. Like Cronenberg's characters, who confront grotesque transformations and the uncanny, Alicia and Remy’s eerie behavior embodies a disturbing blend of the recognizable and the grotesque. Their interactions with other characters exude an underlying dread, tapping into the psychological and physical horrors that often lurk beneath the surface of ordinary life. Horror elements in the novel are expertly executed, creating a persistent sense of unease that crescendos into moments of raw, visceral terror. As Alicia and Remy’s carefully constructed facade begins to crack, the story plunges deeper into existential dread and primal fear. The juxtaposition of everyday settings with the protagonists’ alien strangeness enhances the narrative’s tension, blurring the boundaries between reality and nightmare. Ultimately, A Touch of Jen  successfully channels the essence of Cronenberg’s body horror classics while forging its own unique path within the genre. Through its unnerving portrayal of alienation and a darkly compelling exploration of the human psyche, the novel offers a deeply unsettling and thought-provoking reading experience. It’s a story that lingers in the mind, leaving readers both captivated and profoundly disquieted. Little, Brown and Company, Publication Date July 13, 2021

I knew I was happy to be on this ride from the first sentence. A reference to (the fictional) Proofrock, Idaho had me googling to make sure that it didn't exist and could be read as a Prufrock reference and likely others besides. Jones' work is blithely literary, coopting the horror or thriller and (I won't say elevating them, but) filling his take on the genres with references and allusions. He treats the genre reader as sophisticated and well read (and viewed and listened to- we need a term for those, too, in this deeply entrenched multimedia age). There is certainly smart horror, which has always had social commentary at its heart, but much of it references other works in the genre. Jones, however, weaves a broader tapestry. His storytelling feels like a conversation not just with other horror or thriller works but with literature, philosophy, music, and film. It's a layered approach that rewards readers willing to dig a little deeper. For those who thrive on uncovering connections and understanding the nuances of how different artistic forms inform one another, this book is a feast. Take, for example, the clever nods to Eliot’s The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock  in the naming of Proofrock, Idaho. It immediately sets a tone of existential dread and small-town decay, a place where corruption and malaise simmer under the surface. Jones doesn’t stop at literary references; his characters often speak and act in ways that suggest a rich, unseen life filled with music, films, and cultural touchstones that resonate in the real world. It’s like reading a thriller that is also a coded message for anyone steeped in pop culture and critical theory. But this isn’t just a book of intellectual exercises. At its core, the story grips you with its sharp pacing, vivid characters, and a blistering sense of dread that slowly builds into something unbearable. Jones respects the genre’s roots and traditions—there’s blood, suspense, and those heart-pounding, breath-catching moments—but he also stretches its boundaries, allowing horror to feel expansive rather than confined. It’s also worth noting how Jones challenges traditional horror tropes. His characters are not mere archetypes but richly developed people, full of contradictions and surprising moments of humanity. In doing so, he reclaims the space for horror to be a genre of profound depth and complexity, where fear doesn’t just exist for its own sake but as a way to explore what it means to be human in a fractured, chaotic world. Jones’ work feels like a natural evolution for the genre. In an era where storytelling exists across mediums—films, podcasts, video games, and beyond—Jones taps into a kind of narrative synesthesia. He draws on these influences not to overwhelm, but to enrich, creating a work that feels at once timeless and uniquely of the moment. If you’re looking for a book that will keep you up at night in every sense of the phrase—both with its spine-chilling plot and its thought-provoking ideas—you’ve found it. Jones has written not just a great genre novel, but a great novel, period. It’s a ride worth taking, and one you’ll be thinking about long after it ends. Gallery/Saga Press, Publication Date 8/31/2021

MacWilliams front loads the text with a sort of state-of-the-union in which he shares some truly terrifying statistics. For example, he mentions that 42% of our population does not believe that all groups in America should have an equal chance at success. The list goes on and on. He makes his point in 12 chapters, starting with the Lincoln-Douglas debates and concluding with the surveillance society that developed post-9/11, touching on the loss of a free press, our ever-crumbling belief in the value of truth, and how we treat immigrants. I'm purposefully using first person in this post because, like MacWilliams, I believe that we have to take ownership of the problems our nation faces. It's time to stop claiming that "they", the other side of the spectrum, are responsible for all of society's ills. This book makes it clear that we have never had a perfect union. There were no "good old days". And we're growing further and further from the ideals on which the country was founded. St. Martins Press, Publish Date 9/29/20