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⭐️⭐️⭐️

One sitting, people.
ONE. FUCKING. SITTING.

How does Kent do this? What are these magic sprinkles she’s sprinkling into her writing???

I’ll tell you what it is.

Build-up.

Kent builds the fuck out of her stories. The tension never drops. They don’t get together until the very end. There’s always another secret, another reveal, another reason to keep going.

And the worst part is that I usually hate this kind of writing.

All the clichés are there:
“He’s my drug.”
“I’m addicted.”
“No one touches you but me.”

And yet—here I am, slurping it up like Vaughn slurps Yulian’s cock.

Honestly… crazy times we live in.

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

To Kill a Mockingbird is one of the greatest titles ever given to a book.

I know a lot of Americans read it during high school and learned a lot from it, but I’m not American, so my POV is from the outside.

Now, Before getting into the thematics of the story, I want to talk about the writing.

Harper Lee is a magnificent storyteller and writer –- so much so that my body shakes with envy. Her prose is as delicate as it is simple. She doesn’t overdo poetic lyricism, but she also doesn’t fall short of clever wordplay and dreamy descriptions.

I was rather surprised by the structure of the book. Every chapter felt like an episode from a TV show. In the first part especially, no scene really felt connected to the next. At times, it even felt like characters were introduced exactly when needed to move the plot along, which made the book feel a bit too crafted. It was confusing at times and disrupted the rhythm but despite everything, Harper’s use of scenes and quick transitions made the book fun and engaging to read.

Also, can I just praise Harper for writing from the perspective of a five year old girl ??? and making it believable???? That’s insane! Almost all of her characters felt genuine, lively, and real.

Harper built herself a small town with its own system, history, and people, and showed it to us through the lens of a young girl. How could you not like the world she created?

But that world does have its flaws, and they become most evident in the second part of the story.

Harper has her beliefs and views about the world, and she was not shy about showing them. I don’t mind when writers put their agendas into their work – I even expect it – but I don’t like to be lectured. I don’t like when it’s shoved in my face without giving me space to think for myself what is right and wrong. And especially, I don’t like when a writer uses their characters to make a statement. It always feels like a betrayal of the characters.

In Harper’s world:

Black = good.

White = flawed.

Black = hopeless people with nothing but good intentions.

White = complicated – some good, some not.

And in my opinion, for someone who wrote a book against racism, that’s one of the most racist things you can do.

Even the oppressed are complex. Not everyone is good. Even within the Black community, there is conflict, there are flaws, there is humanity in all its messiness.

The whole “court saga” felt unrealistic and too easy. Even though Harper built it beautifully – Atticus struggling, the town gossiping, Scout stepping in, the courtroom itself – all of it was masterclass in writing. But the lack of complexity ruined that entire section for me, and at times, the book as a whole.

Now, the characters – there’s not much to say except how much I loved them.

Scout is a dear, dear soul to me.

Jem reminds me so much of James Potter that my heart exploded.

Atticus is such a hot daddy I could snack on him for hours (though his extreme views sometimes made me want to smack him. Some people are bad, Atticus. Not everything can be explained away with empathy.)

The whole Boo Radley storyline was heartwarming and satisfying. And the town itself felt like one big, messy family I had the pleasure of living with for a while – which was probably my favorite part of the book.

At last, I do recommend this book—if not for anything but my good friend Scout, and for the strange, beloved family she calls a town.

Like many readers, I was nail-biting in anticipation for the new series—especially after the spot-on casting, the insanely good trailer, and the chemistry between the actors. A solid 10/10.

But after watching the first episode, I couldn’t help but let out a sigh of resigned disappointment.

I’m not even going to get into the ridiculous plotline with Shane’s parents or the not-so-clever attempt at discussing “racism.” I’m not going to talk about the unoriginal dialogue between Ilya and his brother or the painfully awkward sex scenes—like… why? Truly, why?

Because honestly, I can look past all of that.

But there’s one thing I cannot look past: Shane’s character.

I remember an interview where the actor said something along the lines of, “Only after reading the book did I really understand Shane”—and there’s a reason for that!!!

In the book, Shane is painfully shy and deeply vulnerable. Yes, he talks shit at Ilya, but he does that with innocence. he’s also incredibly sensitive and absolutely yearning, practically dying of thirst for Ilya.

That—that—is what sold me on the book. His undying, inevitable obsession with Ilya. But of course, we don’t get any of that in the series.

Instead, we get Curious Shane. Confident Shane. Smirking Shane.

This is a man who is terrified of being found out — so much so that he buys a fucking building for the two of them. You can’t sell me that gesture with this Shane on the screen.

it completely ruins the vibe of the book—the thing that kept me hooked in the first place.

Yearning.

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Annie’s story is so, so important, and I’m grateful she was brave enough to write it and share it with the world.

My professor recommended this book for a course I’m taking in college. She knows I’m a raging feminist who loves stories about strong women—but since she also tends to enjoy books with… difficult writing, I was hesitant.

I’m so glad I listened to her.

Let’s start with the writing;

Even though the vocabulary is fairly standard, the prose flows effortlessly. Annie manages to turn her writing into an aesthetic of pure loneliness and hopelessness without ever telling us, “I was so lonely back then.”

There are no dramatic inner monologues, no sentimental confessions—just her recounting her experience in the most detached-yet-intimate way possible. And it’s fascinating.

For anyone who doesn’t write, I can’t stress enough how hard it is to show rather than tell. How much trust it takes in your reader. Annie is masterful at it.

The pacing is perfect. I was never bored, always alert, always tense. Even when nothing was happening—everything was happening.

I love how anti-poetic her writing is, yet she still gives us moments like:

“But ‘I can picture’ helps to convey that precise moment when I feel I have bonded with my former life, a past life that I lost forever, a feeling admirably rendered by the expression, ‘it feels like only yesterday.’”

Doesn’t that punch you right in the gut?

As I mentioned earlier, Annie’s story is crucial—not only for humanity, but especially for women.

I was born into a world where abortion, although difficult, is legal and accessible. When I asked my grandmother about “the old days,” she told me terrible things about lack of sex education and being basically sold into marriage—but when I asked her about abortion, she waved her hand dismissively: “It never crossed my mind.”

So I never really thought about the women for whom it did cross their minds—and who had no legal way to act on it.

And if they couldn’t… what did they do?

Thankfully, Annie Ernaux gives us one of the answers, and it is as devastating as it is infuriating.

Annie wasn’t just a woman having an abortion. She was a woman having one completely alone.

Her partner refused responsibility. Society rejected her. She couldn’t tell her parents. The few friends she confided in were excited more than supportive. The procedure was life-threatening, and the abortion scene is traumatizing not only for Annie, but also for us as readers.

“If I failed to go through with this undertaking, I would be guilty of silencing the lives of women and condoning a world governed by the patriarchy.”

For everyone who says we don’t need feminism—please. Read this book.

I especially love that Annie doesn’t spare us any detail. She isn’t afraid to look straight at the reader and say, Judge me. I don’t care.

And I did judge her. I couldn’t help it. The scene describing the abortion is so vivid and intentional that even as a fully pro-choice woman, I cried for the fetus. I’m human. I hurt.

“I shall have no more power over my text, exposed to the public just like my body was exposed at the Hôtel-Dieu hospital.”

On a side note: the book does occasionally shove the political message in our faces, which threw me off sometimes. Going from understated, elegant writing to sudden harsh language like “cunt” felt jarring and a bit out of character. But it wasn’t frequent enough to ruin the overall experience.

Reading a memoir was a unique experience for me. As much as I loved the writing and the message—as educated as I feel after finishing it—I think my heart still belongs to fiction. But I’ll definitely explore more memoirs. There’s so much to learn from real people and their stories.

Thank you, Annie Ernaux, for your bravery.

⭐️⭐️⭐️

You know that feeling when someone hypes something up so much, gives you so much hope for it, that you can’t even walk straight? You skip your steps, you drool with anticipation, and then you finally do the thing—and it's fun, you're having a great time—but then you come home, someone asks “How was it?” and you pause for a second and say:

"It was nice."

Oleander is a very well-written book. Thoughtful. Clever. Interesting. The pacing is phenomenal, the characters are deeply developed, and the plot is mesmerizing.

The story follows Jude, a sweet, kind-hearted fifteen-year-old who becomes infatuated with Caspien—who is difficult, bitchy, and yet somehow incredibly lovely. What starts as infatuation quickly turns into deep, obsessive love. Love that isn’t reciprocated. (Or is it?) The entire book centers on Jude and how he copes with his obsession and the heartbreak Caspien puts him through—again and again—over the years.

First off, I have to applaud Scarlett Drake for her ability to keep me hooked for nearly 600 pages (Kindle edition). There wasn’t a single moment I wasn’t deeply invested in the characters or what was happening.

What I loved most was that this wasn’t a romance. It was a book about obsessive love, and the disturbing, emotional lengths we’re willing to go for the people we care about.

At least… for most of the book.

In my opinion, Scarlett did something brilliant: she opened the story with a sense of mystery, betrayal, and pain. We meet Jude at 28, visiting an old man from his past, and immediately, a tone is set—Jude is selfless, but assertive, and clearly marked by something terrible. There's foreshadowing, tension, and emotional maturity.

Then we’re taken into the past, where Jude tells his story (reminded me a bit of The Song of Achilles), occasionally returning to the present to update us on where characters are now or what happened after a key event. I liked that structure a lot—though it had its downsides.

Now for the part that completely ruined the book for me.

Most of the book is a beautifully painful journey about an obsessive character who knows he’s being consumed, but can’t stop playing a game he knows he’ll lose. I loved that. It kept me emotionally curled up, tense, and so invested.

Sure, some of the dialogue was cringey.

Sure, we were spoon-fed emotional beats from time to time.

But that’s okay. Perfection is rare, and Scarlett Drake is clearly an author with enormous potential.

However—I could not get past the ending.

I’m all for happy endings and redemption arcs, truly. But they need to be earned. How on earth did we switch from a deep, philosophical, agonizing journey of heartbreak and emotional ruin to a lovey-dovey, rainbow-burping atmosphere where all is forgiven and everyone is healing?

WHAT?

The book was basically a pressure cooker ready to explode—only for Scarlett to shut off the gas, pour the contents down the drain, and say "The End."

You can't ask me to believe that a character who was manipulative and emotionally abusive for the entire book suddenly turns around and begs for forgiveness just because they're ill.

No, honey. That’s lazy writing.

Also, was I supposed to forgive Cas just because of something I already knew was coming from miles away? The “big reveal” was not only predictable, it felt condescending—as if the book didn’t trust me to pick up on clues.

Trust your readers. We’re smart. We’ve been here the whole time.

And the tonal shift? It was like a whole new book kicked in, and it wasn’t the one I signed up for. One moment it’s a raw, obsessive emotional breakdown, and the next it’s soft-focus romance.

Also, why is the word love written about ten thousand times? I honestly thought it was a clever device—a way to show how the word loses meaning through repetition, or maybe to say something deeper about the idea of love itself.

But no.

Apparently just saying “I love him” enough times is supposed to make us believe it’s true.

What love are we seeing? We watch a boy get emotionally destroyed by someone he barely knows. And that’s love? Really?

And don’t even get me started on how Caspien’s entire character—mysterious, hot-and-cold, curious—gets reduced to a shell in two chapters. It was heartbreaking. And not in a good way.

So yeah, I was really disappointed by the ending.

But you should still read this book.

It’s beautifully written. Emotionally intelligent. Unapologetically intense.

And hey—you might not be judgmental bitches like me and actually like the ending.

Who knows? 😂

⭐️⭐️

What is a masterpiece? And who gets to define it?

When my professor read us the opening of Lolita, I was hooked.


“Often people forget they’re reading a book,” he said. “These are characters, not real people. This is a story about pure evil. Those who say they can’t read it because of that could never understand Nabokov’s writing. He messes with your head! The minute you’re pulled in, he pushes you back out. He plays with you constantly. A true masterpiece.”
And I must admit—I was curious. Would Nabokov be able to mess with my head? Or would I outwit the writer?

I began reading.

There’s no denying Nabokov’s writing is technically exceptional.
Even though English wasn’t his first language, he wields it like black magic. His vocabulary, rhythm, and imagery have influenced generations of writers. The prose is rich, poetic, and deliberate.

But is that enough to make a masterpiece?

Because Lolita always felt like a book. A very literary, very self-conscious book. Not a story. Not a world I was drawn into. The prose—so elevated, so intricate—became tedious. I never connected with the characters. Never cared.


And yes, I understand: Nabokov wants us to be dazzled by the words, to look at the style and forget the substance, to lose sight of the perversion and violence beneath the linguistic glitter.
I get it. He builds a beautifully written void, and we’re meant to feel that emptiness.


But… I didn’t like it. And I’m not sure that’s a failure on my part.

It did made me start asking questions.

What makes a “master writer”? Someone who controls the narrative completely? Someone who manipulates their reader? Or someone who creates characters so vivid we ache with them, root for them, miss them when they’re gone?

Reading Humbert’s obsession was disturbing at first—nauseating, even. But as he went on and on and on about his infatuation, it lost its effect. Was that on purpose? Maybe.
But should a writer want their reader to grow tired of the book? Should they even care?

Does great literature have to feel like literature? Or should it make us forget?

And if there are no rules—if writing is just a game of style and intellect—then how do we know when something is truly a masterpiece?

Normally, in my reviews, I break things down: writing, pacing, plot, characters.

But here, while there was a plot, it never felt like the point.

Was it original? Absolutely. Was it brave? No question.

But the execution was exhausting. The pacing felt like chewing the same piece of gum long after it lost its flavor.

(Yes, I understand this reflects Humbert’s endless obsession—but damn, I’m not obsessed with that little devil, so excuse the hell out of me if I needed a break.)

The characters? Awful. All of them.
The book? Annoying. Patronizing. Infuriating.

So yes, Lolita is technically brilliant.
Yes, it’s influential.
Yes, it’s clever.

But is it… worth it?

I still don’t know what to tell you.

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Horror Book Debut! ✨


Mark the date, peoples. This is my very first horror read.

First things first: Andrew is a very precious name for me, very dear to my heart, (*coughs* AFTG) so yes — I might be a little biased. But I’ll try to stay objective, okay? Here we go.

What immediately impressed me was the author’s creativity. The eerie fairy tales, the gothic atmosphere — a whole aesthetic I hadn’t read before. Magnificent. The execution was confident and deliberate, and I loved that.

The metaphors and detailed descriptions were vivid, especially when it came to gore and monsters. I could picture every scene as if I were watching a movie — which explains why I finished this book in a single sitting.

The pacing was fast and smooth, the plot was complex but easy to follow, and it kept my curiosity hooked the whole way through.

Not bad. Not bad at all.

The writing style reminded me a bit of Tahereh Mafi (Shatter Me), but with a better story behind it. Simple language but with poetic meaning that still carried emotion without feeling patronizing. I liked that.

The downside? Repetition. The metaphors were beautiful… the first time. But when the same phrases circled back again and again, they lost their spark.

“Darkness bled like ink before his eyes.” Lovely! But then—


“Darkness fell. Absolute. It crawled over his arms and pinned him there, no air to even scream.”

And then—


“Claw shot out of the darkness and snatched him by his throat.”

Yes, we get it — Andrew is being consumed by darkness. After the tenth variation, it starts to feel melodramatic, almost soap opera-ish. And speaking of melodrama: Andrew himself was such a drama queen.

His reaction after being called to the principal’s office:

“All he could think was, She knows.
That he sacrificed Clemens.
That he killed the dream ravager.
That he hit a boy instead of confessed he loved him.
That if anyone peeled apart his ribs, they’d see the darkness knit into his flesh.”

…Zero chill. Why would she know all of that?!

Andrew was kind of dumb at times — (usually the easy approach authors take for miscommunication) but I could’ve forgiven that if the book had given more space for character development. Everything started at full speed, with no pause to breathe.

We’re told Andrew and Thomas are best friends, but we never really see them being friends. No inside jokes, no soft conversations. Just intensity from the very first moment. And while Thomas is described as the guy everyone crushes on, all we actually see is a broken, terrified boy clinging to Andrew’s side. Sure, he had some cool monster-killing moments — but it didn’t quite sell the image Andrew had of him.

None of the characters really had personality or complexity worth lingering over.

Basically, the plot carried the story (and it was amazing), but the characters lacked depth. Without that, their emotions and drama felt harder to connect to.

Also… why make Andrew ace? How did that detail serve the story? It felt more like a label dropped in than something meaningful to the narrative. Especially with how Andrew kept fantasizing about kissing and touching Thomas the majority of the book.

Still, overall: great story. It gave me Bridge to Terabithia vibes, it was quick, sharp, and imaginative, and I’d definitely recommend it as a mind-blowing short horror read.

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Is it bad that my favorite character in this book is Agent Browning?

…No? Okay, good.

⚠ Spoilers ahead, sweetie. ⚠

We were fed this time when it came to the Foxes:

Protective Andrew ✅

Big Brother Kevin ✅

Kevin & Neil sibling squabbles ✅

Andrew stops smoking so he can stay in shape to protect Neil ✅✅✅

Their love language is putting the other person first and I am a literal puddle on the floor.

Nora, I am begging you for extra chapters about the Foxes.

What did Andrew do when he came home after hearing Neil killed Grayson? Was he angry? Turned on? No no — definitely turned on. Give me the scene. How did Neil feel when Andrew went into surgery? Was he a wreck? Silent and moody? I need it like I need air.

Now, the actual review.

The only reason this book gets 4 stars is because of the Foxes. If it had been about anyone else, it would’ve been a 3 at best.

I adore Nora’s writing — her pacing, her plotting, her razor-sharp dialogue, the comedy, her gut-punch plot twists. But because I love her so much, I have to be honest: this one disappointed me a little. Her writing hasn’t evolved since All for the Game, and in some places, it’s even become repetitive.

As someone who has read AFTG at least 20 times, I could spot recycled sentences instantly. And I don’t just mean similar descriptions — I mean the exact cadence of certain lines, which stripped some characters of individuality.

Case in point: the interviewers. Every single one talks the same way — slick, biting, instigating. Swap one out with an interviewer from the first trilogy and you wouldn’t notice.

Coach Rhemann feels like a weaker copy of Wymack, minus the personality and minus a convincing reason for keeping Jean “the Burn House Bringer” on the team. We’re told he cares for Jean like a father, but we barely see them together, besides “how can I help?” We get nothing, so the connection feels unearned.

Which leads me to my next gripe: the “found family” trope is shoved at us here.

In the first trilogy, it worked — the Foxes were all broken in their own way, so their loyalty to Neil made sense. But in the Sunshine Court? This is supposedly a team that will accept anyone no matter their gender, religion, sexuality, or background — as long as you’re on the team, you’re “family.” Sorry, but that’s just idealized nonsense.

To Nora’s credit, the diversity here is handled well. Cody (they/them), Xavier (trans), and Laila (Muslim) are all great examples of characters whose identities are part of them but not all they are. It never felt like Nora was trying to push an agenda — they were just people, and they contributed to the plot in meaningful ways.

But diversity in real life also means friction. People clash. Even with the same goals, there’s no guarantee they’ll see eye-to-eye. And that’s what’s missing here — the realism of those tensions. Instead of exploring that goldmine of dynamics, we get more mafia drama and Edgar Allan angst.

This is her worst book. The skill is still there, of course. The problem is more a misunderstanding of her own story. You can see how alive her writing feels when she’s with the Foxes. She knows them, inside out. But with the Trojans? Their relationships feel flat, and their scenes lack that same spark.

Overall: Not a bad book. Just a lost one.

The Foxes saved it for me. Without them, I wouldn’t have cared nearly as much.

⭐️⭐️⭐️

Saw the cover.

Thought WOLFSTAR.

Bought the book.

If you look through the reviews, you'll find that everyone describes this book as cute. Cute. Cute. Cute. And it was indeed cute—just cute.

So cute that I felt like I was vomiting rainbows!

What can I say? I prefer a certain amount of angst in my stories, and this book did not deliver. Honestly, I felt it was much longer than necessary. The whole "Christmas Politics" plot felt far-fetched, as if the author wanted to create a nice little gay Christmas story, but her agent insisted, "Tsk tsk, it needs a deeper plot! We need a story!Nobody just wants to read about two guys—one a sunshine-confident (but deep down self-conscious) Christmas prince and the other a shy, melancholy Halloween prince—who fall in love, but can’t be together; yet they also can’t stay away from each other. It’s forbidden, but it feels so right.”

You get what I mean, right?

Moreover, if you're going to write about Christmas, then you need to convey the magic of the holiday! (They literally just watched Christmas movies and called it a day) I'm Jewish, but I have always been fascinated by Christmas. There is a certain magic that the holiday brings out which I did not feel in this story.

Anyway, I'm looking forward to the next book. I saw it’s an enemies-to-lovers story, so it could be a hit or a miss!