Review by Finola McLean of "Turtles All the Way Down" by John Green

Turtles All the Way Down by John Green, at the start, presents itself as a typical teen mystery novel. By the end, it is perhaps anything but. After being motivated by her best friend Daisy, Aza is persuaded to start looking for a local missing billionaire, who happens to be the father of her old childhood friend, Davis Pickett, with whom she later develops a romantic connection. The story slowly evolves into a coming-of-age tale full of developing relationships, friendship struggles and emotional moments.

This book is incredibly well written and incredibly compelling. One of biggest complaints about this book is that "there is no plot"; however I think this actually works really well in the context of the narrative. The story does not have a clear climax or resolution but rather meanders and suddenly spikes and then continues, just like real life. It makes the book feel incredibly true and relatable to our own experiences (despite never hunting down a billionaire myself) and makes the characters feel very vivid and relatable for the intended audience. Worries about homework, upcoming college applications and money, permeating the story also add to this effect. I do enjoy that there is a satisfying conclusion to both the beginning mystery and the relationships that surround the protagonist, despite the atypical format of the rest of the book. I also like the insistence at the end of the book that, despite this chapter being over, there is truly no perfect ending and that life indeed just goes on with both the highs and the lows.

Still, in my opinion, the reason this book works so well is because of its characters and how their relationships evolve over the course of the story. Aza, the point-of-view character, is compelling and interesting, not because of any special characteristic but because of her normalcy and relatability while still being her own character with personality traits and flaws. She has both great  insight and great inexperience. This can especially be seen with her relationship to best friend Daisy which is a highlight of the book for me. The way they argue, without a clear correct view point, and the way they then make up again despite their differences is incredibly heartwarming and thought out extremely well.

One of the biggest talking points talking points about the novel is the depiction of the main character's mental illness, specifically obsessive compulsive disorder. This was probably the part of the novel I enjoyed the most. It is brilliantly executed. Because of the first person point of view, you are put into Aza’s mind and get a real sense of the torment that she faces everyday. And because of that she is incredibly humanised even in moments that would appear nonsensical to an outside observer.

All in all, this is a really great book that I would certainly recommend.

About the reviewer

Finola McLean is a sixth-form student currently studying History, Classical Civilisations and Latin at A-Level. She has a great passion for books and reading especially while sitting next to her cat. 

Review by Paul Taylor-McCartney of "The Lady of Atlantis" by Constantine

 

Atlantis is one of those stories so deeply embedded in the imagination that it can be difficult to approach it without the weight of everything that has come before. We think of a lost civilisation, catastrophe, mystery and the irresistible possibility that somewhere beneath the myth there may have been a real place. In The Lady of Atlantis, Constantine takes that familiar legend and brings it back to human scale. 

The novel is inspired by the archaeology of Akrotiri and by what the author describes as his own interpretations of Minoan writings, but its real strength lies in the attempt to imagine what such a world might have felt like from within. Thira is not presented merely as a doomed civilisation waiting to become archaeology. It is a living society, with its own beliefs, customs, relationships, expectations and hierarchies, inhabited by people who naturally assume that their world will continue. 

At its centre is Sa-ra, a young priestess who has always heard voices. Within her culture this gives her a particular spiritual authority, yet the novel is interested in more than the mechanics of prophecy. Sa-ra’s gift is connected to intuition, judgement and an ability to perceive what other people sometimes cannot articulate for themselves. This gives the spiritual dimension of the book an appealing ambiguity. The author does not simply reduce ancient belief to superstition viewed through modern eyes, nor does he demand that everything be understood in straightforwardly supernatural terms. Instead, belief is allowed to exist as part of the fabric of Sa-ra’s world. That, for me, is one of the more interesting aspects of the novel. The prose has a deliberately simple, formal quality which suits Sa-ra’s world and helps maintain a sense of historical distance. There are moments when that register may require a little adjustment, particularly for younger readers, but it also prevents the setting from feeling overly modern. Importantly, it is balanced by humour, warmth and moments of very recognisable human behaviour. 

Historical fiction about the ancient world can sometimes make its characters feel suspiciously contemporary. Here, there is a genuine attempt to imagine a society operating according to different assumptions. The place of women, religious practice, ideas about marriage and social responsibility are not treated simply as curiosities but as ordinary elements of Sa-ra’s experience. At the same time, the emotional concerns remain immediately recognisable. People love, doubt, worry, desire approval and try to understand what their futures might contain. In one early episode, a woman seeks Sa-ra’s guidance over which man she should marry. What matters about the scene is not the prediction itself, but Sa-ra’s understanding that prophecy cannot remove the uncertainty inherent in human relationships. Marriage, she recognises, will always contain both unforeseen hardship and unexpected happiness. It is characteristic of the book’s wider approach: grand ideas are repeatedly brought back to individual lives. 

Of course, that becomes especially significant because the reader knows something the characters do not. The world of Thira is unstable. The mountain is stirring and catastrophe is approaching. Yet life continues around it. People make plans, form relationships and imagine futures. It is this contrast between the enormous scale of what is coming and the ordinary lives being lived beneath it that gives the story much of its poignancy. There is something particularly affecting about treating Atlantis not primarily as a mystery to be solved, but as a home that people believed was permanent.

The novel also raises interesting questions about the relationship between myth and history. Atlantis has accumulated centuries of speculation, reinvention and fantasy. By rooting his version in Thira and Akrotiri, the author imagines the legend as a possible echo of real experience: a prosperous society, a natural catastrophe and memories transformed in their transmission. We tend to encounter ancient civilisations after their stories have ended. We know which cities disappeared, which cultures changed and which disasters came. The people themselves possessed none of that hindsight. They experienced their lives forwards, surrounded by all the uncertainty, hope and expectation with which we experience our own. The Lady of Atlantis understands that distinction. Its most affecting idea is therefore also its simplest: before Atlantis became legend, it was somebody’s present. And Sa-ra’s world matters not because we know it will be lost, but because to her – and to everyone around her – it is still entirely alive.

About the reviewer
Paul Taylor-McCartney is a writer, researcher and lecturer. His interests include dystopian literature, queer studies, YA fiction and initial teacher education. His poetry, short fiction and academic articles have appeared in a wide range of print and electronic media, and fiction titles he recently worked on as commissioning editor have won regional readers’ and publishers’ awards. His debut novel, Sisters of the Pentacle, was published by Hermitage Press in 2022, and his first non-fiction title, Cornwall Uncharted: Mapping Cornwall’s Queer History of Concealment, Culture and Creativity, was published by The History Press (June 2026).

You can read more about The Lady of Atlantis by Constantine on Creative Writing at Leicester here. 

Review by Mariella Bucci of "Rottenheart" by Kat Dunn

After chomping through Hungerstone and going to Kat Dunn’s author talk in Birmingham Waterstones, I picked up a signed copy of her new novel Rottenheart, a Victorian sapphic retelling of Hamlet with a fun gender-swapped twist. Somehow, despite Hungerstone being a violent vampiric tale, this one felt notably darker, which perhaps makes sense considering the prevalent themes of grief, hysteria and corruption woven through the original play and this Victorian version. 

Something that really stuck with me during Dunn’s talk was the concept of ghosts as the mind becoming an unreliable narrator, conjuring visions that reflect a tormented inner psyche and the terror of no longer being able to trust your own senses. Without spoiling the ending, this certainly comes through clearly in Rottenheart, with Odette’s haunting grief turning her to a revenge-driven shadow of herself, and the tragic Cecilia as she tries to pull her lover back from the brink. 

I particularly enjoyed the disjointed structure of the novel, jumping back and forth in time from either side of Lydia’s death, and how even the villains contained a fraction more nuance and depth compared to those in Hungerstone. My only complaint would be it was a touch long with little action in places, but I suppose that is only accurate to the themes of the original play after all – and here, the hesitation actually makes sense considering the gender-swap, and only adds to the poignancy of Odette’s pain as she rails to be understood by a society that discounts her female perspective over and over again.

About the reviewer

Mariella Bucci is a writer and creative based in the West Midlands. She is drawn to the understanding and analysis of what makes a compelling story in any medium, from her work in the film and television industry to essays and reviews on her Substack, @mariellamusings. Offline, you will most often find her nose-deep in a novel between sets at the gym.

Review by Mariella Bucci of "Hungerstone" by Kat Dunn

I discovered this sapphic retelling of Carmilla by Sheridan le Fanu via a YouTube video by one of my favourite cultural analysis creators Shanspeare, titled "Let Women Eat (Flesh): Cannibalism in Fiction." Within two chapters of reading, I experienced the same voracious hunger for this story that both Shania and the novel’s protagonist, Lenore, cannot quell. 

Dunn has a beautiful and intriguing narrative voice, crafting landscape and character and dialogue in scenes that read like haunting Gothic tapestries. Hungerstone is a Bayeux-like narrative that tracks Lenore’s journey towards reclaiming her power, against the backdrop of a life of people-pleasing and suppressing her deepest desires and wants. Like all good Gothic literature – and it was my specialist subject in my Literature degree – the cast is suitably archetypal, from the villainous husband Henry to the waifish, naive friend Cora. But the star of the show is of course, Carmilla herself. Dunn never uses the word "vampire," but she doesn’t need to. Carmilla is romantic, seductive and transgressive, and you feel the shift from annoyance to empowerment in Lenore from Carmilla’s careful encouragement / manipulation.

The novel is medium-paced, with the plot interspersed by flashbacks to Lenore’s childhood, and the ending is appropriately gory and thoroughly satisfying. Even though I read this in the height of summer, I already feel an autumnal, rain-spattered, candlelit re-read coming – as Dunn surely intended.

About the reviewer

Mariella Bucci is a writer and creative based in the West Midlands. She is drawn to the understanding and analysis of what makes a compelling story in any medium, from her work in the film and television industry to essays and reviews on her Substack, @mariellamusings. Offline, you will most often find her nose-deep in a novel between sets at the gym.

Review by Nancy Dawkins of "In Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens" by Katherine Howey

"Beggin’ pardon, Miss, why’s a respectable young lady like you a-going to the Pleasure Gardens? Don’t you know they has the most prodigious bad reputation, and ain’t no place for a lady unaccompanied?" Katherine Howey’s debut novel, In Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens, follows Lucinda, a young soldier’s daughter, who arrives in London in the late 1700s after fleeing the American Revolutionary wars. Lucinda begins, it seems, as a typical historical heroine: naïve, thrown into a new and unfamiliar world, tasked with learning a new job as a seamstress. Her forays into society and the meeting of a wealthy gentlemen may set a reader up to believe that a Cinderella story is about to unfold. Perhaps, after meeting with a few trifling difficulties, Lucinda will get married and all will be tied in a neat Austen-like bow? But who is the mysterious doctor, William Browne, who bursts, singing and swinging, onto the page? 

The realities of being a woman in the eighteenth century, and of the harsh divisions of class in that time, become immediately apparent as Lucinda’s fairytale turns dark. A sudden and misunderstood illness strikes Lucinda, leaving her unable to perform her roles, either as a seamstress, or as an eligible woman in society. What follows for Lucinda is a Dickensian fall through the cracks of London. For a modern reader, it is clear that Lucinda’s illness resembles a chronic disability like M. E. or fibromyalgia, but to her contemporaries in the book, her illness is incomprehensible, appearing fabricated even. In Vauxhall pleasure Garden does not shy away from the traumatic realities of being a young woman, alone and disabled, in times gone by. Lucinda is not a perfect heroine, she is frequently disempowered, doesn’t know where to turn, and chooses the wrong people to trust. Nevertheless, she manages to support herself in inventive ways, and forge friendships and a life, however unconventional. 

In Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens tells a story that is often missing from historical fiction, the story of a woman who did not, and who because of disability could not, follow the paths laid out for women in that time, but who managed to survive. I finished the novel, the first in a series, ready to read the second, wondering what lies ahead for Lucinda; what really happened to William Browne, will Alex Henderson find her at the Inn, and will she see Jem again?

About the reviewer
Nancy Dawkins is a poet and musician from Leicester. Her writing has been published in print and online, including in The Leicester Literary Review and Heroica. She was shortlisted for the inaugural role of Leicester Poet Laureate in 2025, and was longlisted for the Glastonbury Emerging Talent Competition 2024. 

You can read more about In Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens by Katherine Howey on Creative Writing at Leicester here. 

Review by Rebecca Nolten of "Yesteryear" by Caro Claire Burke

Yesteryear is unlike anything I have ever read. Rarely has a protagonist been so immediately, spectacularly unlikeable. Natalie hooks you through her sheer vanity and inflated ego, then drags you by the hair through the calamity of her life.

For you, dear reader, in picking up Yesteryear, have become one of the "angry women." As you devour this tantalising read, you become engrossed in a cocktail of disbelief, outrage, and Schadenfreude.

Natalie Heller Mills is a "tradwife" influencer who preaches about the glory days of knit-your-own-yoghurt traditionalism to her online fanbase, made up of seething "bad" modern women and envious "good" Christian wives. She does so while surrounded by her gaggle of home-schooled children and her good ol’ cowboy husband, Caleb. They live on Yesteryear Ranch — a haven of home-baked bread, organic American farming, Christian domesticity, and … a mega media machine.

Behind the scenes, there are nannies, producers, and immigrant field workers keeping this titanic ship afloat, all hidden from public view. Yesteryear Ranch’s success is accredited exclusively to Natalie, Caleb, and their supposedly secure, godly marriage – secretly marred by disappointing sex, deep-seated loathing, and an affair that threatens to destroy everything.

The Nara-Smith-of-it-all comes to a screeching halt when Natalie is inexplicably transported to the Pioneer days she so idolised.

It is 1855.

"This is my home. This is not my home" — Natalie finds herself on a ramshackle farm set against the same Idaho hills as Yesteryear Ranch. In this world, Natalie has four children: Maeve, Mary, Abel, and Noah. They are so reminiscent of her own, and yet they are not hers. "Old Caleb" completes the uncanny scene — a burly version of Natalie’s husband who works the land, breeds her "like a barnyard animal," and hits her when she disobeys him.

The novel flips back and forth between these two realities: the modern illusion of traditionalism — filtered through hate comments, internet fame, and carefully curated images — and the harsh, bare-bones existence of true traditionalism, with all its scrubbing, kneading, and inescapable boredom.

But Natalie fails to reach anagnorisis. In fact, as the novel progresses, she becomes enveloped — oddly charmed, even — by her new life. While she initially questions whether this is the work of time travel or some hellishly elaborate reality TV stunt, she eventually comes to believe that it is by Divine design that she is destined to live in this "authentic" world.

But what of the fame? The hunger for attention? The desperate need for an audience? That is the one thing that leaves Natalie wanting: to be perceived. Because if there is one thing her audience of "angry women" loves to do, it’s watch her.

Yesteryear’s sharp, bitter first-person prose tears apart the fallacies of the American dream, traditional gender roles, political messaging, the Church, and our online personas. It encompasses all of this without ever losing the reader’s attention, and as much as you may want to, you cannot tear your eyes away from the car crash that is Natalie Heller Mills.

A blisteringly funny and unnervingly perceptive debut, Yesteryear cements Caro Claire Burke as a voice to watch. I, for one, cannot wait to see what she writes next.

About the reviewer
Rebecca Nolten is a Modern and Medieval Languages graduate from the University of Cambridge (Girton College). She has worked across editorial, copywriting, translation, and arts publishing, with a particular focus on storytelling and visual culture. She is especially interested in translation, art history, and the ways in which stories move across languages, cultures, and media. Outside work, she enjoys illustration, reading, and visiting galleries and exhibitions.

Review by Hannah Kimmins of "Ordinary Saints" by Niamh Ní Mhaoileoin

"The first time I kissed a girl, my brother died": Years after her older brother Ferdia’s tragic death, Jay has moved from her hometown in Ireland and is living in London with her girlfriend, trying to live her most authentic life without religious constriction. However, when her parents inform her that there’s a campaign to canonise Ferdia, she can no longer run away from her grief. What follows is a battle between her brother’s death and her own life. 

Ordinary Saints is anything but ordinary. It is a complex, messy yet measured conversation about the role of religion in society and how it can both bring families together and tear them apart. Jay could also be described by these three words: complex, messy, yet measured. The author never lets you get too close to her, which from my perspective is purposeful - you never fully sympathise with her, or her parents, or even Ferdia. You see all of their beauty and their flaws, and the debate becomes more about the role of religion from a micro and macro lens rather than the morals of the individuals, which helps the reader form their own opinion. The humans are at the heart of the story; not God. 

This is a truly special story, and a truly accomplished debut novel from Niamh Ní Mhaoileoin. Despite the main story being about sainthood, reading it felt overwhelmingly real - like it could happen to you, or a friend, or someone in your community. It also contemplated the relationship between queerness and Catholicism, succeeding in not pitching them against each other, but instead finding where they intersect. Once again, the reader is encouraged to form their own opinions on the characters and concepts within the novel. Do not be mistaken; this novel is not neutral. It has a voice. However, the reader is encouraged to have their own voice too. 

If you’re looking for an original story that will stay with you long after you’ve turned the last page, Ordinary Saints is a modern gem that should not be missed. 

About the reviewer
Hannah Kimmins is a scouse writer and was a Waterstones bookseller for 7 years. She has been reviewing books since she was 15 years old, and continues to live and breathe books. She has a Masters degree in English and is graduating with a Masters in Psychology this year. More than anything else, she loves to learn. 

Review by Isabelle McIntyre of "Demon Copperhead" by Barbara Kingsolver

If you hadn’t already clocked from the title, Demon Copperhead is inspired by Charles Dickens’ partly autobiographical David Copperfield, published in 1850 and a personal favourite of Dickens among his own novels. Kingsolver has created a truly visionary re-envisioning, following the original plot almost to the letter but in a cleverly modernised format: swapping the workhouse for meth labs, Victorian charity schools for foster care, industrial exploitation for the opioid epidemic, cobblestone streets for Dollar Generals as our protagonist narrates his life from childhood to maturity, chronicling the highs and lows (and they are low) of his upbringing in modern day Appalachia.

Our main character has been dealt an extremely unlucky hand. Just when you think Demon is at rock bottom, the bottom bottoms out. I particularly loved the line "The wonder is that you could start life with nothing, end with nothing, and lose so much in between." Yet what struck me about Demon’s endless struggles was how refreshing it was to see him portrayed, not as a martyr for foster kids or poster-boy for poverty, but as a human being that was often bitter, vengeful, acerbic, and angry at his fate. Through it all, Demon is not perfect, he is fallible, exhausted by the uphill battle of his life, yet always incredibly resilient. For me, the sentiment behind his indomitable spirit hit home in regards to my own experiences in life, from losing my own mother and a plethora of other personal challenges.

For 550 wild and wonderful pages, Demon’s unfortunate reality is your reality. No matter how much we want to pretend that we can keep the bad fortune at bay and protect our privilege through our own virtue, this novel is an intense reminder that we are all at the mercy of sheer dumb luck – and we don’t have to be happy about it, despite what toxic positivity self-help books would tell you. I’d love to personally thank Barbara Kingsolver for writing this nuanced and compassionate book as I genuinely believe it’s one of those novels that changes the way you think forever. Isn’t that what reading books is about? To escape your own life to step into someone else’s shoes, and come back all the better for it. 

About the reviewer
Isabelle McIntyre is a publishing hopeful and currently working as a Bookseller with Waterstones. She reads a wide variety of titles but particularly enjoys literary fiction, with some her of favourite authors including Donna Tartt, Barbara Kingsolver, John Boyne, Lionel Shriver, and Joanna Glen. She has a BA in Politics and Spanish and takes pleasure in engaging with a range of international and political perspectives in her reading and the Substack blog she writes, Read Receipts.

Review by Isabelle McIntyre of "East of Eden" by John Steinbeck

East of Eden is one of the most divisive modern classics going. Its intensity has created two opposing camps - those who love it, and those who hate it – for there is simply no middle ground when it comes to this legendary family saga. I confess myself firmly in the "love it" camp, devouring the whopping 700 pages in just under two weeks and it has remained in my mind ever since. 

I would argue that the beauty of this novel is its pacing. It’s long – in fact, the vast majority of East of Eden is a garrulous and digressive labyrinth of several generations of side plots, monologuing, and contextual development. Yet, in our impatient modern world where we need everything faster and faster, craving instant gratification and battling ever shorter attention spans, East of Eden takes its time. It plods. It meanders. It stands atop the hill and enjoys the view. 

Specifically, the view of the Salinas Valley. One of the most primary and widely acknowledged achievements of East of Eden is its ability to bottle the sights, sounds, and smells of the Californian "salad bowl" region, so named because of its agricultural wonders and fertile soil. Steinbeck had a deep love of place, endeavouring to capture on the page both the breath-taking scenery of his homeland, as well as the human history behind the hardships of a rural existence and the complexities of agrarian development. In the two major families in East of Eden, the Trasks and the Hamiltons, Steinbeck weaves personal history with the broader narrative of the region. Despite having never set foot in the state, I was overwhelmed with a sensory overload of the Salinas Valley through his poetic homage to the area, starting from the very first page. 

I also adored the sprawling, tapestry-esque depiction of families, with all their flaws and quirks and eccentricities. I gasped aloud at the descriptions of the characters, because it was as if I was hearing my own abstract thoughts articulated into beautiful, expressive prose. I had shivers at the idea that a person who died half a century before I was even born could possibly have written down a thought that I had once had, whose words could speak to a feeling I imagined only I knew.

Furthermore, I think the overwhelming spiritual essence of the book is its defining feature. For me, it transcends your everyday books into the realm of the classic, the American mythos, the literary greats. It feels almost primordial. East of Eden is about interrogating human nature and finding the abiding human spirit, and that is simply a big old topic, and it feels deep and intense despite the whimsical prose and eccentric characters. Steinbeck carries you along his narrative river, sweeping you up in the gentle flow of rich world-building, and then drops you off the edge of the metaphorical waterfall with a bewildering, visceral nugget of wisdom that elevates this book far beyond a restrictive literary agenda.

In summary, I loved East of Eden. Straight to the top 5. It did everything a book should - it made me laugh, made me cry, made me think, most importantly it made me feel. It’s inspired me to read more modern classics and release them from the shackles of sleepy English Literature classes world over, because this book felt modern, important, and completely unique.

About the reviewer
Isabelle McIntyre is a publishing hopeful and currently working as a Bookseller with Waterstones. She reads a wide variety of titles but particularly enjoys literary fiction, with some her of favourite authors including Donna Tartt, Barbara Kingsolver, John Boyne, Lionel Shriver, and Joanna Glen. She has a BA in Politics and Spanish and takes pleasure in engaging with a range of international and political perspectives in her reading and the Substack blog she writes, Read Receipts.

Review by Anupriya Sisodia of "The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo" by Taylor Jenkins Reid

 

She didn’t just appear on my reading list. She stormed in, a living scandal in emerald silk, lips unapologetically red. 

When I started The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugou, I expected nothing more than glamor, gossip, and old-Hollywood fantasy: a familiar, dramatic, romantic escape. I thought I knew exactly what I was getting into, but I was completely wrong. The book gave me all that, plus an entertaining glimpse into scandalous fame, and then surprised me by delivering crushing sorrow and dazzling hope in equal measure. 

From the very first lines, Evelyn Hugo caught my attention with a magnetic, almost dangerous grip, a presence so dynamic I could feel her reaching off the page, refusing to let me go. She was never soft or gentle, and not always easy to like. Still, I found myself rooting for her, even when sometimes her choices left scorched earth behind. She never begged for love. She was ambition incarnate, sharp, strategic, stubborn, brave, and sometimes selfish in ways that cut uncomfortably close to reality.

What drew me in even more was her strong desire for control. She wanted fame, freedom, love, security, and power in a world where women paid a price for ambition. Her life was full of choices that blurred the line between right and wrong, and the book didn’t offer easy answers; it just simply laid bare the consequences. Evelyn felt less like a fictional character and more like a real Hollywood legend, both adored and judged, sculpted into an icon before being seen as a person and never truly understood. 

Evelyn shares her life story through interviews with journalist Monique Grant, and this storytelling style is one of the novel’s greatest strengths. The format made everything feel startlingly real and personal, almost like hearing a confession you weren’t supposed to hear, but there you were, sitting across from Evelyn Hugo herself, mascara slightly smudged, voice calm but dangerous, as she finally decided to tell the truth she buried for decades. With magazine clippings and flashbacks, the story started to feel like real history. It truly seemed as if Evelyn Hugo could have existed in Hollywood, or that someone like her did, and I was learning the truth behind years of glamorous, messy rumours.

Despite the title, this story isn’t really about the seven husbands. Each was just a mirror, a season, a chapter in Evelyn’s life, never the main focus or a big romance. Some marriages were planned, others were for convenience or were performances for an industry trying to control her. But none ever defined or truly possessed her. They simply revolved around her, showing the many versions she had to create to survive in a world that expected women to give up pieces of themselves to succeed.

Spoiler alert: the true heartbreak in the story was Celia St. James. Their love story blindsided me and left me deeply moved. Their passion was a wildfire: wild, beautiful, intense, all-consuming, and utterly devastating. They kept coming back to each other, even though pride, fear, and timing kept pulling them apart. Every reunion sparked hope, every parting left a hollow ache. It was a love so desperate, so human, that it haunted me. Love was a knife, and the world never let them put it down, reminding me that love alone was never enough to save us, especially in a world that never played fair with women. 

Then there is Harry Cameron, who was one of Evelyn’s husbands and a steady and loyal friend to her. A calm in her storm. His kindness and friendship grounded her, so when he died, the grief was overwhelming. I remember staring at the page, shocked, because his loss hurt far more than I ever expected.

The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo is dazzling, sharp, heartbreaking, and unflinchingly honest. It made me laugh, feel pain, and even brought me to tears. Most of all, it showed me that people are never just one thing. We are a storm of contradictions. We all have wounds, dreams, hope, and heartbreak. And this book never lets Evelyn Hugo be easily defined or caged by labels. She is grief, ambition, raw longing, defiant love, and relentless survival all at once. By the end, the woman in emerald silk refused to be just a headline. She demanded to be remembered as a person: flawed, fierce, complicated, and unapologetically herself. 

And long after I closed the book, she stayed with me. I know she always will.

About the interviewer 
Anupriya Sisodia is a published romance fiction author, pursuing an MA in Creative Writing at the University of Leicester. She is an avid reader who loves writing stories with realistic, relatable characters who embark on emotional and exciting journeys toward happily-ever-afters.

This review was awarded an "honorable mention" in our 2026 Student Book Review Competition, held in conjunction with the Centre for New Writing at the University of Leicester. 

Review by Rim Asma Khalifa of "And the Mountains Echoed" by Khaled Hosseini

Khaled Hosseini is an author who doesn't just tell a story but writes about lives marked by tragedy. I have recently come to enjoy his book And the Mountain Echoed, which follows the relationship between Abdullah and Pari, two inseparable siblings who care deeply for each other, with no mother and a father who struggles to give them a life in Afghanistan. Abdullah will always bring a smile to Pari's face, even if it's a small feather that brings her happiness in the journey of loss and fate.

This book differs from Hosseini's other works, as each chapter follows a different character from a different perspective, exploring their fragmented lives and how they connect to the main plot. This gave insight into how others perceive themselves and how they feel about the varied challenges they face. One character I found myself feeling particular empathy for was Parwana (Abdullah and Pari’s stepmother). She was a character I didn’t like initially; in fact, her actions made me think she was horrible. However, reading about her childhood and the major decision she made weighed heavily on the rest of the book.

Moreover, I greatly enjoyed the sibling relationship that Pari and Abduallah shared. It reminded me of my brother a lot and how he cared for me. The writing conveyed his deep affection for his sister and his longing for a better life for her. Abduallah is not only a selfless character but also one who matured even at a young age. The situation he faces is disastrous, but Hosseini always makes it clear that hope lies with these characters.

Overall, this book tells a deep story that will make you long for more. It captures love, relationships, family, and pain that will make you cry for the characters' lives.

About the reviewer
Rim Asma Khalifa is an undergraduate BA English student from the University of Leicester. She enjoys reading, shopping, and crafting story ideas.

This review was awarded an "honorable mention" in our 2026 Student Book Review Competition, held in conjunction with the Centre for New Writing at the University of Leicester. 

Review by Aamani Bommareddy of "Vicky Angel" by Jacqueline Wilson

"I shut my eyes but I can still hear her. I put my hands over my ears but I can still hear her. I can run and run and run but I’ll never be able to get away from her." Jacqueline Wilson’s poignant children's novel Vicky Angel follows fourteen-year-old Jade Marshall as she navigates life after her best friend Vicky’s death; but burdened by feelings of guilt and unable to accept the reality of Vicky’s cruelty towards her, she begins seeing Vicky’s ghost, who wreaks havoc on her life and relationships. With simple and effective writing, Jade’s (painfully relatable) voice is allowed to shine through the narrative; and all her innermost thoughts and emotions, in their truest and ugliest forms, are laid bare.

What made the story most rewarding to read, even as an adult, was Wilson’s resistance to writing characters that fit neatly into moralistic boxes, instead painting the story in the shades of grey that colour real human experiences. Jade’s mum can be neglectful and ignorant but also comes to her support, leading to some of the most heartwarming moments of genuine happiness for Jade. And although Jade’s journey with grief and mental health is complicated by the growing realization of Vicky’s ill-treatment towards her, we’re reminded to separate the real Vicky from the villainous spirit taking her form in Jade’s mind, exaggerated by guilt and poor self-esteem.

For a short novel, Wilson manages to build a set of characters so rich with backstory, that reading it feels like experiencing the real world through Jade’s eyes – in all its messiness and imperfection and warmth and wonder. So, when Jade is finally ready to move on, and Vicky Angel "flaps wings as white as swansdown, waves one last time, and flies away," we can trust that they will be there for her as she starts her new life.

About the reviewer
Aamani Bommareddy is currently an undergraduate student of Journalism and Creative
Writing at the University of Leicester, with a particular interest in literature and music.
Along with journalistic articles and features, she enjoys writing short stories. 

This review was awarded an "honorable mention" in our 2026 Student Book Review Competition, held in conjunction with the Centre for New Writing at the University of Leicester. 

Review by Mellissa Flowerdew-Clarke of "Wilder Girls" by Rory Power

It’s been eighteen months since Raxter School for Girls was put under quarantine after its residents began dying from a mysterious illness. The Tox affects everyone differently: the headmistress’s lips constantly ooze blood; Byatt grows a second spine that protrudes from her back; Reese’s arm becomes covered in silver, reptilian scales; Hetty’s eye fuses shut, and she sometimes feels a strange sensation beneath the closed lid.

Secluded on a small island, Raxter’s remaining inhabitants rely on the navy to drop off limited food and supplies. There is never enough. Venturing beyond the school’s fence to retrieve resources is dangerous, as The Tox continues to spread through both wildlife and landscape. All the while, the girls wait for the cure they were promised.

When Byatt goes missing, Hetty and Reese venture into the infected wilderness to find her, uncovering unsettling truths about Raxter.

In this young adult novel by Rory Power, body horror is constant and vivid but rarely feels gratuitous. Instead, it reflects the girls’ loss of control over both their bodies and their environment. At the same time, there is a strong undercurrent of female resilience. The girls are not passive victims; they adapt, endure, and make difficult decisions in a world that continues to shrink around them.

The core premise of an isolated, single-gender group has drawn comparisons to Lord of the Flies. However, where Lord of the Flies suggests that human beings are inherently savage, Wilder Girls does the opposite. Here, the true monstrosity lies not within the girls themselves, but in the forces acting upon them: The Tox, the isolation, and the institutions willing to abandon them. When violence does occur, it emerges from desperation rather than cruelty, making their relationships feel both fragile and deeply human.

The novel echoes real-world histories of isolation, from leper colonies such as Spinalonga and Kalaupapa to plague quarantine islands like Lazzaretto Vecchio. It also invites comparison with the COVID-19 pandemic, when global quarantine measures sparked debates over civil liberties and collective responsibility. The ethical tension between sacrificing a few for the many is a subtle undercurrent, though the novel resists offering simple answers.

Ultimately, Wilder Girls is not just about infection or survival, but about friendship, endurance, and the struggle to remain human even as the body becomes irrevocably altered. Beneath its horror lies the fragile hope of a world beyond containment.

About the reviewer 
Mellissa Flowerdew-Clarke is an author and dramatist with a penchant for the macabre and a fascination with literary explorations of libertinism, psychopathy, narcissism, and coercive control. She is currently undertaking a PhD in Creative Writing at the University of Leicester, exploring Terror Management Theory in relation to representations of cultism and mass suicide.

This review is the winner of our 2026 Book Review Competition, held in conjunction with the Centre for New Writing at the University of Leicester. 

Review by Aswathy Raveendran of "Sisters of the Pentacle" by Paul Taylor-McCartney

Paul Taylor-McCartney’s Sisters of the Pentacle is the first book of The Broken Pentacle Series, and is a fascinating tale that mixes historical drama, witchcraft, time travel, and the quiet power of sisterhood. Set across three very different time periods in the same corner of Wales, the novel follows three young women who are bound by magic, prophecy, and a sacred but damaged pentacle. It’s the kind of book that rewards patient readers. It is layered, atmospheric, and full of heart. Fans of thoughtful fantasy with real historical grounding will likely find themselves pulled in.

The story shifts between 1650, 1900, and 2080, each period anchored by a compelling young witch. In the plague year of 1650, we meet Mary Harries, a twelve-year-old "Knowing One" with the gift of foresight. Tenby is locked down, bodies pile up, and suspicion falls hard on anyone suspected of witchcraft. Mary’s courage, as she helps with the dead, faces angry mobs, and confronts dark forces on Caldey Island, gives the opening section a raw, visceral edge. Her protective grandmother Nancy and a shape-shifting boy named Abe add warmth and danger in equal measure.

Jump forward to 1900, and we’re with Harriet Gordon, a sharp-witted artist living in St Catherine’s Fort. Harriet chafes against her family’s expectations and her brothers’ cruelty. Her discovery of latent powers, helped along by a mysterious ceremonial blade (an athame) and a voice from the future, brings both wonder and trouble. The inclusion of real historical figures like Winston Churchill and H. G. Wells during a dinner party is a clever touch, and it nicely highlights the tension between Harriet’s inner world and the respectable society closing in around her.

In 2080, Indigo Carmichael takes centre stage. Living in a world scarred by environmental collapse, she’s the daughter of a driven scientist whose time-acceleration technology holds both salvation and peril. Indigo’s sections feel more dystopian and introspective, tying the historical threads together through risky experiments and a desperate hope of mending what’s broken across time.

What holds these timelines together is Taylor-McCartney’s clever use of recurring symbols like the circles of power, glowing portals, animal transformations, and fragments of the pentacle itself. The non-linear structure mirrors the book’s central idea which is all about how the history isn’t a straight line but a looping, interconnected web. Some transitions in the story are seamless and some lean a bit heavily on exposition or convenient coincidences. Still, the overall effect is one of building momentum toward something larger.

Thematically, the novel has real weight. The sisterhood depicted in the story goes beyond blood. It’s about shared resilience, passed-down knowledge, and collective resistance against oppression. Each girl pushes back against the constraints of her time period. If it was persecution and plague for Mary, it was rigid Edwardian gender roles for Harriet, and technological hubris for Indigo. Taylor-McCartney handles the "grey area" of magic thoughtfully, refusing to paint it as purely good or evil. There are strong undercurrents about environmental responsibility, the cost of playing with time, and the long shadow of patriarchy. The pentacle becomes a potent symbol of wholeness in a fractured world, and the respect shown to real witchcraft traditions feels genuine rather than superficial.

The three protagonists are the novel’s greatest strength. Mary’s quiet bravery amid horror is moving. Harriet’s artistic eye and dry humour bring welcome lightness and emotional texture. Indigo, dealing with her own physical limitations and inherited burdens, adds a layer of vulnerability that makes her future feel lived in and urgent. Supporting characters like Nancy, Abe, and even the antagonistic Gordon brothers mostly ring true, though a few (particularly in the future sections) lean toward archetype. The historical cameos work better than they have any right to, adding flavour without derailing the story.

Taylor-McCartney’s prose shines when he leans into atmosphere. The plague-stricken streets of Tenby, the misty cliffs at Harrowing Point, and the sterile glow of futuristic labs all come alive. There are lyrical moments during rituals and invocations that genuinely feel magical. That said, some dialogue runs a touch expository, and a few descriptive passages could have been trimmed. Even though there are few quibbles like these, the book overall gives you an immersive reading experience.

Overall, Sisters of the Pentacle is a success. Its world-building across centuries is impressive, and the emotional core which centres around the bond between the "sisters" across time is something that would stay with you. Pacing occasionally lags, especially when lore or technology needs explaining, and the 2080 storyline feels slightly less developed than the historical ones. But these are the growing pains of an ambitious first volume in what promises to be a rich series.

If you enjoy fantasy that takes its time, respects its traditions, and weaves real history with the supernatural, this one is worth your attention. It’s a story about healing what’s broken across time, across families, and across the land itself. I closed the book eager to see where the pentacle leads next.

About the reviewer
Dr. Aswathy Raveendran is an Assistant Professor of English at Jain (Deemed-to-be University), Kochi, India. Her research focuses on twentieth-century female gothic literature, with broader interests in sensory studies, eco-gothic narratives, and cultural memory. She is also a practising artist whose work explores themes of nature, memory, and the sensory imagination.

You can read more about Sisters of the Pentacle by Paul Taylor-McCartney on Creative Writing at Leicester here. 

Review by Rebecca Nolten of "Female, Nude" by Rhiannon Lucy Cosslett

Female, Nude hooks its readers with the promise of a sun-soaked, escapist holiday fling, but grounds them in the relentless persistence of classism, misogyny, and power imbalances that shape our relationships with others — even our nearest and dearest.

In her tense yet deeply funny novel, Rhiannon Lucy Cosslett asks one fundamental question: is a woman ever truly able to have it all? The marriage, the dream job, the success, the baby, the artistic talent, the beauty, the virtue, and, of course, the dreamy holiday villa in Greece.

While soaking up the sea and sand with her claustrophobic circle of privileged university friends, the protagonist, Sophie, reflects on what it is that prevents her from being happy. Her boyfriend — the "lovely" Greg — is desperate to have a baby, while Sophie, an artist, sees motherhood as a hurdle standing between her and artistic success. Having grown up caring for her disabled sister, Sophie knows very well that the burden of care almost always falls to women. Her own career has stalled at a retail position in Greg’s art gallery, and she begins to question why certain doors remain closed to her while opening so easily for those belonging to the upper echelons gathered on this Grecian retreat.

When the wealthy Alessia commissions Sophie to paint a nude portrait of her, she introduces her to Kai, a local man with whom Sophie begins a hot-blooded affair doomed from the outset, as the days count down to the arrival of "the men" — Greg included. The push and pull of class, desire, and romantic tension culminates in a calamitous act of violence, prompting the reader to consider what forces led to this devastating outcome.

While the novel follows the progressive unravelling of Sophie’s life, what truly sets this book apart are the thirteen artist "tableaux" — short passages mapping Sophie’s engagement with nude self-portraiture by female and non-binary artists throughout history. These sections read almost like conversations: discussing the lack of representation of disabled bodies and miscarriage in art with Frida Kahlo, the objectification of the male gaze with Artemisia Gentileschi, and the erasure of Black bodies with Zanele Muholi. These glimpses into the lives and work of these artists serve as a methodical reminder of the socio-political forces that shape artistic production and determine what artwork is exhibited, studied, and valued.

Beautifully written, well researched, and infinitely witty, Female, Nude leaves behind a lasting impression. Cosslett masterfully uses the erotic to expose the workings of class structure, patriarchy, and ableism, culminating in a novel that feels both intellectually incisive and deeply human.

About the reviewer
Rebecca Nolten is a Modern and Medieval Languages graduate from the University of Cambridge (Girton College). She has worked across editorial, copywriting, translation, and arts publishing, with a particular focus on storytelling and visual culture. She is especially interested in translation, art history, and the ways in which stories move across languages, cultures, and media. Outside work, she enjoys illustration, reading, and visiting galleries and exhibitions.

Review by Anna O'Sullivan of "Open Throat" by Henry Hoke

Open Throat by Henry Hoke is a profound and experimental piece of literary fiction that will linger with you long after reading it. The novel follows an isolated, queer mountain lion living under the Hollywood sign, observing the insular, self-centred conversations between passers-by, whilst navigating the complexities of their own identity. Inspired by P22, a mountain lion who lived in Griffith Park after successfully crossing two major freeways, and monitored by researchers until his death in 2022, Hoke creates a powerful story that can be digested in one sitting. 

Hoke writes in evocative and lyrical prose, comparable to a work of poetry; the lion’s stream of consciousness is non-linear and uninterrupted by punctuation, creating a real sense that readers are experiencing the lion’s deep thoughts. The combination of humour, through the lion’s misinterpretation of words, alongside the emotional turmoil of yearning for connection, adds to the story’s emotional depth and Hoke’s literary brilliance. 

What stands out about Hoke’s novel is his ability to draw from a diverse range of social issues in contemporary society. This is not just a story about a lion losing its way. Hoke discusses the importance of "human" connection, as the lion struggles with segregation from society, and the hierarchical way in which humans regard the animal kingdom as inferior. Another important theme throughout is ecological grief, and the depressing reality of climate change and human impact on the environment; Hoke leans into real-world anxieties, integrating the terrifying destruction of the LA wildfires and the homelessness crisis. 

If you are looking for something different to read, Hoke’s novel offers a new and compelling narrative. Readers of Weird Girl Fiction, a genre expanding in popularity, may be drawn to this novel, as although it does not follow the experience of a "Girl," it has similar components of complex relationships, strong emotions and unconventional themes. Open Throat has earned its strong and unique presence in the genre of literary and contemporary fiction. It offers something new – the point of view of a complex mountain lion, viewing barriers in society through a symbolic lens. If this doesn’t entice readers, then the gripping first line of the book is sure to: ‘I’ve never eaten a person but today I might."

About the reviewer
Anna O’Sullivan is a University of Leicester graduate with a BA in English and MA in Modern and Contemporary Literature and Creative Writing. She enjoys travelling, and recently returned from five months of backpacking across Latin America. Anna’s predominant passion is books; she is an avid reader, BookToker, attendee of literature events and employee at Hachette UK. She is currently guest editor of Everybody's Reviewing. 

Review by Anupriya Sisodia of "Red, White & Royal Blue" by Casey McQuiston

Imagine this: the First Son of the United States falls in love with the Prince of Wales. Yup. That’s basically Red, White, & Royal Blue by Casey McQuiston, and I cannot even begin to explain how obsessed I am. From page one, I was hooked, half the time laughing so hard I nearly cried, the other half swooning so much I was basically gasping through the pages, unable to put it down. 

Alex Claremont-Díaz is chef’s kiss. He’s witty, chaotic in the best way, over-the-top, and somehow manages to be both obnoxiously charming and painfully relatable. The kind of guy you’d want to be best friends with but also low-key fangirl over. And then there’s Prince Henry. He’s all poise and perfection, very "prince-y," but he’s secretly this soft, dorky, totally lovable and hilarious human once you see past the crown - definitely the kind of guy who makes you just want to hug him forever. And their dynamic? Electric. That whole "enemies who kind of hate each other but maybe also kind of don’t" thing that starts as a staged truce. Absolute chaos in the best possible way. Watching their friendship grow, sneakily morph into something heart-stoppingly romantic, had me internally screaming like a maniac the entire time. And the teasing! The banter! I swear, it should be illegal how adorable it all was. 

But it’s not all swoons and drama. What really gets me is how real their journey was. Alex struggling to balance being the First Son while actually being himself, Henry questioning everything he’s been taught and learning to just be, and watching them figure it out together, with all the mistakes, the secrets, the little victories, it’s just so raw and human, and messy in the best way, full of moments that made my chest ache and my heart swell at the same time. And beneath all that laughter and tension, the novel doesn’t shy away from the deeper themes: identity, family, self-expression, and what it really means to be yourself, learning to stand in your own skin when the whole world is watching, making it so much more than just a romance. Add in the interplay of American politics and British monarchical traditions, and McQuiston’s signature humor, and every chapter feels bigger, juicier, and somehow more romantic. And the side characters? They are absolutely unforgettable. There’s fierce June Claremont-Díaz, protective Bea, supportive genius, aspiring data analyst and VP’s daughter Nora Holleran, goofy Pez, brilliant Zahra, formidable President Ellen Claremont-Díaz, endlessly loyal and dependable Shaan, and many more. .. each bringing their own personality and presence, making the world feel full and alive. 

By the end, I was a blubbering, laughing, fangirling mess, and honestly I didn’t even want it to end. Red, White & Royal Blue is messy, beautiful, hilarious, devastatingly heartfelt, and swoony. It’s the kind of book that makes you stay up until 2 a.m., the kind you text your friends about in ALL CAPS, the kind that makes you believe that love can actually feel like it’s changing the world.

Honestly? I’m never letting go of Alex and Henry. Not now. Not ever. 

About the reviewer
Anupriya Sisodia is a published romance fiction author, pursuing an MA in Creative Writing at the University of Leicester. She is an avid reader who loves writing stories with realistic, relatable characters who experience emotional and exciting journeys on their way to a happy ending.

Review by Anupriya Sisodia of "Calling Sehmat" by Harinder Singh Sikka

I still remember walking out of the theatre after watching Raazi in 2018 feeling … unsettled. My chest felt tight, my mind restless. I couldn’t stop asking myself: could someone really live like that? It stayed with me for weeks, until I finally picked up Calling Sehmat. I didn’t expect it to affect me the way it did, but it left me quieter than I was before I started reading.

Sehmat doesn’t enter the story like a hero. She feels like someone you could know, just a regular college girl from Kashmir, studying in Delhi, living an ordinary life. And maybe that’s what makes everything that follows so hard to process. There’s nothing exaggerated about her, nothing cinematic. Just a quiet strength that reveals itself slowly.

What really stayed with me was how her life changed because of her father’s last wish. Being married into a Pakistani military family, not for love, but for a mission, feels like something out of fiction, but knowing it’s rooted in reality makes it heavier. As she steps into this role during the 1971 India-Pakistani war, you can almost feel the tension settle in. Every moment of her life becomes deliberate. I think what struck me most was how different she felt from her portrayal in the film. In the book, she isn’t unsure or passive. She’s alert, thoughtful, and incredibly composed. The way she adapts to her new environment, builds trust within her in-laws’ family, and carries out her responsibilities, it all feels so controlled, so precise, that it’s almost intimidating. And yet, underneath it, you can sense the pressure she’s constantly under. One mistake could undo everything. There’s also something deeply unsettling about how normal everything around her seems. People are living their lives, forming relationships, trusting her, while she’s holding onto secrets that could destroy them. It made me think a lot about how war isn’t just fought on battlefields. Sometimes, it’s hidden in everyday spaces, in conversations, in silence.

Sikka’s writing is deceptively simple, almost like a personal conversation over tea. There’s no dramatic build-up or heavy language, but somehow that makes it hit harder. You’re not distracted by how it’s written, you’re just there, inside her world, feeling everything with her protagonist - her fear, her loneliness, the constant awareness that she can never really relax.

And then there’s the aftermath. When Sehmat returns to India, it’s not relief that defines her; it’s the profound weight of everything she’s done. You can feel how much of herself she’s lost along the way. It’s not just about what she gave up in the moment, but what she can never get back. Her life doesn’t simply go back to normal, and I think that’s what makes her story feel so real.

By the end, I didn’t feel inspired in the usual sense. I just felt … still. There’s admiration, of course, but also a kind of sadness that lingers. Sehmat gave everything without expecting anything in return, not recognition, not peace, not even a sense of closure. I think that’s what this book changed for me. It made me see patriotism differently. Not as something loud or visible, but as something deeply personal, often carried alone. Even now, thinking about it, Sehmat doesn’t feel like a character I read about. She feels like someone whose life I briefly stepped into, and couldn’t quite leave behind.

If you do pick up Calling Sehmat, don’t expect a dramatic spy story. It’s quieter than that, more reflective and deeply human. But it stays with you in a way that’s hard to explain, and even harder to forget.

About the reviewer 
Anupriya Sisodia is a published romance fiction author, pursuing an MA in Creative Writing at the University of Leicester. She is an avid reader who loves writing stories with realistic, relatable characters who experience emotional and exciting journeys on their way to a happy ending.

Review by Iain Minney of "The Dark Fields" by Alan Glynn

Adam Glynn’s 2001 debut is probably best described as the fabled "positive drug story," albeit a cautionary tale about drug use. Strong themes of addiction, excess and greed run through it like a stick of rock.  

More-traditional drug users fall somewhere in-between hallucinating hippies, giggling stoners or hyperactive, gurning ravers, with the perception being uniformly negative. The "positive" drug in this novel, "MDT-48," allows the user to remain uncluttered, learning and performing practical tasks with a radically, evidence-based improvement, unlike other drugs, which merely mess with the user’s perception of themselves. In other words, MDT is the ultimate drug fantasy: it actually DOES make you smart and interesting.

Eddie Spinola is a something of an average guy; a little past his prime and stuck in a rut. The writing assignment he requested isn’t the labour of love and salvation he thought it’d be, and he has little else lined up on the horizon.  But a happenstance encounter with his ex-wife’s shady brother quickly changes his fortune. Literally.

Now (with a certain tiger-in-his-tank) Eddie’s blasting his way up the ladder a little too quickly and a little too impatiently for his own good, in order to quell his various appetites … and with his secret stockpile in place, but all manner of gaps, cracks, hallucinations and allegations becoming increasingly obvious and hard to ignore, the only question seems to be how much higher can Eddie go?

A neat and original premise is wonderfully executed (especially for a debut) and metered out with appropriate caution and respect to the subject of drug use, rather than the fantastical and pithy romanticism that could have been applied to a substance that, thankfully, doesn’t exist. Although MDT could essentially be considered an aid to concentration (some sort of hyper-concentrated Ritalin, for example), it allows the story to expand on "Addiction to ambition" as another interesting sub-reference to the Reaganomics era, to which so much is unfortunately owed.  

The writing style is pleasant too, with the quasi-autobiographical first-person narrative providing a rewarding full-circle twist ending, that underlines what must have been a genuinely thorough and painstaking research process, allowing the author any number of hidden in-jokes. The tycoon character "Van-Loon" seems suspiciously similar to a figurehead brand like Trump, the so-called "Psychopharmacological" writer probably references Tim Leary, and even the title is taken from a line in The Great Gatsby.  There’s even a theme on lost (and rediscovered) love, and a pining for lost youth, signified in Eddie's love of drugs that he used to enjoy back with his ex-wife.

About the reviewer
Iain Minney (B.A. in Journalism & Creative Writing): tall, "mature," sober, comedian(ish). He has dabbled in stand-up comedy - which he has been writing since he was teenager - as well as being involved with comedy sketches, local filmmaking groups and working on local radio for a number of years both as "Head of News" and having his own weekly 3-hour show. He has been interested in writing for some time and even tried recording a number of audiobooks of short stories he's written together with satirical rants based on the standup he never quite "stood up" with. He loves old punk and 80s rock music, all manner of movies, and Bill Hicks and George Carlin SAVED HIS LIFE. But that's a whole other conversation.

Review by Lisa Williams of "Gentle November" by Alan Edward Roberts

"He was a magician but not a very good one": this is a book seemingly at first about an affair. The couple have just eloped, but I wouldn’t file this under "romance." They masquerade uncomfortably as father and daughter. There seems to be very little excitement and not much joy.

The story, we discover, is about a woman on a collision course, her life a "runaway train of sad events" heading towards a waiting desert. Namibia, specifically the Skeleton Coast, beckons from a childhood map, a "turbulent flight" away on a "long-ago upstairs landing."

This is somewhere she’s dreamed about, but again she doesn’t seem to be enjoying herself. Things happen around her: life is out of her control.

We walk along a parched landscape of haunted trees and wrecked boats, the backdrop to a beautifully painful tale. This small volume is an intriguing story, one that pulls you in and demands to be read in one sitting. Gentle November is peppered with disturbing scenes and images and is skilfully haunting. We never find out the woman's name. This leaves a superb sense of unease, makes you feel like perhaps you weren’t paying her enough attention, and the story consequently lingers beautifully on, long after you’ve put the book down.

About the reviewer
Lisa Williams has an MA in Creative Writing from the University of Leicester. She writes word-limited flash fiction, mostly drabbles - stories of exactly one hundred words. You can find her online @noodleBubble.