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Warning: Vague plot spoilers herein.

For fifteen-year-old Jason Papadopoulos, life has been one raw deal after another. His mother, that one bastion of normalcy in his childhood, died of a stroke, leaving him to fend for himself with his increasingly unstable father. Contrary to what Jason needs to believe to cope with his harrowing home situation, his father has never been normal. One of his first memories, an incident at age six that continues to haunt him, completely undermines Jason’s claim that his father was ever well.

There are no medical diagnoses in this book. Nolan hints at schizophrenia (e.g., Dad’s hastily scribbled word salad on page 47), but never mentions it by name. The DSM-IV-TR is incidental here. When things finally come to a head with Jason’s father, the narrative tells us that Dad smells like nail polish remover (suggestive of blood sugar irregularity, possibly even ketoacidosis); however, the story never pursues this angle. What matters is that Jason goes to bed hungry most nights, is doing poorly in school because he spends so much time cleaning up after his delusional father, and keeps the world at arm’s length to avoid confronting his increasingly unmanageable situation. His only outlet is his hidden identity as the school newspaper’s blunt advice columnist, paradoxically named “Mouse.”

So when Jason reluctantly joins a support group for troubled kids during his lunch hours, he isn’t about to divulge any sordid details. After all, who needs human friends when you can have an audience of characters chattering inside your mind 24/7? Yes, that’s right. An entire audience inhabits Jason’s mind. They are not manifestations of psychosis, but defense mechanisms. They are Jason’s support group when he has none. In fact, you, the reader, are a member of that audience; this narrative pokes at, and sometimes busts through, that pesky fourth wall.

There are some implausibilities in this book. If Jason’s father has been on medication, why hasn’t his doctor noticed how unfit he is as a parent and reported him to authorities? When Jason lashes out during a lunchtime support group meeting, why doesn’t Dr. Gomez report it to the principal, who shows up to investigate the commotion? (Dr. Gomez emphasizes Jason’s need to work through his grief and anger, but the episode gets pretty violent and the other students must restrain Jason.) When Jason’s mother died in the middle of the night, why didn’t Jason find out until he went to the hospital the next morning? Wouldn’t the hospital have called? Had their phone already been disconnected at that point?

Still, this is a powerful story. Within a span of a few weeks, Jason’s father’s illness comes to a head, he is removed from his home, and moves in with a foster family who is everything to him that his father can’t be. He finds a new family in his school therapy group, one who advocates for him even when he won’t do so for himself.

(Disclaimer: I received the galley proofs of this title from Houghton Mifflin Harcourt for review.)

Maggie Chen and her father were close. He passed down his journalistic acumen to her–killer instincts and an innate need to illuminate truth. So when the prep school he allegedly attended claims no record of him after his untimely death, she grows suspicious. However, she has little time for sleuthing–she has been selected for a summer internship at her local newspaper and spends four days per week supporting the newsroom staff. When Maggie and another journalist uncover a juicy political corruption story that intersects with the day of her father’s death, she begins to dig deeper into her father’s past.

Maggie is no wishy-washy YA heroine. She is savvy and hard-working. There are no superfluous boys in the story to sap her of her ambition or distract her from her quest for truth. She remains devoted to this quest, willing to travel well beyond her comfort zone to learn the truth about her father, whose origins are called increasingly into question by her research. She also forges an unlikely friendship with Jillian, the fellow intern who has been a thorn in her side from day one. The two help one another to stop hiding from themselves.

Perhaps most interesting about this story (to me, anyway), was the exploration of the twenty-first-century newsroom. The author highlights some of the key challenges facing today’s journalists and editors, a subject I research and write about at my own day job. Advertisers are pulling out of print newspapers. Editors and publishers who have cut their teeth on print must adapt to digital technology and learn to generate multiple revenue streams online. Lean staffs must make do with limited resources. The only unrealistic component of the newspaper storyline was the fact that Maggie and Jillian, two high school interns, received paychecks. These days, it is difficult enough to find minimum-wage internships in magazines and books, let alone newspapers, arguably the most troubled sector of print media. Otherwise, the author does a nice job of highlighting these issues in a manner accessible to young readers.

(Disclaimer: I received the galley proofs of this title from Houghton Mifflin Harcourt for review.)

Since the death of his brother, Telemachus/Telly, Jonathan has coasted through life in a sleepless haze, surviving on Red Bull and NoDoz and seeking solace in his beloved guitar, Ruby. Ruby is the only girlfriend he has ever had, his most trusted friend. Wesselhoeft develops this wooden instrument as he would a human character, even assigning her a seat of honor in Jonathan’s rocking chair during get-togethers with his “thicks” (i.e., best friends). Ruby is not the only unusual character in this book. Eddie Vedder, of Pearl Jam fame, also shows up from time to time.

Jonathan tries to hide his talents from the world and fails miserably. Despite himself, he wins a prestigious poetry award, an honor that lands him the gig of writing a dying veteran’s memoirs. He restricts his guitar playing to jam sessions with his friends, convinced that he is not as talented as his deceased brother, but is asked to perform a song at his school’s graduation ceremony. Moreover, he believes that he is a consolation prize to his “thicks,” who always looked up to Telly, but this group of boys takes better care of him than he does himself. In other words, he lives in his brother’s shadow by choice–it is through his interactions with others that we gain a sense of how gifted he is as a poet and musician.

What is so magical about this story is how slow it is to reveal vital information, generating a pace fraught with dramatic tension. In some regards, not much happens during this story. It doesn’t need to. The narrative momentum lies in the questions Wesselhoeft doesn’t answer immediately, the questions we want answered.

Adios, Nirvana is a bildungsroman. It is a celebration of music, particularly Seattle grunge and modern rock. It is the fictional memoir of a guitarist. And it is a treatise on grief, death, and dying. The novel manages to be all of these things without ever feeling unfocused or indulgent, as Wesselhoeft forges thematic bonds between these otherwise dissonant elements.

Perhaps my only complaint is how quickly the story ended, with too many “big red bow” moments to wrap up unresolved storylines. However, the ending does little to diminish the power of this narrative, one I won’t soon forget. As a long-time lover of Seattle grunge and a sucker for strong first-person narratives, how could I?

Also, it is only a matter of time before I work the phrase “float a turd” into everyday conversation and raise legitimate questions about my sanity.

(Disclaimer: I received the galley proofs of this book from Houghton Mifflin Harcourt for review.)

Warning: Spoiler alert.

I have, it seems, developed an insidious habit. Violating the tenets of Einstein, failing to learn from my mistakes, I continually turn to YA paranormal romances in hopes of recapturing some nebulous reading experience I’m not sure I’ve ever actually had. Perhaps you know the reading experience I mean: the YA romance that brings you as close to the protagonists’ veins as humanly possible, that involves more than just some hot, supernatural dude and the nondescript girl who loves him. Depth. Genuine emotion, heat, chemistry, conflict, etc.

Twilight. Hush, Hush. The Clearing. Need. What do these books, and countless others, have in common? Perhaps a better question: What don’t these books have in common? The formula is familiar. Displaced girl with few discernible character traits finds self in remote town (often in Maine or Washington state) crawling with paranormal activity. Her bland milkshake brings all the boys to the yard–especially paranormal/immortal boys who are repulsed by all of the ordinary girls they’ve encountered across time and space. Her parents are either absent or completely inept. She is often detached from, and even aloof toward, her peers–but they all want to befriend her, anyway.

Need falls neatly into this category. I could wax grammarian about the countless copyediting errors in this book (I mean, really, it doesn’t “phase” you, Zara?) or the epidemic of choppy transitions/syntax. But those items are the least of this book’s problem.

The characters are all just a bit too hollow, a bit too underdeveloped. The most interesting thing about Zara is her name. Aside from her lineage, the most remarkable thing about her is her pseudo-sociopolitical awareness. Leave it to a YA narrative to make someone like me, as liberal as the day is long, annoyed at a liberal protagonist. Zara is, allegedly, something of a hippie–because she wears peace sign jeans and has a moral objection to the new car her grandmother buys her (but not a strong enough objection not to fall in love with it and name it Yoko). We’re also subjected to some pretty tenuous rants about human rights and “monarchial superiority.” I like the idea of a politically aware female protagonist (this alone puts her a step above the wishy-washy Bella Swan), but this one just missed the mark for me. Zara’s dilettante-ish forays into the War on Terror, Darfur, human rights, monarchial superiority, pacifism, and phobic psychology are all too shallow to be taken seriously. As she gets in touch with her violent side, her pacifism becomes less of a character trait and more of a running joke.

But, really, the biggest problem I had with this book came on page 269. I understand that most books in this sub-genre aren’t exactly feminist manifestos, but every once in a while, a story misses the mark on such a grandiose scale that it feels irresponsible. We learn that Zara’s mother had sex with the pixie king to keep him from kidnapping other boys in the community, and a surprisingly astute Zara remarks, “So I’m basically the child of rape?” Not just “basically,” Zara. This is the legal definition of rape: forced sex with the threat of injury. From CA’s rape law: “…against a person’s will by means of force, violence, duress, menace, or fear of immediate and unlawful bodily injury on the person or another.”

But, wait a minute! Grandma, the independent woman who owned her own company and works as an EMT, corrects Zara on this fine point: “‘She was willing. She consented.’” No, really, I’m not making this up. Zara, rightfully unconvinced, replies, “‘Because she had to!’” At this point, I’m thinking, “This girl is sharp. Maybe I’ve underestimated her.” But then Grandma says, “‘She chose to save those boys, Zara. She was brave. Maybe stupid, but brave.’” End of story.

So, if I have this straight, Zara’s mother was stupid for having been raped. Nice, Grandma. This poor woman, who was forced to have sex with an evil pixie king to save the community from his reign of terror and bear his peace-sign-jeans-wearing daughter, apparently had a choice in the matter?

Unfortunately, Zara lets the matter drop without making it clear to the teenage readers tuning in all over the world that, yes, forcing someone to have sex with you by threatening harm to others is legally rape.

What else can I say? Oh, right. The most important thing. Nick is hot (and, on a more literal level, warm), and the two share a deep connection rooted in–what, exactly? I’m not sure. She thinks he’s hot, he thinks she’s cute. But that’s not all. Nick is a werewolf. Grandma is a “tyger.” Devyn is an eagle. Zara’s father is the evil pixie king. Ms. Nix is a bear. This book is an unfocused cornucopia of shifter and pixie activity.

There were compelling elements in this book, but they needed more depth. The author was at her best when she was exploring the humorous angles of her writing. I think that, perhaps, I simply expected too much from this.

Warning: Spoilers herein.

One of the first things that struck me about this book, strangely, was a technical detail: the author sets dialogue apart from the text with M-dashes rather than quotation marks. Anyone who has so much as skimmed Ulysses knows that James Joyce did the same. Perhaps Cunningham drew inspiration from that quintessential Dublin story. However, in The Sea and the Silence, dialogue often mingles with dialogue tags, descriptors, and asides with no punctuation to delineate. This was somewhat confusing at times.

The Sea and the Silence is a somewhat amorphous narrative, devoid of definition, of the sharp edges and narrative footholds that help readers to gain their bearings. At times, this gives the prose a somewhat dreamlike feel. There is some beautiful imagery, descriptive and evocative, that immerses the reader in the Irish setting. At other times, the story is somewhat difficult to follow because there is so much of importance that we do not know, and the characters we are following feel like strangers.

We spend approximately 250 pages with Iz, but even after the story ended, I felt as though I knew very little about her. The story offers enough biographical information to fill out a timeline, but not enough introspection or deep characterization to generate a connection between the reader and Iz. We follow her as she navigates the various romances in her life (Ronnie, Frank, and even Norman), but never gain a real sense of what draws her to these men. The story tells us that she and Frank “infused one another” (248), but never shows us how this is true. At another juncture, Iz says that “we had something rare and wonderful together, Ronnie, Hector and I” (49), but what little we know of Ronnie at that point hardly substantiates this claim. Overall, the story needed more showing and less telling.

The narrative makes effective use of the prevalent sociopolitical conflicts of 1940s and 1950s Ireland. Like many of the great historical epics, The Sea and the Silence illuminates how this macrocosmic unrest manifests itself in the microcosm. Iz experiences love, but political forces greater than herself cut short that relationship. She finds herself engaged to a man she does not love in the name of financial security and appeasement of her meddling family. Ultimately, she marries a man who is utterly wrong for her to mask an out-of-wedlock pregnancy–and lives to regret it when he turns out to be a philanderer with a gambling problem. Unfortunately, we learn these things out of order, and it isn’t until the story ends that we have any sense of how Iz has ended up where she is.

(Disclaimer: I received the galley proofs of this book from GemmaMedia for review.)

I opened this book with high hopes. I tend to be a sucker for YA romances, particularly those with a paranormal slant. However, given the supersaturation of the YA market with paranormal romances right now, I ought to have read this with more realistic expectations.

You have probably read this book before. A first-person heroine with very few distinctive character traits, talents, or goals. A new start in a new town at a new school. A feeling of detachment from her classmates and a failure to find mere mortals romantically viable. A young woman with irresponsible/emotionally unavailable parents. This is a highly derivative read, one that will likely draw comparisons with Twilight and The Time Traveler’s Wife (which I have not read, but even the bare plot elements strike me as similar). It bears mentioning that the book actually makes a tongue-in-cheek allusion to Twilight.

Amy is, on many levels, Bella Swan–albeit, with a much darker past. Like Bella, she is a rather nondescript brunette with no real goals. Like Bella, she lives in northern Washington state while her mother lives in Phoenix with her stepfather. Like Bella, she attracts every eligible male who crosses her path (including Matt, Henry, Jackson, and Quinn). And, like Bella, she spurns the advances of perfectly eligible mortals in favor of the supernatural boy who strikes her fancy (not to denigrate Henry, who is quite likable despite the sometimes excessive ’40s-speak). Though Amy is aloof with even her most well-meaning classmates, she is told that these people “need a friend like you” (179). So much of Amy’s characterization is done through telling rather than showing.

Amy has a Seattle-sized chip on her shoulder. Her ex-boyfriend, Matt, was physically abusive, and her somewhat vacuous mother did little to help her. Unfortunately, the story doesn’t explore the relationship violence angle in sufficient depth. Countless young women are going to read this book, and many of them may have had direct or indirect experience with this harrowing issue. YA escapist fiction doesn’t need to be a narrative public service announcement, but it should give due narrative attention to such a serious issue.

Without spoiling the ending, I will say that the story leaves much unresolved. Other elements are resolved with a lightning-fast stroke of the pen. Though I tend to enjoy stories with ambiguous, unpredictable, or bittersweet endings (I detest “big red bow” endings), there were certain plot elements that dropped off the map too quickly.

I tend to be very critical (perhaps even picky) when it comes to love stories, so take my words with a grain of salt. The romance between Henry and Amy is certainly compelling, and not without some suspense as the two struggle with the time issue. If you don’t mind a story reminiscent of books you have read in the past, or if you are looking for a book like Twilight or The Time Traveler’s Wife, you will likely enjoy this.

(Disclaimer: I received the galley proofs of this book from Houghton Mifflin Harcourt for review.)

The Song of the Whales explores the relationship between a grandfather and grandson in Israel. This is a short novel, episodic in pacing. Much of the narrative qualifies as a novel-in-dreams.

Mikha’el has never quite fit in with his American classmates, instead spending his free time with various adult friends. When he moves to Israel, that trend continues as he forms an instant bond with his grandfather and continues to correspond with his American friends. The pacing is a bit jarring–after forty pages of setup, the author finally gets to the crux of the story and begins to introduce the dream element. Then, events transpire at breakneck speed, with one dream sequence after another to set up the ending. Inexplicably, the narrative switches to Madame Saupier’s point of view for a brief scene. These pacing elements make the narrative feel a bit chaotic at points.

The story establishes a strong, viable connection between Mikha’el and his grandfather. Perhaps most compelling is his grandfather’s dark side, which manifests itself as an alternate persona in their shared dreams. It is this alternate persona that resolves the Madame Saupier storyline.

Aptly, the narrative is dreamlike, sometimes blurring the edges of dreams and the “really real” world. Because the story takes place in Israel, some more establishment of setting would have helped to immerse the reader more fully in Mikha’el’s new world.

Some of the ancillary relationships in this novel could have used more development, particularly that between Mikha’el’s grandfather and Madame Saupier. Why does he keep her around for so many years when he no longer loves her and she believes that his beloved grandson is little more than a germ carrier? What drew them together in the first place? For her to stay in his household for so many years, there must have been something substantial between them once. Her character might have taken on more dimension with some development of her back-story. In the absence of such development, she feels somewhat superfluous in this story.

Overall, The Song of the Whales is a poignant read. There are some errors in execution, but the prevailing message is an important one for young readers: It is okay to be unique. Pursue it. Embrace it.

(Disclaimer: I received the galley proofs of this book from Houghton Mifflin Books for Children for review.)

Clutter. Compulsive shopping. Perfectionism. Avoidance. Unused Rubbermaid™ boxes. Andy Warhol.

Welcome to the world of hoarding.

Stuff is an ambitious undertaking. Psychologists Randy Frost and Gail Steketee, who specialize in hoarding behavior, explore multiple facets of this puzzling psychological disorder. Drawing upon various case studies spanning decades of field work, Frost narrates this harrowing journey through piles of accumulated stuff. Hoarding is no obscure illness–according to Frost, up to five percent of the population may qualify as hoarders.

The documentary-style hoarding series on A&E and TLC scratch the surface of this disorder. Stuff explores its depths. Frost and Steketee examine the illness from several angles, including the psychological, sociological, gerontological, genetic, ethological, and neuroscientific. There is no catch-all cause; therefore, there is no catch-all solution. To make matters more complex, hoarding is often comorbid with depression, social anxiety, impulse control disorders, autism, Asberger’s, OCD, and ADHD (among others).

Hoarders, Frost tells us, have grandiose plans for the trash/treasures they collect. A chrome pipe and band saw may eventually become a sawdust-free band saw. Heaps of vintage dolls may eventually undergo restoration for donation to the Salvation Army. There is a disconnect between the sheer volume of intention-laden items and available time to follow through with those intentions.

Perhaps most intriguing is the underlying perfectionism in many hoarders. Many in this book are germophobes. Irene, the most prominently featured hoarder in Stuff, walks around with a moist towelette, swiping clean any item or surface that has been touched. Also intriguing is the idea of clutter blindness (i.e., the mounds of items becoming the visual equivalent of white noise to the hoarder), a concept rarely explored in the television shows.

Hoarding is puzzling. It is harrowing. It is, as evidenced by the mounting popularity of hoarding documentary shows, fascinating. Frost makes no grandiose declarations and offers no catch-all solution to this problem. After years of field work and research, he understands the complexities of the disease and its resistance to treatment.

While Stuff may not offer a catch-all solution, it may just be a catch-all read. Hoarders will identify with the case study participants, family members will recognize their loved ones in these individuals, and those with an academic interest in hoarding will find interesting material herein. The narrative is presented in straightforward language accessible to most readers, and there is a comprehensive reference list at the end of the book for those who wish to read further.

(Disclaimer: I received the galleys of this book from Houghton Mifflin Harcourt.)

**Spoiler Alert**

What I find most striking about this story is its gradual shift from remoteness to civilization. Much of this novel celebrates nature and simplicity–larks, inkstones, shamisen music, mountains, hot springs, etc. However, Soseki foreshadows the eventual return to civilization with momentary auditory interruptions: the unnerving ticking of a pocket watch under a pillow, the piercing sound of gunshots in the distance. Thus, he hints at the existence of advanced technology in this world without confronting the reader directly with it. Throughout much of the story, technology is behind a a veil–or, perhaps more apt, a fusuma (a paper-covered sliding door). Without these jarring auditory interruptions, we might imagine ourselves in a time long past, before firearm warfare and the carving up of the countryside in the name of innovation.

At the end of the story, however, the fusuma opens and we are “dragged back more and more into the world of reality” (181) with the arrival of a steam train: “There was a rumbling sound, and belching black smoke from its mouth, a serpent born of civilization came slithering its way over the silver rails” (183). There are “acrid fumes of burnt powder” and the “unnatural thunder” of the steam engine (183). Soseki inundates the narrative with sensory imagery, accosting readers with the industrial reality of this world after dodging a direct confrontation with it for so long.

Perhaps most interesting is the “I” narrator’s inconsistency, reflective of a struggle between Eastern tradition and Western influence. He claims to favor the honesty and lack of dramatic excess in Eastern art; however, so much of what he sees reminds him of a Western poem, play, or painting. He shuns human emotion as vulgar and anathema to art, yet cannot finish his painting until he sees a flash of feeling on O-Nami’s face. “I” celebrates this moment: “‘That’s it! That’s it! Now that you can express that feeling, you are worth painting,’ I whispered, patting her on the shoulder. It was at that very moment that the picture in my mind received its final touch” (184).

(Warning: Spoiler Alert)

Naomi is a character so controversial that she spawned a social movement in Japan: Naomi-ism. She represented a sea change in the state of Japanese womanhood, a shift from timidness to temerity, a strong pull toward Western mores and fashions.

However, for all her archetypal significance, Naomi is not likable. Neither, for that matter, is Joji. They are the unfortunate byproducts of a society of split cultural allegiances–some clinging to traditional Japanese expectations and others siphoning off the glitziest bits of Western culture. Joji is simultaneously seduced and repulsed by this. He finds Naomi’s Western name and appearance fascinating, yet clings to the belief that “Japanese should marry Japanese.” Yet he spends hours each day drilling Naomi on her English lessons, sometimes resorting to verbal abuse when she misspeaks. He is a ball of cultural confusion.

Naomi is more (or, perhaps more accurately, less) than a symbol of Westernization. She is also cunning, promiscuous, manipulative, deceitful, and disloyal. However, because we witness this strange marriage through Joji’s eyes only, we can only guess at the depths of his neurosis. This is a man who fantasizes about crawling around with Naomi on his back like a child riding a horse, who takes her in at age fifteen to “raise her” with the intention of one day marrying her. There is a decidedly unnerving father-daughter dynamic between them (Naomi calls him “Papa”). However, despite having been cuckolded on countless occasions, Joji is hardly a victim, as evidenced by the following scene: “I hadn’t expected her to be so quick to beg forgiveness. Taken by surprise, I grew even more enraged. I began to pummel her with my fists” (170).

Like La Confession Impudique (known as The Key in English), Naomi peels away layers of artifice to expose marital nitty-gritty. It is the novel that put Tanizaki on the map. The narrative traverses the peaks and valleys of this strange, dysfunctional relationship, never falling into the trap of vilifying one spouse to sanctify the other.