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I did not Choose this Book. Michael Gallagher Did.

Have you ever picked a book because of a narrator’s voice and then realized you just walked into someone’s fevered dream? That was this.

I fell down the narrator rabbit hole. Michael Gallagher ranks among my favorites. So, when I saw he narrated Under Your Skin, I skipped the synopsis. The cover had me expecting a story like Dexter.

You know what they say about assuming… Holy hell, this book is twisted. That may be exactly why it works.

This dual-POV dark romance follows a mortician who entwines himself with the man who killed his mother’s killer.

I could call it noir.

I could call it hot.

I could call it disturbing.

But I cannot call it simple.

Dark Romance Is Not Therapy, It Is Contract Play

This book is my first Dark Romance. I intentionally stayed away from the genre because of my personal experience with generational abuse. I didn’t want to be triggered. I wasn’t.

When you read dark romance, you commit to a contract of sorts. Accepting lunacy is the first step, along with consent to psychological transgression. A clear distinction between abuse and rough, consensual sex, along with the recognition that some people enjoy sadomasochism is essential. If you do, you may find yourself seduced by it.

In Under Your Skin, the violence functions as fantasy scaffolding, not as relational harm between the protagonists. The author draws you into Levi’s orbit and shows how he has carried his trauma for most of his life, only to transfer that intensity onto Jonah. That transfer is how the connection becomes erotic.

Levi Is Not a Victim. He Is a Reader of Violence.

Levi starts broken after witnessing his mother’s murder. He buries that trauma in funeral work and in his relationship with the dead. A pattern of marks emerges across the bodies. He reads each one like a message meant for him, a pattern that pulls him toward the man who took vengeance on his behalf.

Twisted but not random. His fixation on Jonah is not fetishization for its own sake. It is a kind of narrative inevitability based on Levi’s interior life.

And here is where it gets structurally interesting. This is not a tale of a traumatized child saved by love. It is a tale of a traumatized man who finds himself reflected in danger and then claims that reflection as agency.

Levi chooses Jonah. He chooses danger and obsession, and never abdicates that choice. That is not passivity. It’s purpose.

This is a control fantasy where the protagonist gets to decide his own damn future even when the mechanics of that future are dark. Levi’s decisions carry consequences. They are his. That mattered more to me than the violence that surrounds them.

Jonah Is Possession Wrapped in Violence Who Never Crosses Into Abuse

Jonah is simply a serial killer in the genre sense. There is no pretense that he is a nuanced moral agent. He kills. He does so often. He targets bad people not because they are bad but because they are convenient. He doesn’t need justification. So he is not quite Dexter. Jonah is more honest.

Levi has no problem with this because the violence takes place in a world he has already decided is morally corrupt. The murders that underpin the plot are part of the story’s context, not relational harm.

The sexual violence in the book is consensual and negotiated. In this context, Levi never suffers at Jonah’s hands. That distinction is psychologically coherent, not accidental.

The Age Gap

The age difference made me uncomfortable. Yes, they are both consenting adults, but Levi is in his twenties, and Jonah is in his thirties. There is a world of difference in maturity and sophistication, and, more significantly, experience between the two.

Levi may be younger, influenced by trauma, and obsessed, but he is not acted upon. He acted. Jonah may be older, a serial killer, and intense, but he did not subjugate him.

That keeps the relationship from collapsing into something unpalatable. That is why I stayed and even rooted for them.

Dual POV Is Structural, Not Decorative

This book’s dual POV is vital. Being inside both minds explains the obsession on of both sides. It prevents Jonah from being a flat villain, a killer archetype. It prevents Levi from being a passive observer drawn mysteriously into danger.

You see them both choose each other. It eliminates vagueness. That creates agency.

There were only a couple of lines that felt like overblown caricature amid all the interior richness.

Everything else earned its place.

Moral Detachment Does Not Equal Emotional Engagement

Yes, the world in the book is corrupt. The police and town authorities look away. We all want to believe that this space is fantasy because the moral rules of normal society do not bind the protagonists. We don’t need fantasy to make moral detachment possible. Detachment has become a form of survival.

But let’s face it, our government has failed to protect us. Rapists go free. Children listen for the sound of guns in our schools. Racism is condoned by elected officials. Reality feels more dystopian with every passing day.

The book offers catharsis in which the bad actors get what they deserve. I settled for purposeful choice amid horror.

This Book Is About Choosing Your Own Wrongs

I walked in expecting Dexter vibes. I left with an appreciation for a genre that lets characters choose their moral transgressions and live with them. That is not universally appealing.

And maybe it is not “healthy” in the everyday sense. But it is psychologically resonant, and the book leans into that without apology.

That is what hooked me.

That same pull makes Under Your Skin fascinating beyond genre.

Shelve Test: 4 – Loved. Agency wrapped in blood still counts as agency.

Thank you for reading.

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A warm, familiar family story that knows exactly where it’s going and refuses to get lost along the way.

Sometimes a book feels less like a story than a cousin pulling up a chair to spill the family tea while drinking café de olla. You settle in without even adjusting your posture. Then you recognize the rhythm of the conversation. It lands warm, familiar, yet a bit predictable.

To begin, Big Chicas Don’t Cry never tries to surprise you. I already knew where it was going by the end of the first chapter.

The Vibe Was Family, Start to Finish

This book was always meant to feel like home. If this book walked into a party, I wouldn’t ask what it did for a living. I’d ask if it brought flan or champurrado. That’s the energy.

These four cousins feel like they’re pulled from a real family. You quickly figure out who carries the emotional load, who performs competence, who drifts, and who watches.

Mari held the weight. There’s a Mari in every Mexican family, even if she goes by a different name. Her arc has a clear structure. You can follow the line from who she was as a child to the woman she becomes when she finally steps out of what no longer fits. The emotional math checks out. When she moves, it feels earned.

The other stories feel softer. Erica, Gracie, and Selena passed through life as if everything was just a bump in the road. They come to understanding without losing much along the way, adjust, and keep going. I believed those shifts, but didn’t carry them with me after I finished the book. Growth without friction leaves no fingerprints.

Soft Hands, No Bruises

This book treats its women with care. They get to be complicated without being punished for it. The story holds them gently.

No one makes a choice that fractures the room beyond repair. No one risks exile, and the story knows it. Even pain arrives contained, easily managed. That approach creates a safe space. It also limits how far the story will go.

The Language Was There, But It Stayed Surface Level

The Spanglish works in the same way that seasoning does. It sets the tone, signals belonging, and gives texture to the dialogue. Language can carry tension. Here, it’s garnish.

The Kitchen Scene Stayed With Me

The choreography in the kitchen felt precise. Not exaggerated. Not softened. Just right. It pulled me straight into my grandmother’s kitchen during the holidays.

The cousins and tias move around each other, hands busy, conversations layered. Someone peels. Others wrap. Someone says too much in a low voice. Others pretend not to hear. This scene didn’t need plot to work. It carried its own weight. I trusted the book most in that room.

Closure Arrives Too Cleanly

The women land in places that make sense for who they are and what they’ve learned. All emotional threads are neatly tied off. Nothing lingers in a way that disrupts the reader after the final page. This story let me walk away without resistance.

Shelve Test: 3 – Enjoyed

Memory is not the same as impact. But sometimes a story doesn’t need to rearrange your insides. It just needs to remind you of what your grandmother’s kitchen smelled like on a Sunday afternoon, and then let you leave before anything burns.

Thank you for reading.

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Is comfort enough to make a story unforgettable?

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Spoilers ahead, because always.

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On My Dark Vanessa and the problem of bleakness.

I finished My Dark Vanessa with my stomach tight. That’s not a literary critique, but a physical response. It’s the kind of feeling that tells you a book has struck something real. It raises the question: what do readers want from survivor stories?

Not what we should want or what sounds virtuous in a book club discussion. What do we actually want when we sit down with a story that drags abuse into the open and refuses to look away?

The book is honest. The problem sits someplace else.

The novel moves between Vanessa as a teenager and Vanessa as an adult. You see the beginning and the aftermath at the same time. That matters because grooming is never just a past event. The abuse ends, but the story the abuser installs keeps running.

Russell nails that.

Vanessa is not naïve in the way people like to accuse victims of being naïve. She’s a lonely teenage girl who wants to be wanted and is eager for adult approval.

Predators recognize vulnerability from a mile away. So unsurprisingly, Strane gives her a story: You’re special. You’re not like the others. This is love. You chose it.

Vanessa holds onto the story because the alternative is unbearable. It means admitting her body and her mind were not hers in the way she needed them to be.

The book also refuses the “perfect victim” performance. Vanessa doesn’t turn into a clear-eyed advocate with a clean arc. She doesn’t become righteous, inspirational, or even an ally of other victims. Instead, she’s defensive, angry, and unreliable. She protects him.

That part of the book is brutal. It’s also accurate.

Some people never get the triumphant version of survival. People stay stuck. Others only begin to name what happened decades later. For others, it never gets named at all.

Russell understands that and writes it without apology. That’s why the book works.

It’s also why the ending hit me like a wall.

The ending withholds oxygen.

Here’s what I mean by bleak. I don’t need rescue stories, but I need a door.

I’m a survivor of child abuse.

I’ve done years of therapy. Some things changed while others didn’t. Trauma still informs my reactions. Anxiety still lives in my body. Certain memories still hurt to touch, even during safe moments in a good life.

And yet, my life did not end at trauma.

I didn’t get a fairy-tale ending. What I built instead was harder and more honest. It’s a life I shaped myself, one where the abuse is part of the past but not the definition of who I am. The scars are still there. They just don’t get to tell the whole story.

So what did I want?

I wasn’t looking for a transformation montage, a victory speech, or even closure when I read My Dark Vanessa.

What I needed was a door. Not because I can’t tolerate darkness. I just refuse the idea that darkness is the ending in survivor narratives.

Trauma can shape a life without defining it. So I wanted something that said: what happened is not the only thing that will ever happen.

The book doesn’t give that. It gives realism in a way that feels like foreclosure. Vanessa’s trauma wasn’t integrated into her life. It seemed fused to it.

A survivor story can be honest without trapping the character in eternal ruin. A story can say, “This happened,” without implying, “This is all that will ever be.”

That’s the line I struggled with here.

Hope can live in honesty.

My Dark Vanessa gives the ugly truth of abuse in full view.

The book did what it set out to do. It just left me needing to breathe.

Survivor stories owe me honesty but don’t owe me hope.

The real answer is that I’m allowed to want it anyway. I suspect other survivors do too.

The shelf test. I gave it a 4 out of 5.

I loved it but can’t cherish it. The story isn’t weak. It’s heavy in a way that doesn’t let up. I would never want to step into Vanessa’s world again.

Thank you for reading.

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Does honesty need to leave room for hope?

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Spoilers ahead, because that’s just how I roll…

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I knew early on that this was a writer in control. There is a scene where Noemí lies in bed at High Place and the walls seem to breathe. The house presses in, the air thick with rot and something older. It is lush and claustrophobic without tipping into parody. I was salivating.

Spoilers incoming. Don’t clutch your pearls later.

Gothic Literature

This is a novel that understands Gothic architecture, Gothic lineage, and Gothic rot. It understands colonialism as fungus and eugenics as entitlement dressed up as science. The Doyle family is not subtle, and that is correct. They are pale, damp inheritance made flesh.

I respect what this book is doing, but I wanted to feel trapped, injustice settling in my throat. In Dracula and Frankenstein, both Gothic classics, the horror stains everything. It is not just the monster. It is the cost of wanting power, of wanting mastery, of wanting to outrun death. In this novel, the rot is visible, but it mostly stays in the walls.

Noemí as Mary Sue

Noemí resists from the start. The house unsettles her, but it does not seduce her. She resists Virgil’s insinuations. Florence’s cold discipline does not impress her. Even when the mold seeps into her dreams, her core remains intact.

Her resistance is treated as a fixed trait. She is strong because she is strong. That kind of strength leaves me cold. I am more interested in the moment it bends, in the fracture that proves it is real.

Designated Strength

When Virgil corners her and insists she belongs to the house, the scene is disturbing. He wants her body as a vessel, her mind as soil. It is colonial logic in miniature. Ownership disguised as destiny. But Noemí’s defiance feels preloaded. She never misjudges him, never buys into the romance of the place, never makes a choice that costs her something lasting. Strength is more interesting when it misfires.

Compare that to Francis. Francis wavers. Francis is lonely enough to rationalize rot. His loyalty to the Doyles has curdled into self-preservation. He is weak in believable ways. When he bonds with Noemí, I believe the trauma. I believe two people breathing the same poisoned air and finding each other.

Precision Over Ruin

Noemí is vitality. Francis is decay with a conscience. They will balance each other. On paper, it works. On the page, it feels underdeveloped, forced.

The novel’s critique of colonialism and inherited power is sharp. Fungus as metaphor is almost too clean. The Doyles literally feed on land and blood. They refuse to dilute their lineage and call it superiority. It is just fear of extinction. That part sings.

The revelation that the patriarch’s consciousness persists through the mold, that generations were sacrificed to keep one white man alive, is grotesque and thematically precise. Colonialism as parasitism. Eugenics as cannibalism. A house that survives by consuming the young and brown.

I admire the clarity. What I needed was psychological causality that left bruises.

Noemí burns the house. She escapes and rescues Francis. Evil collapses under its own rot. Structurally, the novel is disciplined. Its symbolism is purposeful. Every message lands exactly where it intends to.

But when the smoke clears, I did not feel that anything irreversible had happened inside Noemí.

Yes, she has endured horror. She has seen the underside of aristocratic fantasy. Her sense of self does not fracture or darken. It does not compromise. She emerges intact.

I needed the cost to stretch past the final page.

Gothic Novels

Gothic heroines often face peril but maintain moral steadfastness. I understand the lineage Moreno-Garcia is working within. This is a deliberate reclamation of the genre.

Noemí becomes the brown socialite who will not be devoured, the colonized body that refuses absorption. There is power in that choice. But power without damage can start to feel like demonstration.

At times I felt like I was watching an elegant presentation of ideas. Colonialism bad. Eugenics monstrous. Patriarchy suffocating. All true. All effectively rendered.

I just wanted Gothic mess. Fear. Regret. A choice that stains.

I will add one petty note because I am human. In the audiobook, Noemí’s name was mispronounced. Repeatedly. I switched to the print edition. It did not change my feelings, but it did confirm that irritation can compound. Even Gothic atmospheres have limits.

Where it faltered for me was not in craft. It was in emotional abrasion. I needed her resistance to misjudge someone, her loyalty to cost her something lasting, one choice that felt like survival at the expense of what she loved.

Instead, I got a heroine who withstands corruption without internal corrosion.

Shelve Test: 2. For someone else: Not a flaw. Just a reader mismatch.

This is a well-written book, but it was not a good read for me. I admired it more than I felt it. And admiration in fiction is rarely enough to keep me haunted.

Thank you for reading.

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Can a story impress you without haunting you?

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I’m getting specific from here on out.

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The internet is arguing about whether listening counts as reading. I am not. Accessibility, pleasure, and why the story living in your head matters more than how it got there.

Accessibility, pleasure, and the story that stays with you.

I must be getting old, or maybe just living under a rock. Probably both. But I was caught off guard by this whole “is listening to books the same as reading books” debate.

As a retired professor, though not in literature, I will say this: Most people retain information better on actual paper. However, in a learning environment, the real issue is accessibility and inclusion.

Paper does not work for everyone. We all process information in our own way and have our own needs.

People learn differently. I am a visual learner. One of my twins is an auditory learner. We are all neurodivergent in this family.

Now for reading for pleasure.

Who the hell cares if you’re listening to a book or have a paper copy?

If you prefer paper, read your books on paper. I travel a lot, so I got a Kindle. And if you need or like to multitask, which is my superpower, then listen to your books while you do whatever else. Stop giving two fucks about other people’s opinions. Enjoy your life however you choose.

I do have one small disclaimer.

When Amazon changed its Kindle policy and made it clear that we were leasing books rather than owning them, I stopped buying books on Kindle. I always preferred paper anyway, so my heart is not exactly breaking.

I believe the same thing applies to audiobooks, but I am in denial about it. I enjoy knitting, crocheting, painting, and embroidering too much to give them up. So yes, that probably makes me a hypocrite. At least I own it.

And here is the truth. Whether you read a book, listen to it, or have someone tattoo the damn thing on your back, the story still lives in your head when you finish it.

That is what matters.

So stop worrying about formats. Get lost in a story, any story, and call it a win.

And if that offends the literary purists, tell them The Grumpy Reader said to go touch grass.

Thank you for reading.

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Does the format matter or just the story that stays with you?

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Spoilers ahead—because obviously.

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I picked Mala Hierba because my daughter loves plays, and because Tanya Saracho writes women in a way that refuses easy virtue.

Power doesn’t always mean escape. Sometimes it means staying, choosing, and refusing to apologize.

I’m not really into plays. I read Mala Hierba because my daughter at NYU loves Tanya Saracho’s work. I stayed with it because I’m trying to understand how women’s stories are told, especially by Mexican American women.

Then I realized that I came in sideways, through Vida on Starz, which Saracho also created. And that’s how this happened: me, reading a play I probably wouldn’t have picked for myself, in a reading format I don’t prefer, only to realize halfway through that I knew this woman.

Not in the “relatable” way. In the “twenty-year-old me is in this room and she has no idea how many versions of herself she’ll have to kill to survive” kind of way.

The Plot Isn’t the Point

Set in the Rio Grande Valley, most of the story unfolds in the master bedroom, velvet and glass, with a panic button hidden near the bed. Both sanctuary and cage.

Mala Hierba centers on Liliana, the beautiful, trophy wife of a border magnate (read: narco). We find out Liliana’s marriage is violent, but she stays because she supports many people with her silence: her ill parents, her sister’s education, and even Yuya, the elderly housekeeper who raised her.

Liliana is preparing for her husband’s birthday party when Maritza, her ex-girlfriend, shows up. A butch artist from Chicago, a reminder of who Liliana used to be, and maybe still is.

Maritza offers an escape. But escape is never free.

Liliana has a choice to make.

The Ending Everyone Saw Coming… Except Me

So Maritza tries to convince Liliana to leave. She pushes. Hard. And Liliana snaps.

She kills her.

Blunt force trauma, head bashed in. It’s a shocking moment, and somehow… not shocking at all.

What surprised me was what Liliana did after.

She went home.

Excuse me?

There, she finds that her husband has apparently cut off his own daughter, Fabiola. So Liliana does what women in our culture are trained to do: she steps in.

She finds the child she was never allowed to have.

She decides to raise her. Yes, a twenty-something raising another twenty-something.

Not with kindness, but with direction.

She will take care of her. Tells her to go back to school. Take her freedom.

Liliana takes control, not in rebellion, but in reclamation.

And just like that, Liliana isn’t the trophy wife anymore. She’s the matriarch.

Mexican Culture Is Not a Straight Line

This play explores patriarchy, yes. But not in the way outsiders expect. Mexican womanhood isn’t a single lane. It’s full of contradictions. Marianismo coexists with dark humor and reverence with rebellion. The Virgin and La Malinche are the truth in the same breath.

Liliana is not just a victim of her husband’s power. She’s also a strategist in a system that rewards her silence. She knows exactly what she’s doing and what it costs.

She Didn’t Lose. She Chose.

You could argue she gave in to cultural norms. That she went back to a violent man and killed the woman who offered her freedom.

But I don’t think that’s the story Saracho is telling.

She doesn’t perform guilt for anyone.

She sees the game, sees the players, and takes her place at the head of the table.

Maybe that’s not liberation.

But it’s not powerlessness either.

Lost in Translation

The play’s title is taken from the Mexican idiom “Mala hierba nunca muere.” Most English translations call it “a bad seed never dies.”

Mala hierba means weeds. Unwanted, walked on, ripped out, and sprayed with chemicals. They’re supposed to die.

But–

They’re resilient. Come back time after time. Bending, wilting, but never dying.

That’s every woman I know who has smiled through control, smiled through silence, smiled through the hollow praise of being called strong.

That’s Liliana.

Shelve Test: 5 – Cherished.

Because sometimes power doesn’t mean breaking free. It means taking your own damn throne.

Next week: something lighter. Or not. Depends how pissed off I still am.

Thank you for reading.

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Would you choose freedom over duty?

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A debut fantasy goes viral; readers feel burned, and the internet demands blood.

The Disappointment

So, I have been hearing a lot about the Audra Winter debacle. People are tearing her book apart, and honestly, most of the critiques I have seen are fair. If the writing is rough, it is rough. If the editing is sloppy, it is sloppy. Readers are allowed to say that. They are allowed to be disappointed.

The Hype and the Shock

Audra marketed her book hard. She built hype and got a lot of attention. Good for her. Her marketing worked better than her manuscript. That is not a moral crime; that is a mismatch of skills.

Some people are acting like she tricked them out of a college fund.

Audra’s self-published fantasy is a debut by a twenty-something. Her novel was always a gamble. You opened your wallet because the videos were shiny, not because you ran a background check on her prose.

And yes, some readers wanted refunds. I understand the frustration, but a book is not a kitchen appliance that you return to Amazon.

The Rollercoaster

Every time we pick up a book, we are taking a chance. You are buying an experience. Sometimes you get swept away. Other times, you get whiplash. And sometimes you wonder if the writer has ever met another person.

That is the joy and the chaos of reading.

Audra’s Novel is just a Book

You saw potential.

You bought curiosity.

And, be honest, you fell for the hype. We have all been played by a pretty cover or a loud video.

Sometimes, hype wanders off and reality does not bother to show up.

The real story is not Audra Winter

It is the audience that treats reading like a guaranteed service. Books don’t owe you perfection. You took a risk, and this time, the gamble did not pay off.

Should Audra keep writing? Sure.

Get an editor? Definitely.

Rethink her timeline? Probably.

But she finished a book, and that puts her ahead of most of the people shouting into the social void.

What We Forget

Some beloved authors started out messy, mocked, and published disasters before they wrote anything worth keeping. Growth takes time. Not every writer blooms in public, but when they do, it is because they stayed in the ring.

So here is where I land on Audra Winter.

The criticism is earned.

Not the outrage.

Every book is a roll of the dice. She rolled hers. Readers rolled theirs.

Sometimes, you get a masterpiece.

And sometimes, you get a cautionary tale.

Either way, enjoy the roller coaster ride that is reading fiction.

Thank you for reading.

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When does criticism become cruelty?

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Disagreement is welcome. That is half the fun.

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A darkly funny thriller about a murderous sister becomes a story of loyalty pushed past reason. In My Sister, the Serial Killer, beauty is evidence, silence is consent, and love turns dangerous.

Sisterhood, beauty, and the quiet ways loyalty rots into complicity

Why did I pick up My Sister, The Serial Killer by Oyinkan Braithwaite?

Was it because the Barnes & Noble assistant, who reads an average of 200 books a year, recommended it? Does the girl have time to breathe?

Or was it the cover, which stood out in a sea of flowers and cutesy cartoon trends? Maybe that had a little something to do with it.

But mostly, I chose it because of my twin daughters.

One has no filter and loves to throw around phrases like: I’m going to kill you! I’m going to kill them! They deserve to die!

Meanwhile, her sister is always running after her, trying to get her to tone it down, because no one knows that she’s autistic (yeah, blame it on Tylenol) and just take her words seriously.

The reality? This same girl has to call her RA to get rid of bugs in her dorm room because she refuses to step on them. But there you have it.

Back to My Sister, The Serial Killer: Sisters Raised Under the Same Roof, Damaged in Different Ways

The sisters have internalized their father’s misogynistic abuse in very different ways.

Korede, the eldest, has become hyper-responsible for her younger sister, constantly suppressing her own desires and well-being for the sake of the family. Not surprisingly, as a natural caregiver and nurturer, she becomes a nurse.

At the hospital, she works alongside Tade, a doctor who sees her only as a friend. Why? Because Korede has absorbed the image her family has painted for her. She’s too plain, too skinny, too smart, etc.

Ayoola, on the other hand, is beautiful. We know because, well, because everyone tells us so. Constantly.

More importantly, she’s learned to weaponize that beauty as a way of punishing their now-dead father. She can’t imagine a man seeing her as anything more than a commodity, just like he did. Every murder she commits is reframed as self-defense against “controlling men.”

Her twisted form of agency is what ultimately drives the story toward its climax.

The Moment Everything Shifts

Ayoola is emotionally detached from the murders. Until she finds out Korede has a thing for Tade.

Now, you can interpret Ayoola’s conquest of Tade in a few different ways:

She doesn’t want anyone getting between her and her sister.

Maybe she takes Tade just to rub it in Korede’s face.

Or she wants to protect her sister.

Maybe you can come up with more. Share in the comments below.

Personally, I went with option 3: she does it to protect her sister.

Ayoola’s deep distrust of men leads her to warn Korede that Tade will never truly appreciate her because he’s like all the rest: just interested in shiny objects. And, of course, Tade proves her right by immediately falling for Ayoola’s self-effacing, frivolous image instead of valuing the friendship, support, and selflessness Korede offered.

That betrayal is silent. Never acknowledged. Which makes it worse.

The Story Takes a Wrong Turn

The story gets a little silly. Korede has spent her entire life choosing Ayoola over their father, over conventional morality, even over basic survival. But now we’re supposed to believe she’s seriously considering saving Tade at Ayoola’s expense.

Korede does everything she can to warn Tade that he’s in danger. She tells him about some of the men Ayoola’s killed. Or… does she? Because if Korede really wanted to save him, she could have gone to the police. But she doesn’t. After all, the girl’s not a martyr.

Tade? Unsurprisingly, he doesn’t believe Korede. Why? Because Ayoola is just that good-looking. And let’s be real: the sex must be great if he’s willing to ignore the warnings of a trusted colleague, friend, and the sister of the woman who may or may not have murdered multiple men.

Beauty and sex trump reason.

The Ending

And sure enough, in the climax, Ayoola tries to kill Tade and fails. Korede runs in to help, but help whom?

Korede backs up Ayoola’s explanation.

Ayoola was the one bleeding. And she’s a beautiful, defenseless woman. So she is believed for the same reasons Tade believed her.

Tade gets fired. And Korede? She starts to step into her power at work.

The internet experts tell me that Korede is on a subverted or failed redemption arc because she never truly breaks free from her sister.

I disagree.

I think Korede’s story embodies a corruption arc, because she commits to a destructive lie: Ayoola comes first.

Korede does not fail to escape. She chooses not to.

Korede keeps choosing her sister over everyone else, even Tade.

You could argue that’s not entirely true, because she does try to warn him about Ayoola’s murderous tendencies. But does she, really? She shows him no proof. And when Tade ends up leaving the hospital under investigation for assaulting Ayoola, Korede doesn’t seem all that broken up about it.

Maybe, in the end, she’s been persuaded by Ayoola’s worldview. Men aren’t looking for substance, just the next shiny object.

If you’ve read the book and disagree with my interpretation, good for you! Drop your thoughts in the comments.

And remember.

Reading for fun isn’t about being right…

It’s about enjoying the ride.

Shelve Test: 4 – Loved.

Because sometimes loyalty isn’t a virtue. It’s just trauma with good aim and bleach in the trunk.

Thank you for reading.

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When does loyalty become betrayal?

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Reading for joy does not require credentials, rubrics, or permission.

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I am just a reader who wants books to feel alive, not like homework. This piece is about reading levels, internet megaphones, and why my only metric is whether a book earns its place on the shelf.

Lately, I’ve been watching videos where people explain the correct way to critique books. I admire the confidence.

Most readers do not have the training to critique literature, myself included. I may have a PhD, but it is in public health. I can break down disease, not Shakespeare.

Then there are book reviews, a whole different circus.

And to understand that circus, we need to look at reading levels.

Half of adults in the United States read below a sixth-grade level. The rest land anywhere from sixth grade to college level.

I realized something was changing when women in my book groups, all with bachelor’s degrees, started requesting shorter books and “no big words.” That was the moment I knew the reading community had shifted.

And this shift shows up everywhere in reviews.

Many people reviewing books are struggling with the text itself. Not with symbolism or character arcs, but with basic comprehension. Readers are missing key pieces, get frustrated, and blame the author. Then the internet hands them a megaphone.

If you want proof, scroll through the reviews on Amazon or Goodreads for classic novels. You will find one-star ratings for timeless art because the vocabulary was “too hard” or the sentences “too long.”

My personal favorite was a one-star review because the print was too light.

Did the reviewer read the book?

If you are used to short sentences, constant stimulation, and captions doing half the heavy lifting, you will struggle with nuance. That doesn’t make the book pretentious. It means your reading muscles need a warm-up.

Now for the important question.

Should reading for pleasure feel like homework?

No.

Reading for pleasure does not require charts, color coding, or a graduate seminar.

When I read, I want to feel alive. I want to step into a world that isn’t mine. I want to read at night with two dogs snoring near my feet.

That is the entire goal.

Do I critique books? No.

Do I review them? I tried.

I wanted to be fair to the author, but I also wanted to share my reading experience honestly. I realized that wasn’t really possible.

So I keep it simple.

Welcome to The Shelve Test

Every book either earns a spot or gets sent on its merry way.

The Shelve Test

5 means cherished.

4 means loved.

3 means enjoyed.

2 means for someone else.

When I share my thoughts on a book, I talk about what I enjoyed and what I did not. That is it.

No elaborate scoring systems.

No dissertations.

Just honesty.

And since the house is quiet and the dogs do not talk back, I am sending these thoughts into the void.

If you want to share my thoughts while Muffin snores in the background and Matteo occasionally decides Hannibal Lecter is at my door, stick around.

Thank you for reading.

📥 Freebie Alert! Download the Book Tracking Sheet.

This link will prompt you to make your own copy in Google Drive.

Free Book Tracking Sheet

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Do books need experts or honest readers?

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I read because I love books. I complain because I respect them.

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I did not become a grumpy reader by accident. I got here by loving books long enough to watch reading turn into a performance.

Hi. I am The Grumpy Reader.

I did not wake up one day and decide to be grumpy. I arrived here honestly, through years of reading, thinking, parenting, surviving, and watching book culture slowly turn into a performance I did not audition for.

Books were the first things that ever made sense to me. Everything else followed much later, and some of it never fully did.

I read loudly, honestly, and without pretending. I am not here to sell an aesthetic or protect feelings. I am here to talk about books like they matter.

My life, as a high-functioning autistic woman with an INTJ personality, has often felt like living inside a social optical illusion. Most days I feel like the only sober person in a room full of drunks, while somehow being treated like the drunk in a room full of sober people. It is a vibe. A confusing one.

Books cut through that noise.

It started with Mrs. Beck at Marston Junior High handing me Johnny Tremain. She had no idea what she was unleashing. A week later, I fell into Tess of the D’Urbervilles. I still cannot pronounce it. I still pretend I can.

Historical fiction grabbed me and never let go. But I was not picky. I moved from Princess Daisy and Flowers in the Attic to Crime and Punishment and Anna Karenina like it was a balanced diet. Classics, smut, Russian despair. If it was nearby, I read it. I did not count pages. I did not track streaks. I read until my mother yelled at me to go to sleep.

At some point, characters stopped being abstract and became messy friends.

If a character makes a dumb decision, I pause the book and tell them they are embarrassing themselves. If they are brave, I hype them up like a personal cheer squad. If they irritate me, I mentally pack their bags and send them on their way.

I expect effort, accountability, and at least one functioning brain cell.

Characters have no idea they are in a parasocial relationship with a woman who is deeply invested and entirely unimpressed.

Then Life Happened

Love. Loss. Jobs. A doctoral program, not in literature but in public health. Reading and writing research papers for years has a special way of draining joy.

Then marriage, twins, and the era of breastfeeding through the night like a sleep-deprived dairy cow. This is when audiobooks entered the chat. I listened to the Dexter series at three in the morning while keeping two tiny humans alive.

Don’t judge me! The twins turned out fine. Mostly.

Reading became something I stole in small pockets. My kids did everything. Sports. Theater. Dance. Music. You start making choices. Books or presence. Then we homeschooled, and I found my way back through children’s books and YA. It was not what I used to read, but it was reading.

That mattered.

Fast-forward eighteen years.

The kids are in college. The house is quiet. Too quiet.

I thought I would slide back into reading the way I always had. Apparently, reading culture had other plans.

But apparently… that’s not how reading works anymore.

Now people collect books and never open them. They sort them by color. They talk about tropes like they are filing taxes. They attack strangers online because someone did not like the same plot twist. They confuse authors with characters. They defend banned books while trying to censor dialogue.

The entire thing spirals into noise. Somewhere in there, the joy disappeared.

So I am taking it back. I read the way I always read. Loudly. Honestly. With feeling. With two dogs sleeping nearby.

With no pressure to perform or pretend.

I am The Grumpy Reader. Not because I dislike books, but because I love them enough to tell the truth.

If you are tired of the performance, the aesthetic, the arguments, and the noise, take a seat.

Let’s talk about books like Grumpy People.

Thank you for reading.

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When was the last time a book felt real?

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