Paper Towns by John Green
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Part treasure hunt, part coming-of-age narrative, and part criticism of patriarchal society, Paper Towns is an absolute treat. Devouring this book in just a few days, I was reminded of how much I enjoy John Green's writing. It's been over a decade since I read Looking for Alaska, The Fault in Our Stars, and Let it Snow. The last time I tackled Green, he had just released Turtles All the Way Down - which, despite being well-crafted, is probably my least favorite of his books. Nevertheless, with his heartfelt storylines, John Green is always reliably clever, comedic, and earnest (sometimes to a fault... in our stars). And, with Paper Towns, he absolutely shines.

In Paper Towns, Green provides us with an atypical mystery tale wrapped in a riddle, encased in an enigma - and embodied by a teenage girl. Our narrator, Quentin Jacobsen, has a problem: Margo Roth Spiegelman, the enchanting girl-next-door, has vanished, leaving our nerdy protagonist heartbroken and curious (Curiously heartbroken? Heartbrokenly curious?). After an all-night episode of pranks and revenge schemes, Quentin (or "Q," as Margo dubs him) has fallen deeper in love with Margo than ever before. However, when she vanishes the next day, Quentin and his classmates must reevaluate everything they knew (or thought they knew) about the infamous Margo.

Before I continue, I should address the elephant in the room: the Manic Pixie Dream Girl (MPDG) trope, that unrealistic depiction of female characters who take control of a story's narrative. Think Zooey Deschanel's character in 500 Days of Summer or Natalie Portman's character in Garden State, and you get the gist. According to Nathan Rabin, the writer who coined the phrase, the Manic Pixie Dream Girl "exists solely in the fevered imaginations of sensitive writer-directors to teach broodingly soulful young men to embrace life and its infinite mysteries and adventures." However, it isn't just film directors/screenwriters who employ this trope; rather, it's any fiction writer who decides to craft the perfect embodiment of his/her/their fantasies.

Green, much to his credit, earnestly tries to dispel this spellbinding myth. When we first encounter Margo, she appears to be the definitive MPDG - a quirky, brilliant, and beautiful young woman whose primary purpose is to serve as the catalyst for our protagonist's self-actualization. However, as Green takes us through the voyage of Paper Towns, he disassembles and deconstructs this trope, bit by mysterious bit. As he perfectly summarizes at one point, “What a treacherous thing to believe that a person is more than a person.” Paper Towns is dedicated to this mystery: uncovering the "real" person underneath the paper-thin clothing of society's unrealistic expectations.

As John Green shows in Paper Towns, even the most seemingly "perfect" individuals are deeply flawed mirages - and to assume elsewise is an unintentionally cruel act. Margo, who shares DNA with the titular Alaska in Green's first novel, is a vibrant, vivacious, preternaturally intelligent superhero of hotness in the eyes of our male narrator. Yet, as Quentin continues his quest for Margo, like Ahab in pursuit of Moby-Dick (Green references Moby-Dick or, The Whale over and over in this book), he slowly realizes that Margo Roth Spiegelman (whose initials spell MRS) has more in common with the White Whale than Ahab or Ishmael.

It's been a few years since I've read anything from Green's catalog, but I'm glad that I've returned to his roadmap for YA success. Even if Paper Towns is flawed, it is flawed in an almost endearing way. I was half-inspired to finally read this novel because of its tentative link to Peng Shepherd's mediocre The Cartographers and the quirky history of the town of Agloe. Green's incorporation of the Agloe story is far more effective than Shepherd's, and it's hard to avoid comparisons to the two tales.

Weirdly enough, I finished reading Paper Towns the day before I watched Yorgos Lanthimos's Poor Things - another piece of art that attempts to dispel cultural myths about femininity and addresses identity ownership, bodily autonomy, and the male gaze. The two works, coupled as a duet, provide a fascinating (if not painfully clinical) examination of womanhood and the mysteries of the female world - mysteries that are much more important and meaningful than any Sherlock Holmes whodunnit tale.

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The Cartographers by Peng Shepherd
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

I wanted to love this book. I really did. After all, I have a soft spot for not-so-ancient artifacts, fantastical journeys, and cleverly intertwined plotlines; plus, Shepherd utilizes the New York Public Library as a primary setting for the novel. What's not to like?

While The Cartographers promises all of these multifaceted attributes, Peng Shepherd doesn't quite deliver the goods. In the hands of a more talented writer, the novel could have been a minor masterpiece of modern science fiction. Alas, the book wastes a clever conceit on poorly developed characters and amateurish story arcs.

The basic plot is as follows: a brilliant young cartographer receives word that her estranged father (also a cartographer) has died under mysterious circumstances, leaving behind an inexplicably valuable map that opens up a portal to a town that shouldn't exist. So far, so good. As the story moves along (oftentimes at a surprisingly glacial pace), characters reveal hidden secrets and convoluted histories. However, the big plot twists are too predictable, with Shepherd telegraphing the identities and fates of characters without enough subtlety or artistry. Agatha Christie, she is not.

Despite her shortcomings, Peng Shepherd shines in the interior monologue of the book's protagonist, Nell. Whereas the secondary characters feel inartistically envisioned, Nell's conflicted emotions and aspirations are thoughtfully rendered with sensitivity and insight. Revealed through bursts of third-person narration, Nell's character feels authentic and earnest: Shepherd has crafted a heartfelt depiction of a young woman dealing with the complexities of overwhelming grief, frustrating family dynamics, and unfulfilled career aspirations. In this area, Shepherd shines.

In sharp contrast, the murder mystery "whodunnit" portion of the book falls flat. Without giving away any spoilers, I'll just say that the killer's motivation(s) feel unwarranted and contrived, with the murderer coming across as more of a Scooby-Doo villain than a three-dimensional character. Zoinks.

While Shepherd has cultivated an impressive résumé and provides tantalizing glimpses of potential, she has not yet delivered the masterpiece that she is capable of writing. At its core, The Cartographers wants to be a modern Chronicles of Narnia for elder millennials, invoking magical portals and enchanted artifacts; unfortunately, this novel fails to reach its promise and potential, stumbling through the "wardrobe" of its own creation. Much like early Grady Hendrix novels, The Cartographers takes a potentially brilliant premise and botches the book with mediocre execution. Sadly, Shepherd self-sabotages her novel with forced plot points and contrived character arcs.

In a rare moment of brilliance, the author writes that “Maps are love letters written to times and places their makers had explored.” Books are very much the same way, and I can only hope that Shepherd's future "love letters" are more Jane Austen than Danielle Steel. Clearly, Shepherd has begun her journey through the blue highways and rambling interstates of the literary world - with a magical destination of admirable artistry just over the horizon. Unfortunately, it will take more than a gas station map to get there.

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The Crossover by Kwame Alexander
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I don't know why it took me so long to read Kwame Alexander's The Crossover. As someone who loves poetry, respects hip-hop, enjoys YA literature, and geeks out over the clever artistry of non-traditional novels, I'm exactly the kind of reader who should have read The Crossover a decade ago. Perhaps it's just my skepticism of basketball (and all sports, really) that got in the way, but I'm disappointed in myself for not reading this earlier. Nevertheless, I'm grateful that I finally took the plunge and tackled Alexander's award-winning book: it clearly deserves all the accolades that it's received over the last ten years.

The novel-in-verse focuses on the relationship between twin brothers, Josh and Jordan Bell, as they dribble down the complex court of middle school relationships and family dynamics. When the new girl in school captures Jordan's attention, Josh must face the inevitable conflicts that arise with shifting family dynamics; to further complicate matters, the boys' father, Chuck "Da Man" Bell, faces health issues that drastically shift the perspectives of every member in the Bell family.

This isn't just a "basketball book," but a novel that touches upon many timeless themes under the broader scoreboard of growing up. Told entirely from the perspective of Josh (a.k.a. "Filthy McNasty"), the narrative's rapid-fire verse captures the emotional rollercoaster of adolescent life - on and off the courts. The first few chapters illustrate Alexander's mastery of language, rhythm, and rhyme - with sizzling lyrics worthy of Jay-Z and metrical flow as graceful as Michael Jordan. When I did a "first-chapter Friday" with a class of fourth-graders, I felt like a frenzied tourist in Hamilton territory. In fact, if Lin-Manuel Miranda ever writes a novel, he'll want to emulate the accessible - but simultaneously sophisticated - style of Alexander (Kwame, that is... not Hamilton).

Fortunately, though, Kwame Alexander's skillset is not exclusively limited to surface beauty: underneath the stellar language is fertile soil of thoughtful character development and unique story arcs. Because the book is brief, it's a great novel for struggling readers and students with short attention spans. More importantly, though, it's a modern masterpiece that will connect with many readers - regardless of age - who know what it's like to love and lose beneath the intimidating shadows of the backboard, classroom, and dining room table. As our protagonist, Josh Bell, discovers in the pages of Kwame Alexander's beautiful book, the real world isn't just a series of free-throws: it's a journey of layups, fouls, benching, three-point shots, and (occasionally) a slam dunk in the game of life.

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On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft by Stephen King
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Before he was a bestselling author, writing twisted tales of creepy clowns, apocalyptic epidemics, bloody prom-night massacres, and varied vicious villains, Stephen King was something much scarier: a high school English teacher.

Though King is known as the master of the macabre, the ghastly guru of modern horror, he is also - at his core - a former educator. As such, On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft provides fascinating insight into the writing process for one of our era's most prolific authors. Like so many of King's novels, On Writing incorporates a mishmash of styles and genres: the non-fiction book is part autobiography, part ruminations on life, and part "how-to" guide. With guts and gusto, On Writing covers everything from King's childhood to his literary pet peeves to his near-death experience in 1999. Though this memoir might not be everyone's cup of tea, I could drink a gallon of this book and thirst for more.

The first section of On Writing outlines some basic details of King's earliest days, including amusing anecdotes of the writer's childhood and mildly dysfunctional family. With self-effacing humor, the author outlines the development of his emerging talents (including his first limited-edition novella: a plagiarized retelling of The Pit and the Pendulum that he sold to his elementary-school peers in the schoolyard), recalls his adolescent fascination with the science-fiction and horror genres, and details the many (MANY) rejection notices he received when he began submitting stories to magazines. One image from this section lingers in my mind: King, hunched in the laundry room of his trailer after a long day of teaching high school students, relentlessly typing the manuscript of what would become his first published novel, Carrie . Even the world's biggest authors have to start somewhere, and Stephen King has never forgotten his humble origins.

As he moves into the "how-to" section of On Writing, King really hits his stride. Fortunately, the author is aware of the pitfalls inherent in writing about writing: as he states in the "Second Forward" preface, "This is a short book because most books about writing are filled with bull****." While he excludes Strunk & White's The Elements of Style from this dismissive statement, I would argue that King's own book belongs in such illustrious company; in fact, if I was still teaching AP English, I would absolutely utilize portions of On Writing in my classroom.

As a fellow veteran educator who loves horror and the craft of writing, I’m fairly certain that I am the exact target demographic for On Writing. This book is (like so much of King's work) an earnest, unflinching, no-holds-barred commentary from an insightful - though flawed - author and observer. King frequently acknowledges his own shortcomings: he harbors no grand illusions that he is an equal of Faulkner, Steinbeck, or Hemingway (all of whom receive passing mention in this tome).

Of course, as much as the literati loves to dismiss King's work, the sheer number of books he has sold provides incontrovertible evidence that King's work resonates with many, many readers. As Neil Young sings in "Ambulance Blues" (from On the Beach), "All you critics sit alone / You're no better than me for what you've shown... You're all just pissing in the wind." I can't help but imagine that King recites this line to himself every time he receives a scathing review. As I now know from writing Incomplete and A Different Slant of Light, crafting a novel - even an amateurish one - takes a lot of work. SO. MUCH. WORK. Though a reader can consume a book in a matter of days (or hours, if inspired), authors spend weeks, months, or years pouring their hearts into each page. Believe it or not, writers are people, too.

So, if you're hankering for a humorous "how-to" guide with horror Easter eggs, On Writing might be a worthwhile endeavor. If you're a fan of Stephen King, though, this book is a must-read: it will sink its teeth into you with the feverish intensity of Pennywise the Clown and provide you with an escape sweeter than Andy Dufresne's.

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The Dark Tower by Stephen King
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

"Endings are heartless... Ending is just another word for goodbye." - Stephen King

In the "Coda" section of Stephen King's The Dark Tower, the author warns us that "There is no such thing as a happy ending" - that endings are, by their very nature, never really the end of a story. By acknowledging this conundrum, King sets the stage for what he anticipates will be a divisive conclusion to his fantasy/horror/sci-fi/metafiction epic, the Dark Tower. And what a doozy he's left for his readers!

It took me a little more than a year, but I finally finished the Dark Tower series last night. The adventures of Roland Deschain and his Ka-Tet occupied my attention for thirteen months, as I worked my way through the series; of course, I also read many, many more books on the side (many of them significantly better than the seven books in this series... but I digress). Like any other epic, the Dark Tower has plenty of peaks and valleys in quality, with some truly moving moments closely followed by plodding plot development. I will argue that, while this is not King's magnum opus, it's still an entertaining read with plenty of Easter eggs for long-term King Fans - his "constant readers," as it were.

The Dark Tower picks up immediately where Song of Susannah left off: Susannah Dean is held captive at the Dixie Pig, while the rest of the Ka-Tet is frantically in pursuit. The not-so-long-gestating "little chap" has been ushered into the world, and is ready to live up to his namesake, the villainous Mordred from the King Arthur mythos. While the Ka-Tet is initially focused on saving their "Lady of Shadows," they must also complete two other tasks of monumental importance: save the Dark Tower and its beams from the destruction of The Crimson King's "Breakers," and save the writer Stephen King from his untimely demise. Without giving away too much else, I will say that King embraces his inner George R.R. Martin in this final tomb, often to devastating effect. Will Roland and/or his Ka-Tet make it to the Dark Tower? What lies in store for Walter O'Dim (a.k.a. Randall Flag from The Stand)? What will become of the Crimson King? Who will live, and who will perish? You're in luck, Constant Reader: King answers all of these questions (and more) in the final half of The Dark Tower.

Though some readers might be unhappy about the "metafiction" injected into the last few books of the series, I find King's insertion in the self-referential narrative to be a thrilling twist. Yes, you need some suspension of disbelief to appreciate this plot point - but can't the same be said of all King's stories? If we can take It's Pennywise the Clown or the vampires of ’Salem’s Lot at face value, then we shouldn't have any issue with the writer appearing as a character in his own story. Just saying.

While King has a longstanding reputation for botching the endings of his stories, even he knows that he needed to "stick the landing" for a project of this size and magnitude. "I wasn't exactly crazy about the ending, either, if you want to know the truth," he states in the Author's Note, "but it's the right ending. The only ending, in fact." In this circumstance, I have to agree with King: the final pages of his seemingly never-ending epic can only end one way... and King gives his characters exactly what they deserve. Of course, in order to understand and appreciate the ending, you have to remember the beginning of The Gunslinger: "The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed."

It's an uncanny coincidence that my first review of 2023 was for Stephen King's The Gunslinger, and my first review of 2024 is the The Dark Tower - the eponymous conclusion of King's fantasy epic. These two novels - the first and last in King's Dark Tower series - bookended all of 2023 and the start of 2024. While I'm not so enthralled by the series that I'll hunt for every subtle (or not-so-subtle) reference in King's other novels, I do feel like I've been transformed in some capacity by joining Roland in his voyage to the Dark Tower. Just as various characters must say goodbye to each other, I, too, will bid adieu to the Ka-Tet after completing this series.

Happy trails, friends.

Or, as Roland Deschain might say, "Long days and pleasant nights."

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The Man Who Invented Christmas: How Charles Dickens's A Christmas Carol Rescued His Career and Revived Our Holiday Spirits by Les Standiford
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Let me preface this by saying that I am not a Charles Dickens super-fan. Maybe the writer affectionately known as "Boz" has a fanatical legion of "Swifties" somewhere out there ("Bozzies," perhaps?), but I've never met a "stan" of this literary legend. All that aside, I will declare - without any trace of irony - that A Christmas Carol is an undisputed masterpiece. Say what you will about the plethora of adaptations that have followed in the 180 years since Dickens crafted the supernatural tale of Ebenezer Scrooge, but the original story is so iconic and archetypal that it almost feels biblical - as if it has always existed alongside the stories of Moses, Noah, and Job. The fact that A Christmas Carol has captured the cultural zeitgeist over and over since its publication in 1843 is a testament to the book's timelessness.

But how did Dickens create this seminal piece of seasonally celebrated literature? That is a question that Les Standiford attempts to address with his entertaining entreaty about the novel's creation, The Man Who Invented Christmas: How Charles Dickens's A Christmas Carol Rescued His Career and Revived Our Holiday Spirits. Standiford begins with a brief (but somewhat tedious) overview of Dickens's early life and formative years; once he finally finishes this expanded exposition, however, he gets to the good stuff. Standiford's background information on the cultural evolution of Christmas provides insightful context for twenty-first century readers, and helps dispel some of the widely accepted myths about the holiday's development from second-tier celebration to quintessential festival. Although I've done my fair share of research over the years, some of Standiford's revelations about Boz's role in the transformation of Christmas are eye-opening for this American librarian. Predictably, Standiford does use the death of Dickens as a wrapping-up point, but his examination of A Christmas Carol's legacy is threaded throughout the second half of the book.

In some ways, this tomb is a companion piece for Jeff Belanger's The Fright Before Christmas: Surviving Krampus and Other Yuletide Monsters, Witches, and Ghosts . Like Belanger's beastly book, The Man Who Invented Christmas digs into the pagan origins of the beloved winter holiday - albeit in a much briefer fashion than Belanger. Belanger returns the favor, too, with a section entitled "Marley's Ghost" - an entire chapter about the cultural impact of Charles Dickens and his ghost story.

Although I prefer Nick Hornby's Dickens and Prince: A Particular Kind of Genius , which covers the life and times of Boz with Hornby's signature wit and a more conversational tone, Standiford does an impressive job of condensing Dickens's biography into a digestible "Reader's Digest" version. Where The Man Who Invented Christmas surpasses Hornby's book is in the deeper dive into Charles Dickens and his tenuous relationship with the Christmas holiday season. If nothing else, Standiford's illuminating book will inspire others to read (and reread) A Christmas Carol. And nothing is better at dispelling the misanthropic "Bah, humbug" spirit of the holidays than a cup - or book - of good cheer.

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Practical Magic by Alice Hoffman
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

It's an unusual occurrence when a movie is better than the book that inspired it, but the film adaptation of Alice Hoffman's Practical Magic might be the rare exception. Although I didn't see the film version of Practical Magic until 25 years after its release, I was pleasantly surprised by the movie's (semi-)feminist approach to adulthood and the heartfelt portrayal of the Owens sisters. Of course, my experience watching the film may or may not have been tempered by my nostalgic 1990s-era crush on Nicole Kidman... but I digress.

So, after *finally* watching the film adaptation, I picked up a copy of Practical Magic in September - just on the cusp of "spooky season." While I knew going in that Hoffman's novel wouldn't be horror, per se, I still hoped that it would inspire what my older daughter calls "the pumpkin spice spirit." Did this book do the trick(-or-treat)? Sort of.

Practical Magic is a sweet, sentimental look at growing up, navigating complex relationships, and thwarting the threats of middle age. In the novel, Hoffman (witch)crafts a tale involving two sisters, women as opposite as yin and yang: brooding Sally and carefree/careless Gillian. Following the untimely deaths of their parents, the sisters are raised by their aunts, Jet and Franny; though the sisters turn out (relatively) normal, they process their childhood trauma in disparate ways. Gillian is the quintessential party girl: pretty, popular, charismatic, and plagued by rash behavior. Sally, on the other hand, is a widowed single mother doing her best to raise her own daughters. After years apart, the estranged Gillian returns home and sets in motion a series of events that culminate in a haunting that brings all the surviving Owens women together. Ultimately, though, the power of kinship overcomes calamity.

Though I enjoyed reading Hoffman's original source material, the book is plagued by an overabundance of characters and a meandering plot. The film adaptation does succeed in streamlining these distractions, but the novel feels bogged down by its own cast of characters. There are simply too many ingredients in the cauldron for the recipe to succeed. Yet, for all its flaws, there are some clever, insightful "golden lines" sprinkled throughout the novel: "The moon is always jealous of the heat of the day, just as the sun always longs for something dark and deep" and "Love is worth the sum of itself, and nothing more" are two of my favorites. Even when the elixir tastes bitter or saccharine, there is beautiful writing sprinkled on top for added flavor.

What I most enjoyed about Practical Magic (both the film and its source material) is the attempt at a "literary" entry in the supernatural fiction genre. Yes, this is a book about witches and magic and curses and hauntings - but, more importantly, it's a book about family and sisterhood and aging and grieving. In my eyes, Practical Magic comes across as a blend of Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood and Disney's Hocus Pocus - with a dash of The Exorcist thrown into the cauldron for good measure. There is something compelling about this tale - the mashup of magical and mundane illuminates the subtle complexities of the human experience. And that is a potent potion for readers of the novel.

Hoffman is a true writer, dabbling into the supernatural like the newest recruit in a literary coven. So, despite the extraneous ingredients that she stews into the mix, the final product is - appropriately enough - an enchanting experience. And that, dear readers, might be enough to conjure the "pumpkin spice spirit" for readers everywhere.

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The Firekeeper’s Daughter by Angeline Boulley
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Imagine a YA version of Breaking Bad with a young, whip-smart Ojibwe protagonist, and you have a pretty solid grasp of Angeline Boulley's Firekeeper's Daughter. Boulley, who served as Director for the U.S. Department of Education's Office of Indian Education, has a profound understanding of tribal life and culture - and she vividly brings to life the experiences of her characters within the turn-of-the-century (twenty-first century, that is!) America. While I would have enjoyed a little more poetry in Boulley's prose, she has written an engaging page-turner with a well-crafted protagonist and deep examination of tribal life. Fans of crime, thrillers, and action-adventure, take note: Firekeeper's Daughter will burn bright in your heart.

In Boulley's novel, multiracial Daunis Fontaine straddles two identities, wrestling with the tribal heritage of her biological father and the wealthy world of her white mother. After witnessing a heartbreaking tragedy involving several of her friends, Daunis becomes a confidential informant for the FBI, going undercover for intel on a ring of meth dealers in her community. Of course, there's the requisite YA love story, which sometimes detracts from the independence of the protagonist and the tightly scripted components of this crime thriller; Boulley also incorporates several coming-of-age themes (including quest for identity, multiracial experiences, family tragedy, and communal trauma) into this eye-opening narrative, as well. It's a lot to tackle in one novel, and the exposition does require some patience before the action-packed narrative kicks into high gear. However, Firekeeper's Daughter rewards readers who pay close attention to the clues that Boulley leaves behind.

As someone with very limited knowledge of Ojibwe history and culture, I faced a steep learning curve as I devoured the pages of Boulley's novel. The book contains a multitude of "new" vocabulary words and slang terminology for a zhaaganaash (white) audience, but Boulley does an excellent job of providing background for laymen (like yours truly). I have a feeling that the publication of Firekeeper's Daughter must feel incredibly empowering for young (and old) Ojibwe readers who take the plunge into Boulley's world. For zhaaganaash readers, the book still rings true with tender authenticity and meticulous world-building.

For a first-time author, Angeline Boulley has created an intriguing, captivating novel. While Firekeeper's Daughter will undoubtedly find success with generations of readers, I secretly hope that the author turns her sights towards more "mature" fare in the years ahead. Those of us who are a little "longer in the tooth" would love to see how she addresses aging and midlife experiences - both inside and outside the world of tribal politics. I have a feeling that Boulley has some illuminating insights ahead of her, as she trails away from the fire of this debut novel.

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The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Shirley Jackson's definitive haunted house novel, The Haunting of Hill House, is the literary equivalent of a James Whale monster movie: though rudimentary by today's standards, there are striking archetypal qualities that solidify the piece's legacy. Of course, I also can't help but recall Mark Twain's famous quote that a "classic" is "something that everybody wants to have read and nobody wants to read." For better or worse, Jackson's novel is a classic in the horror genre - and while I'm glad that I've read Haunting of Hill House, I won't begrudge anyone who wants to skip the book and jump straight into the film adaptation(s) of this story. To be clear, this is not Halloween Horror Nights, with jump scares and visceral thrills; rather, it's a subtle, atmospheric sense of dread, like walking through a graveyard at midnight. Jackson is the queen of the "slow burn" novel, though her literary fires feel more like flickering shadows than flames. Sometimes, though, that "slow burn" is waaaaaayyyy too slow - even for a nerdy librarian/English teacher like yours truly.

In Jackson's original version of the story, a professor with a passion for the supernatural, Dr. John Montague, recruits three layman to spend the summer in the (supposedly) haunted Hill House. Those three recruits - Eleanor Vance, Luke Sanderson, and Theodora (whose last name is never revealed) - encounter phenomenon both strange and mundane, with Eleanor most affected by the house's cruel tricks. Spookiness ensues, with most of the horror embedded in the psyche of Eleanor rather than in the eerie artifice of the building. I won't reveal much more, because many of the novel's key plot points are too spoiler-y for general consumption. Let's just say that houses aren't the only things haunted by ghosts in this novel.

I recently re-watched Mike Flanagan's Netflix Hill House adaptation with my teenage daughter, and I was thrilled by all of the Easter eggs Flanagan worked into each episode. Whether it's the "cup of stars" monologue, Theo's sexual orientation, the marble statues on the ground floor, the "cold spot" that Theo encounters, or the psychiatrist named after Dr. Montague (portrayed by the same actor who played Dr. Jacoby on Twin Peaks, to boot!), the show tips its hat to Jackson's novel in various subtle and not-so-subtle ways. To engage with both the original novel and the Netflix adaptation is an absolute treat: Flanagan rewards readers of the novel with his carefully crafted allusions.

As much as I hold fast to the general rule that "the book was better," there are some circumstances in which the film adaptation surpasses the quality of its source material. In this circumstance, The Haunting of Hill House fits snugly in that category. Mike Flanagan's Netflix adaptation of Jackson's novel is a stone-cold classic, and it is compulsively engaging in a way that the novel is not. That's not to say that the original novel is meritless; it's just aged in a way that diminishes its impact on the horror genre. It's more quaint than horrifying, in that regard.

Still, though, Shirley Jackson's Haunting of Hill House is just that: haunting. It's not scary or exhilarating or or terrifying. It simply haunts its readers after they turn the final page. Even if there isn't a "Bent-Neck Lady" in sight, there are still bristling themes that are more chilling than a shadowy October night. And that might be enough to entice future generations of readers to enter the doors of Hill House for a spell... and maybe stay forever.

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The Search for Sasquatch by Laura Krantz
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Over the summer, while my daughter and I were browsing through the children's section of Powell's City of Books, I stumbled across The Search for Sasquatch. My curiosity piqued, I leafed through the pages, recognized it would be age-appropriate for my eight-year-old, and bought the book on a whim. I'm not a cryptozoologist by any means, but I figured that The Search for Sasquatch would be a fun, thematically appropriate book to read while we were visiting family in Oregon. Needless to say, I lucked out.

At the time, I didn't know anything about Laura Krantz or the Wild Thing podcast that she's been producing for a few years now. However, while reading The Search for Sasquatch, I was delighted by the author's conversational tone and the wide variety of scientific topics that she addresses. A kid's book that tackles DNA, evolution, the scientific method, and the taxonomic system in easy-to-understand terms? I was sold.

Krantz starts her book with a brief anecdote about how and why she started her sasquatch journey: it turns out that a long-dead distant relative (second cousin, twice removed?), Grover Krantz, was once the world's foremost scientific expert on Bigfoot. As Laura plunges down the rabbit hole of sasquatch-obsession, she encounters a colorful cast of characters: park rangers sharing eyewitness accounts, skeptical scientists intent on debunking Bigfoot as a hoax, accommodating experts who explain complex scientific issues, and even one of the men who filmed the infamous "Patterson-Gimlin" video in 1967. Along the way, she also learns about "squatching," "blob-squatches," and the "Woo" (if you read the book, it will all make sense). It's a deep dive into a unique, quirky American subculture - and the journey is exquisitely enjoyable.

As an "optimistic skeptic," I was delighted to find that Laura Krantz is (like me) someone who requires scientific proof before wholeheartedly supporting the existence of mythical creatures. However, Krantz never lets her doubts supersede her curiosity; rather, she excitedly hurdles every roadblock and muddy footprint that she finds in her path. Throughout the book, Krantz's earnest enthusiasm is absolutely contagious, and her fanatical fascination emanates from each and every page.

After finishing The Search for Sasquatch], I downloaded all three seasons of Krantz's podcast, Wild Thing, and listened attentively to every single episode. If you haven't tried the podcast yet, you won't regret it: the show is absolutely addicting. Even if my doubts about sasquatch remain, I firmly believe that Laura Krantz is a true treasure.

Does Bigfoot really exist? Probably not.

But Laura Krantz really hopes so. And so do I.

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