Review: The Art of Running: Learning to Run Like a Greek by Andrea Marcolongo

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Synopsis:

The inspiring story of how one of Europe’s most original and compelling classicist learned to run—and live—like a Greek 

Much has changed since the day in 490 BCE when the indefatigable Athenian herald Philippides made his legendary run and delivered to the people of Athens news of their city’s victory over the Persians. One thing, however, hasn’t it is still twenty-five punishing miles over rough terrain from Marathon to the Acropolis.

Each year, all over the world, thousands of professional athletes and millions of amateur enthusiasts replicate Philippides’s enterprise, many running with such gusto that one could be forgiven for thinking the fate of Athens once more hung in the balance. 

Why do we run? To what end, all the effort and pain? Wherefore this love of muscle, speed, sweat, of testing one’s limits? The Greeks were the first to ask these questions and to wonder why we choose to measure ourselves in this way against others; they were the first to formulate the adage, mens sana in corpore sano; they were first to interrupt war, work, politics, the daily routine to enjoy public celebrations of athletic prowess. The Greeks invented sport! Sport as something separate from labor or war; activity as an end unto itself and a form of entertainment for others. They were also the first to understand how regular physical activity, victory, and loss connected to our emotional and mental well-being.

As the pandemic entered its second year, despondent, isolated, and apprehensive about the future, the internationally renowned classics scholar and best-selling author Andrea Marcolongo discovered running. After years spent with her head and heart in the books, trying to think like a Greek, she set out to learn how to run like a Greek. In doing so, she not only deepened her understanding of the ancient civilization she has spent decades studying, but also discovered a great deal about herself. 

In this spirited, generous, and erudite book, Andrea Marcolongo shares not only her erudition but her own journey to understanding that a healthy body is indeed, and in more ways than one might guess, a healthy mind.

Review:

David Lynch has talked about daydreaming being important to his creativity, and it is important to find a safe space to let your mind wander. In The Art of Running: Learning To Run Like a Greek, Andrea Marcolongo uses running as her safe space to sort out what running means to her and how she is continuing a tradition of running like Pheidippides and his twenty five mile run between Marathon and Athens that famously ended with him collapsing after announcing victory. This act by Pheidippides is the romanticized beginnings of the modern marathon, even though the Greeks themselves had no interest in running this far if it was not for a military reasons. With Marcolongo being a person who fell in love with ancient Greece as an teenager and running as an adult, it only makes sense that these two loves would eventually meet. The Art of Running is Marcologo’s journey in training for a marathon between Marathon and Athens, and she knows the best way for her to stick to training is to write a book along the way.

The book does have many insights into how the Greeks felt about running and althletics in general, but a majority of this book is Marcolongo’s insights into what running brings to her and what she feels like as a woman in her thirties training for her first (and possibly only) marathon. Some of the ideas that she brings up are interesting and honestly motivating for someone like myself who does run but struggles with consistency and with a pace that is growing slower and slower.

One of her observations that really strikes me:

“I don’t know if it’s the clearest sign of growing old, but at a certain point, without warning, the reserves of talent that we once greedily drew on begin to run low. It’s terrifying to find them gone, in short supply, insufficient. Replenishing them through training and dedication, physical and intellectual, is hard but necessary work.” p. 120

Not only is this something that puts a simple concept into words that make sense, it is something that can motivate those who have felt like they have lost a step, not only with running but with every talent. The truth about running is most runners, the largest population who will read a book about running, are in my age group (late forties) and older. When you participate in any sort of race, whether it be a 5k or a marathon, the most competitive categories are the 50s and 60s age groups. These are people who have switched from the talent of youth to discipline and training. 

There are not many books on running, mostly because the idea of a book about running is pretty boring. Runners say “My sport is your sport’s punishment”, so many probably feel like a book about running would be punishment as well. Fortunately Andrea Marcolongo writes a book that is more about what athletics means, to her, to the Greeks, and to life in general, than about the day to day sludge of individual runs. Anyone who is a runner should pick this up because it fits well in a small library of motivating running books. Anyone who does not run should pick this up because it is not really about running as much as it is about how finding that safe space to let your mind wander, to connect concepts to one another, and to continue to work your talents even when it is no longer as easy to get results.

I received this book from Europa Editions in exchange for an honest review. 

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Essay 002: Kurt Cobain

This past week was the thirtieth anniversary of the death of Kurt Cobain. Many people who were closer to him and/or more insightful than me have written many articles about him. This is only my experience this week.

I pulled out my Nirvana albums and listened to Nevermind and In Utero specifically. While listening to them, I spent a great deal of this time thinking about the past and what the future could have been like if Kurt Cobain was still alive.

  1. The past:

I was fourteen when Nevermind was released. The first time I heard “Smells Like Teen Spirit” on the radio, I knew this song was something different, something that really spoke to me as a fourteen year old. I scraped a few dollars together and went to the mall to buy the cassette single of “Smells Like Teen Spirit” with “Even in His Youth” as the B side. I liked the songs and wore out the tape. At the time, our local library had cassettes to rent, and when they got their copy of Nevermind (with a sticker conveniently censoring the cover), I snagged it up and listened to it nonstop for the entire two week rental period. I loved all of the songs, and even though the radio was playing “Smells Like Teen Spirit” over and over, I liked the B side of the cassette much better than the hits on the front side. Eventually Nirvana became a juggernaut. While all of my classmates were loving Kurt Cobain, I was listening to other bands from Seattle area, particularly Mudhoney, Screaming Trees, and anything put out on the Sub Pop label. I revisited Nirvana many times throughout this period, but I really connected to some of the other bands. Not to say that I did not think that Nirvana was masterful, I just liked other bands more at the time. 

This all seems like lightning in a bottle. Nirvana was not supposed to really capture the country and the music industry by storm. Every kid my age should not have had a copy of Nevermind or a smiley face Nirvana t-shirt. When I relisten to their albums now that I am 46 instead of 14, I can feel that by the time In Utero was released, Kurt Cobain was feeling the same way. The songs on In Utero feel strained in a way, like Kurt was having a hard time pulling these songs out of the depth of his being, the tug-of-war bringing him to the brink of death. He is telling us he is ready to be done with the station that life has given him.

These observations are easier now because of the events that took place after In Utero, his struggles with stomach issues and addiction, his disenchantment with the fame and spotlight he had been thrust into, all of the success that became afflictions on his career. In Utero was released in September 1994. Seven months later, he was dead. In Nirvana’s three studio albums, one album of B-sides, and an acoustic MTV concert, we are given a body of work that feels complete, like Kurt had said what he wanted to say and knew it was time to stop. 

  1. The Present

One of the most honest things that I can say is that Nirvana is that they are a great band for young people. I was fortunate enough to be a teenager when Nirvana was releasing new music, so I can tie some of their songs into my feelings about the world, my dissatisfaction with life. Nirvana’s songs were a companion along my dark teenage journey. There are lyrics that I can quote today that sums up exactly how I felt at the time when they were released. 

“I’m so lonely, that’s okay, I shaved my head. And I’m not sad

And Just maybe I’m to blame for all I’ve hurt, but I’m sure

I’m so excited, I can’t want to meet you there, and I don’t care

I’m so horny, that’s okay, my will is good”

~Lithium

Of course from fourteen to seventeen the other thing that really interested in besides music was girls. There are Nirvana lyrics I sang as loud as I could in my bedroom, pretending to sing to a girl I had a high school crush on. The two songs that really spoke to me were “Lithium” and “Breed”, even though in retrospect, they both seem to be pretty crass songs to sing to woo girls. At that age, I was attracted to the songs because I felt the emotion that came with them, like I honestly believed that Kurt was in the same place I was, in his bedroom, pouring his heart out to his unrequited love, but with each repetition, the song lost a little hope but grew a little bit of bitterness. 

I relisten to these albums now and see them as a part of the time capsule to my youth, songs that came out in my formative years, songs that felt as if they were written for me in that moment. These are songs for my 17 year old self, not for my 46 year old self. I am not diminishing the greatness of Nirvana. Nevermind as a whole is pure magic. I am saying that when I have listen to Nirvana now, I feel as if I am no longer the target audience. While I have grown older, Nirvana has stayed the same. Kurt Cobain died thirty years ago, and their growth as a band has stunted, whereas my growth has mercilessly continued. 

The song that really strikes me in a new way now, listening to them thirty years later, is “Pennyroyal Tea”. There are some wild theories on the internet about the meaning, but I see it at the shallowest of them. Cobain is singing about his stomach issues, which caused him to turn to heroin as a pain relief. He sounds like an old man, filled with regrets, trying to fix the most base of his pain with some herbal tea. This makes sense to me.  

  1. The Alternate Universe

While I listened to In Utero, I started to think about what Nirvana would have been like if Kurt Cobain had not died. My theory is that they would release one or two more albums as Nirvana, Dave Grohl would have started Foo Fighters, and Kurt Cobain would have released a short album of new songs every ten years or so. The songs would still be about decaying self-worth and dissatisfaction, but with the topic turning to growing old. Nirvana might get back together to record a few more songs, but they would not tour, simply because Cobain would never want to be in a band that tours their Greatest Hits. The legacy of Nirvana is much better the way it is, and Kurt Cobain will forever be one of the strongest voices of the teenage struggle. 

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Review: There’s Always This Year: On Basketball and Ascension by Hanif Abdurraqib

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Amazon, Bookshop

Synopsis:

A poignant, personal reflection on basketball, talent and allegiance, and of course, LeBron James—from the author of the National Book Award finalist A Little Devil in America

While Hanif Abdurraqib is an acclaimed author, a gifted poet, and one of our culture’s most insightful critics, he is most of all, at heart, an Ohioan. Growing up in Columbus in the 1990s, Abdurraqib witnessed a golden era of basketball, one in which legends like LeBron were forged, and countless others weren’t. His lifelong love of the game leads Abdurraqib into a lyrical, historical, and emotionally rich exploration of what it means to make it, who we think deserves success, the tensions between excellence and expectation, and the very notion of role models, all of which he expertly weaves together with memoir. “Here is where I would like to tell you about the form on my father’s jumpshot,” Abdurraqib writes. “The truth, though, is that I saw my father shoot a basketball only one time.”

There’s Always This Year is a classic Abdurraqib triumph, brimming with joy, pain, solidarity, comfort, outrage, and hope. It’s about basketball in the way They Can’t Kill Us Until They Kill Us is about music and A Little Devil in America is about history—no matter the subject, Abdurraqib’s exquisite writing is always poetry, always profound, and always a clarion call to radically reimagine how we think about our culture, our country, and ourselves.

Review:

Hanif Abdurraqib is a poet, cultural observer, music lover, and die hard Ohioan. He grew up in Columbus when Lebron James was playing high school basketball in 100 miles away in Akron. He drove this distance to watch James play. He also drove 143 miles from Columbus and Cleveland to watch the Cleveland Cavaliers, with and without James. With a few exceptions, all of There’s Always This Year takes place within these miles, and Hanif Abdurraqib has not only written an ode to Ohio and Cleveland sports but a treatise on being an underdog and living a life of loss, frustration, and being underestimated. 

Cleveland is his sports town, but Columbus is his hometown. Hanif grows up in Columbus, one year older than Lebron, going to parks and basketball courts throughout the city, not only to play but watch those players who are local legends, and even better than those playing in the NBA, destinies unfulfilled. His personal life is also on this same trajectory. He does not graduate high school and live a life that leads to fame and recognition, but in the end, it is the mentality of being the underdog, the grit from growing up rooting for sports teams that are not meant to do much of anything, that keeps his focus and striving for better.

Lebron James is the catalyst to the timeline of the book. He is the example of the King who has come to Cleveland to make the team better, to win championships. The hopes of him being their basketball savior is dashed when he announces in 2010 in an ESPN special called “The Decision”, his intentions to leave Ohio and win championships in Miami, which he does. Abdurraqib dedicates one of the four quarters of this book to Lebron leaving Cleveland, how the city reacted, and how much he enjoys the fallout for the Cavs the next year. The return of Lebron to Cleveland in 2014 is met with the landscape of a city and of a country that has changed. Michael Brown was shot in Ferguson by police in August. Tamir Rice was killed by police in November. These events and the protests and unrest that results, is something that deeply affects Abduraqib, makes him contemplate the way basketball can be an escape, but this is just a way that we hustle ourselves into living with the unthinkable happening around us.

There’s Always This Year is a deep meditation that made me think long after finishing a chapter or even a paragraph. I have walked around the house late at night thinking about how we hustle ourselves. What it means to be a person who lives and dies for a sports franchise that does not live up the hopes of the beginning of the year. How we always love the underdog until the underdog starts to win. How we are put into a system where everyone is essentially an underdog, and unless we come together in the face of adversity, like in the Nike promo that Lebron James did when returning to Cleveland, then we do not stand a chance. This is a book that I will return to at a future date. It is one of those books that impact you in a way that you cannot forget. I am positive that each time I read it, I will find new ways to look at the meanings and feelings behind every single word of There’s Always This Year.

I received this as an ARC from NetGalley in exchange for an honest review.

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Essay 001: Numbers

Credit: PeterHermesFurian/Getty Images

I enjoy numbers in a casual way. My Garmin watch tells me that I average 9,761 steps every day and that my resting heart rate is 55 (I do know this heart rate is not completely accurate because it is using my watch and not an actual heart rate monitor.) I wear a CPAP at night, and first thing in the morning, I check the app, go through the numbers of how long I wore it (usually just over four hours), what my average CPAP pressure was (8.6), and how many times I took it off through the night (2). If a publishing company has a product with a number on the spine, like the numbers on physical Criterion Collection DVDs, the books from Grindhouse Press, or pretty much every record label, I want to collect them all. Of course I also like to look at the amount of views this site gets every day and every month. I sometimes check the various numbers many times throughout the day. All of these numbers are fun to look at, but the weird thing about my constant monitoring is that I do not think about improvement, that there is not elation for when I am doing better, nor is there sadness, shame, or guilt that comes from not doing as good as I should be doing.

When I go through the numbers, I do two things. The first is that I look at the numbers that are good and ignore those that are not so good. My V02 Max on my Garmin watch says my fitness is in the bottom 15% of my age group. I am always chasing my CPAP to make sure that I stay slightly above the 70% compliance that is needed for the insurance company not to take the machine back. I look at the sheer amount of Criterion Collection releases and know I’ll never be close to getting them all. My social media numbers are good, but I do not do much to grow the numbers. I also do not do much to improve on any of these things. 

Most of my casualness is due to a general lack of focus on details. I do not spend a great deal of my life looking at the details. Like a smooth rock that water has been rushing over for decades, my outlook has become one where things will get done and they will look good enough, but if you look closely at the details, you can see severe flaws. For example, I clean the kitchen. From the doorway, the countertops shine and the smell is one that you associate with a clean kitchen, but if you lift the toaster or look in the corners, you can see crumbs and dirt that I did not clean. My casualness toward details can be a blessing but mostly it is a hindrance. The blessing is that I do not obsess about social media, about follower and like counts. I only produce and publish things I like, so I cannot be disappointed when others are not interested. My downfall is that I get too wrapped up in the idea that nobody is really paying attention, so I miss deadlines, take extra days off, and I do too many things with a shortcut. 

The thought that I have been dwelling on, the idea about this that has been stuck in my head and has made me write this, is that in most cases, attention to detail only takes another minute or two. There is not a great amount of time loss because I take a few extra steps to make sure that things are finished properly. This is easier to think about than it is to put into action. Sure I can say to myself, “I’m going to always take an extra minute to look at the details in everything I do,” but sounds overwhelming, and it is easy to quit when I am overwhelmed. Instead I can pick one thing in my life that I will purposefully slow down to make sure that I accomplish it with detail in hopes that this habit will change into a bigger habit. The goal is to eventually see those numbers, and the ones that I so casually ignore will start to get better. 

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Review: In the Valley of the Headless Men by L.P. Hernandez

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Synopsis:

Nahanni National Park is one of last truly wild places on earth. Accessible only by plane, and only when the weather cooperates, it’s the perfect place for estranged brothers Joseph and Oscar to have an adventure following the death of their mother. Gillian, Joseph’s first love, invites herself along in the spirit of friendship. The park is much more than beautiful. It’s mysterious, with legends of giants and hidden, prehistoric animals. And among its few visitors, an outsized number of violent deaths inspire its second, more seductive name. While dreaming of the future, the group finds themselves confronted by the past. Far from home and far from help. In the Valley of the Headless Men.” LP Hernandez is one of the most entertaining and much needed voices in horror fiction’s new vanguard.” – Brian Keene

Review:

Nahanni National Park is one of the last unexplored places in Canada, due to it’s remote location in the Northwest Territories. There is a large oral tradition about that area, stories that involve giants, mammoths, vanishing native tribes, and men found decapitated in the valley. This backdrop lends to the story of In the Valley of the Headless Men by L.P. Hernandez. The story starts with Joseph and his half-brother Oscar cleaning out their mother’s house after their mother’s death. Oscar finds a cache of letters from Joseph’s father. The last of the letters tells Joseph to go to Nahanni National Park because this is where he is. Joseph, Oscar, and Joseph’s ex-love Gillian, set out for this strange valley to find Joseph’s father. 

This is not the real reason for the journey. The real reason is that all three of the characters are pulled to this remote valley is because they have something in their lives that they have lost. Joseph is dealing with the loss of his mother and his estranged father. Oscar also has lost his mother but is a recovering addict that starts to show new signs of withdrawal as soon as they enter the forest. Gillian is still thinking about the baby that she and Joseph lost while they were together. In the valley, these lost things become powerful influences, and all three lose their own sense of reality. The cyclical concepts of finding what has been lost while getting lost further and further into the mystery and horror of a place makes all three of them question reality, themselves, and whether they are going to get out alive. 


When I first started reading In the Valley of the Headless Men, I thought that this is a pretty simple setup, a grown man finds out his dad might be waiting for him in a remote forest. The truth is Joseph, Oscar, and Gillian are all looking for something deeper, something to console the grief, and it really takes them going to Nahanni National Park and feeling like they are going to die there to make them understand the truth. I did not expect the impact that L.P. Hernandez has in writing this story, the story of exploration, not only of a strange land but of the inner turmoil that has caused all three of them to take the directions in their lives that they have taken. Weird cosmic horror, nature horror, and psychological horror collide in a story that has much more depth than I initially expected. This story and this region will stick with me for longer than I ever anticipated.

Other reviews of books by L.P. Hernandez:

Stargazers

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Review: Happiness Falls by Angie Kim

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Bookshop, Amazon

Synopsis:

When a father goes missing, his family’s desperate search leads them to question everything they know about him and one another–both a riveting page-turner and a deeply moving portrait of a family in crisis from the award-winning author of Miracle Creek.

“We didn’t call the police right away.” Those are the first words of this extraordinary novel about a biracial Korean-American family in Virginia whose lives are upended when their beloved father and husband goes missing.

Mia, the irreverent, hyperanalytical twenty-year-old daughter, has an explanation for everything–which is why she isn’t initially concerned when her father and younger brother Eugene don’t return from a walk in a nearby park. They must have lost their phone. Or stopped for an errand somewhere. But by the time Mia’s brother runs through the front door bloody and alone, it becomes clear that the father in this tight-knit family is missing and the only witness is Eugene, who has the rare genetic condition Angelman syndrome and cannot speak.

What follows is both a ticking-clock investigation into the whereabouts of a father and an emotionally rich portrait of a family whose most personal secrets just may be at the heart of his disappearance. Full of shocking twists and fascinating questions of love, language, race, and human connection, Happiness Falls is a mystery, a family drama, and a novel of profound philosophical inquiry. With all the powerful storytelling she brought to her award-winning debut Miracle Creek, Angie Kim turns the missing person story into something wholly original, creating an indelible tale of a family who must go to remarkable lengths to truly understand one another.

Review:

Happiness Falls is the highly anticipated follow-up to Angie Kim’s debut novel Miracle Creek. In Happiness Falls, we are introduced to a family, the Parksons, father Adam, mother Hannah, the twenty year old twins, Mia and John, and the youngest, Eugene, who has nonverbal autism and Angelman syndrome, a genetic disorder that presents as constant smiling, laughing, and signs of happiness, regardless of the situation. When Adam disappears on a walk by the river with Eugene, the investigation takes several turns, revels secret lives, and events bring the family closer together.

There are a some elements that Angie Kim chooses when telling this story that makes this novel much better than it could have been. First, she has Mia be the narrator. She is twenty year old, home from college due to Covid shutdown after secretly changing her major and breaking up with her secret boyfriend. Mia is snarky, unreliable, and too smart for her own good. Seeing the story through her eyes also brings an element of slanted reality, one where she finds intelligence to be a tool for power and most of those around her aren’t nearly as powerful as her. Even though Mia could be seen as a bit of a brat, she is an unpredictable narrator, and this makes the story feel a little more unnerving and dangerous.

Second, Angie Kim uses science and philosophy as the glue to hold the mystery of Adam Parkson’s disappearance together. With Mia being the narrator, she also has someone who is interested in the things that her father was working on when he disappeared, who understood that this research could also be a piece of the puzzle. I love the incorporation of hard science in a narrative that does not typically lend to this type of content. It reminds me a little of when the sitcom The Big Bang Theory came out in 2007. I encouraged my friends to watch it simply because it was different than most of the typical dumb dad sitcoms and reality shows that were popular at the time. The Big Bang Theory has some light science in the middle of a comedy, which made it a little smarter than what we were watching at that time (the two most popular shows when TBBT came out were American Idol and Dancing With the Stars). Happiness Falls reminds me of this, but it leans a little heavier on the science than TBBT. The mystery unfolding is weaved through all of the scientific work that is being done by Adam Parkson, and this is a clever aspect to the storytelling. 

The third thing that really makes Happiness Falls stellar is the true reason for the novel. Eugene is the only witness to his father’s disappearance, and he is nonverbal. In society, we see people who are nonverbal as people with lesser intelligence. Angie Kim uses her experience as someone who came to the United States from Korea and learned English in a way that she could understand it better than she could speak it. This causes everyone around her to talk to her as if she was less intelligence, simply because she could not speak her thoughts. When she learned that this happens in many nonverbal people, she decided that this is the basis for Eugene, and Happiness Falls as a story is a true advocate to help eliminate the disparity between how we treat verbal and nonverbal people.


I listened to the audiobook of Happiness Falls, and more times than not when I am listening to an audiobook, I’m just listening to the story and am not really engaged. Happiness Falls is one of those rare occasions where the structure, narration, and story pulled me in completely, and I listened to it for hours at a time. There are a few weird threads in Mia’s narrative that do not get resolved, but as a whole, this is one of the best novels that I have listened to. I am still thinking about it’s impact every day.

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Review: Thirst by Marina Yuszczuk

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Synopsis:

Across two different time periods, two women confront fear, loneliness, mortality, and a haunting yearning that will not let them rest. A breakout, genre-blurring novel from one of the most exciting new voices of Latin America’s feminist Gothic.

It is the twilight of Europe’s bloody bacchanals, of murder and feasting without end. In the nineteenth century, a vampire arrives from Europe to the coast of Buenos Aires and, for the second time in her life, watches as villages transform into a cosmopolitan city, one that will soon be ravaged by yellow fever. She must adapt, intermingle with humans, and be discreet.

In present-day Buenos Aires, a woman finds herself at an impasse as she grapples with her mother’s terminal illness and her own relationship with motherhood. When she first encounters the vampire in a cemetery, something ignites within the two women—and they cross a threshold from which there’s no turning back.

With echoes of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein and written in the vein of feminist Gothic writers like Shirley Jackson, Daphne du Maurier, and Carmen Maria Machado, Thirst plays with the boundaries of genre while exploring the limits of female agency, the consuming power of desire, and the fragile vitality of even the most immortal of creatures.

Review:

Thirst by Marina Yuszczuk is a Latin American vampire novel split into two parts. The first part is set in the 1800s and starts with a female vampire escaping her hunters in Europe by hiding on a ship. The ship lands in Buenos Aires, and she makes a good life for herself. The second part is modern day, where a woman is given a key to a crypt by her dying mother and meets the vampire. Both sections are good, but the first section is brutal, fast paced, and engaging. The second part is more about mortality, loneliness and longing, and the agony of watching the slow process of a mother dying. (It is never stated but the deterioration of her mother makes is feel like she has Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis (ALS), a neurodegenerative disease where the patient slowly loses function of both skeletal and smooth muscles, until the respiratory muscles finally fail). Both parts are good, but so different, with different tones and feelings.

The writing is sharp and beautiful. This is no doubt a novel from an Argentinian writer. The style of most Latin American writers are long paragraphs that tell the story more than show the story. There might be a year or ten years on one page, everything summarized. This is also why many Latin American novels are fairly short. The style of these novels means that you have to be a very good writer, someone who does not spare a single word, and you have to find a good translator. This translation by Heather Cleary is very readable and engaging. Yuszczuk’s talent is writing a story that is compelling in a style that should not work as well as it does.

When I was reading the first part of the book, I realized that I do not really read many vampire novels. I do not find them to be top of my list of horror subjects. I do have a list of top five vampire books and movies, but I do not consider myself an expert in the subgenre. I do know that I always have this feeling that vampires should be sexy, that biting someone on the neck is the way that they feed but also foreplay toward something more sensual. Many vampire stories that I have read hint at this or ignore it completely, but this sensuality is front and center in Thirst. The vampire story is a subgenre that has been written so many times that there are not many new things that can be done with this story, but Thirst does utilize the parts of the vampire mythos that really makes the story entertaining. 

I received this as an ARC from Netgalley in exchange for an honest review.

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Review: The Haunting of Velkwood by Gwendolyn Kiste

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Synopsis:

From Bram Stoker Award­–winning author Gwendolyn Kiste comes a chilling novel about three childhood friends who miraculously survive the night everyone in their suburban neighborhood turned into ghosts—perfect for fans of Yellowjackets.

The Velkwood Vicinity was the topic of occult theorists, tabloid one-hour documentaries, and even some pseudo-scientific investigations as the block of homes disappeared behind a near-impenetrable veil that only three survivors could enter—and only one has in the past twenty years, until now.

Talitha Velkwood has avoided anything to do with the tragedy that took her mother and eight-year-old sister, drifting from one job to another, never settling anywhere or with anyone, feeling as trapped by her past as if she was still there in the small town she so desperately wanted to escape from. When a new researcher tracks her down and offers to pay her to come back to enter the vicinity, Talitha claims she’s just doing it for the money. Of all the crackpot theories over the years, no one has discovered what happened the night Talitha, her estranged, former best friend Brett, and Grace, escaped their homes twenty years ago. Will she finally get the answers she’s been looking for all these years, or is this just another dead end?

Award-winning author Gwendolyn Kiste has created a suburban ghost story about a small town that trapped three young women who must confront the past if they’re going to have a future.

Review:

The Haunting of Velkwood starts with a street that is haunted, with researchers trying to figure out why nobody can cross onto the block from the end of the street, and those that have feel sick. They have spent twenty years trying to learn more about the eight houses and the ghosts that still live in this impenetrable area and what events led up to the entire street being filled quarantined and with ghosts. The researchers have also tried for years to get one of the three survivors who escaped the street right before it turned into a ghost to go back into the haunted street for research purposes. Grace went back a few years earlier and has not been the same since. Brett has told the researchers there was no way she is going back. This leaves Talitha as their only option. Talitha has been drifting between dead end jobs and dead end boyfriends, not really doing much with her life but running from her past at Velkwood. When a researcher proposes money and the chance of saving her eight-year-old sister Sophie, who has been trapped in the area, she reluctantly agrees. 

Gwendolyn Kiste has appeared on a few podcasts in promotion of this novel (This is Horror and Dead Headspace are the ones I have listened to), and she has repeated on both that she was half way through writing the novel when she realized she was writing a novel about her history of struggling with her bisexuality. Kiste has feelings from her teenage years that are explored through the relationship of Talitha and Brett, and in the end, the haunting of Velkwood is really a love story, with Talitha and Brett being brought back together and the haunting of the street is about resolving the problems that they were running from as teenagers. 

I liked the story and the writing. I thought the premise was interesting, and I did enjoy the Velkwood Vicinity in the beginning with the researchers and the mysteries. It reminded me of the mysteries of The Southern Reach Trilogy by Jeff Vandermeer, Once Talitha started going back to the street, the story shifted focus away from the area and more on the people inside of it. The story is good, but I did not attach to the teenage girls in the love story much. This story was not much for me, but there might be a young person reading and struggling with the same feelings as Talitha. This could be the story to encourage them to follow their heart. We could always use stories like this. 

I received this as an ARC from NetGalley in exchange for an honest review.

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Review: The American Daughters by Maurice Carlos Ruffin

Buy it here:

Amazon, Bookshop

Synopsis:

A gripping historical novel about a spirited young girl who joins a sisterhood of Black women working together to undermine the Confederates—from the award-winning author of We Cast a Shadow

The American Daughters follows Ady, a curious, sharp-witted girl who is enslaved alongside her mother, Sanite to a businessman in the French Quarter of New Orleans. Sanite and her mother Ady are an inseparable duo—taking walks along the river, working together in the fields and spending nights looking up at the stars, dreaming. Ady’s favorite pastime is listening to Sanite’s stories of her families’ origins, their fierce and rebellious nature, and the everlasting love that strengthens their bond.

When mother and daughter are separated, Ady is left hopeless and unmoored, until she stumbles into the Mockingbird Inn and meets Lenore, a free Black woman with whom she becomes fast friends. Lenore invites Ady to join a clandestine society of spies called The Daughters. With the courage instilled in her by Sanite—and help from these strong women—Ady learns how to choose herself. So begins her journey toward liberation and imagining a new future. The American Daughters is a novel of hope and triumph that reminds us what is possible when a community bands together to fight for their right to live free.

Review:

The American Daughters, the second novel and third book by Maurice Carlos Ruffin, is a historical novel about Ady, a slave girl, who lives in a New Orleans and eventually finds kindred spirits in the women who work at The Mockingbird, a club ran by a free woman, Lenore. Ady is introduced by Lenore to a group of women spies who do things to undermine and sabotage the confederacy. Their actions do not stop the confederacy and slave owners from punishing them, but the war that the women wage against the oppressive men and government is one that makes them feel vindicated. Their work is justified for their work, regardless of the consequences. 

Ady (sort for Adebimpe) is an easy character to like and cheer for. She is intelligent, strong, and defiant in the face of ugliness and hatefulness. In books about slavery, readers are hard pressed to ever find any sort of compassion toward a slave owner, so it is easy to want Ady and to succeed in everything that she does, whether it be running away into the woods with her mother, Sanite, while as a little girl, or plotting with her spy friends to undermine the confederacy and her owner. We want her to be successful. The danger that she finds herself in does lead to parts of the novel where the tension increases, but most of the time, the things that she is doing feel like things that she should get away with. She is doing the right thing, even with the dangers that it brings.

Maurice Carlos Ruffin has written a novel that is more serious than most of his other stories, but slave stories come with a natural tone of seriousness. He does find the ability to add a bigger story to this novel, one that brings home the social commentary at the center of this book. There are a few parts written in the far future, from historians and family members generations removed, who are using the text of The American Daughters as the true records of what slavery is like. Ruffin is saying that at this moment, we are still close enough to American slavery that there is a strong narrative, but in one hundred and fifty years, the only record we might have left is the stories that have been passed along from the actual slaves themselves. The official narrative will eventually diminish the centuries of slavery in America into a footnote, so it is up to personal stories, memoirs and biographies, and even some fiction, to continue the true narrative of slavery in America. I would have liked more of these cuts to the future throughout the novel and how this story has turned into an important historical document, because this idea is subtle, and it takes the epilogue for this idea to really be solidified. The American Daughters is another great story by Maurice Carlos Ruffin, and even though it is a little more serious in tone than his previous works, his social commentary is just as strong.

I received this as an ARC from NetGalley in exchange for an honest review.

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Review: The Winslow Sisters by Michael Aronovitz

Buy it here:

Cemetery Dance Publications, Amazon

Synopsis:

Serial killer Michael Leonard Robinson murdered thirteen college coeds in early 2018, impaling them on flagpoles and leaving them on highway construction jobsites for the purpose of “haunting the dawn rush hour.” Police called him “The Scarecrow Killer,” until he revealed in an otherwise cryptic note left for police on March 13th, 2018, that he thought of his “dolls” more as “sculptures.”

It was believed that The Sculptor killer perished in a massive explosion at the Mount Airy Forge in North Philadelphia at the stroke of midnight, July 18th, 2018. Authorities recovered a foot in a rubber slush boot and one arm in the blast area. They could not find the rest of the body.

Last night, widower Professor Brad Winslow read a disturbing paper turned in by one of his students who had so far attended the Zoom class with the camera off. Most of the “paper” was smut, yet it did not have a college freshman’s feel to it. There was a cruel joy here, as if the author was a damaged yet seasoned adult expecting the reader to find the dark writing poetic. Then, was the conclusion paragraph:

Professor Winslow, I have been watching your darling daughters: Sage, the artsy tenth grader, Jody the eighth-grade tomboy, and Esther the spoiled seven-year-old, bless her heart. Here is the deal. Go to the police and I will skin the girls to the bone one square inch at a time with an X-Acto blade and a pair of splinter forceps tweezers. It will be live-streamed. You will be duct-taped to a chair with your head in a vice and your eyelids sewn open. Or . . .The Winslow Sisters will be my pawns, while you, Professor, will be my Treasure Hunter, Snake Catcher, Lord of the Worms. My new accomplice.

Review:

In The Winslow Sisters, Michael Aronovitz adds a new chapter to the Michael Leonard Robinson story. Robinson is the serial killer in The Sculptor, and I have not read this novel. Even though it is a sequel, you do not have to have read the first to understand any of The Winslow Sisters. Robinson escapes his death in a true slasher movie fashion, by surviving a fire that has limited his life but not his desire to kill. He has found a way to use technology to continue his “art”, and his target is the three Winslow sisters, Jody, Sage, and Esther, and their widower father. When he infiltrates their lives, weird things start happening and in the end, the three daughters have to find and fight Robinson for their survival.

This is a “suspend all belief” horror novel. So many of the things that Robinson does to the Winslow family and to all of the people who help him are so unbelievable and the holes in the story are so large that the best way to enjoy the novel is to not question anything. Think of it as a slasher movie that has the protagonist doing the wildest things to survive and the antagonist not only having every bit of technology at his disposal but also having unlimited funds and resources to get it done. Like many of our favorite horror movies, they are fun to watch but if you scratch the surface, the story starts to fall apart. 


Some of The Winslow Sisters is really good, and some of it is just conveniently weird to move the story along. I really found myself liking the Winslow sisters as the final girls. They are written different enough to see them as individuals instead of just one girl split into three, which is very easy to do when writing siblings. Esther is only seven, and I have a seven year old as well, so many of the things that she does is unbelievable, but a great deal of the story is unbelievable so why not? Aronovitz does give us glimpses of the teenage ennui they feel toward Robinson that I wish he would have leaned into a little harder, but I like all three of the sisters. They are honestly final girls that we cheer for. 

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