As I said in my review of The Dungeon Book, I don’t play Dungeons & Dragons, but I seem to be picking up books that play with similar ideas (and do I have my first official D&D novel, The Feywild Job by C.L. Polk, to read soon).

In Homeward for a Spell, we have a standardish band of adventurers, including a leader/ranger, a wizard, a healer, a fighter, and a bard, who are contracted to recover a powerful artefact for a wealthy client.

This newly formed crew must head into dangerous lands in winter and make it back safely. But their leader, Sage, is constantly distracted from the Job by copping off with the bard, Araphi, whenever they are alone.

Sage is single, but she does have an ex-wife, and this is Araphi’s last moment of freedom before her political marriage to a man she doesn’t love and rarely sees.

This is a very spicy sapphic romance and an enjoyable fantasy story. I do think it is too spice-heavy, as it becomes kind of relentless and inevitable.

That might be because I really wanted to get back to the plot, but it often felt tonally wrong. But those moments did move the characters or the plot along, and were well-written.

I also liked how they solved the wider problem of Araphi’s impending marriage, and how it was linked into the journey she signed up for.

I didn’t realise this was a sequel until I read it. Events clearly went on in Homegrown Magic, and they are constantly referenced here, as they are linked to the background. But I felt this worked on its own, and the mentions are only slightly distracting.

I’d love to revisit this world, but I don’t think I need to read the first one, as it feels like I already know all the major bits.
If you’re looking for a spicy fantasy adventure, you can’t go wrong if you read this one.

Rating Scale: • Loved/Inducted (Personal Canon, 4.5-5★) • Liked/Passing Through (Not Quite Canon, 3.75-4.25★) • Impactful but Flawed/Missed Swings (2.75-3.5★) • Reshelved (Soft DNF) • Not for Me (1-2.5★ or Hard DNF)

The Dungeon Book took me a while to get into; I even soft DNFed it at one point, but Hanrahan landed it in a way I wasn’t expecting.

Let me try to explain.

Bait arrives in the dungeon as a baby and is raised by the Denizens who live there. Her life is told by Cornelisus, a talking skull and former master of the dungeon.

That setup, for me, was part of the problem. I couldn’t see it being anything other than a biography of events.

I also think not being a player and being only vaguely aware of the Dungeons and Dragons tropes didn’t help.

Minor spoilers, but this isn’t an epic tale. Bait faces a main choice: does she remain in the dungeon or see who she is in the real world?

Luckily for both of us, she doesn’t stay there for too long, but the characters she meets outside the dungeon reappear later.

Because I pushed through, mostly by listening to Lawrence Neale’s excellent narration, I experienced how the story turned.

Hanrahan’s plans for Bait surprised me, but I was impressed by what he did with the side characters.

The central theme explores what a monster is, and I felt especially sorry for what happened to the Minotaur.

It is a fun, sometimes silly book, with a sober heart that ends up telling a great fantasy yarn.

If you love D&D, the idea of a talking skull, or monsters killing off heroes, then give this a try.

This is my first Jon Fosse work, and it won’t be my last.

Set in Northern Norway, the story centres on the small fishing village of Vaim, where we meet Jatgeir as he goes to Bjørgvin to buy a needle and thread. I was going to say it’s not a very dramatic tale, but it does have drama. What it doesn’t have is conflict; instead, it’s a deep reflection on living quietly and simply.

Over three distinct parts, Fosse introduces Jatgeir’s boat (Eline), his friend (Elias), the secret love of his life (also Eline, as he named the boat after her) and Eline’s husband, Frank.

Eline is the anchor and a force of nature throughout. But we don’t hear from Eline directly; instead, we see her impact. Though the men don’t seem to mind, I’m not sure it’s healthy.

What I enjoyed, and what must have been painstaking to translate, is the unfiltered stream-of-consciousness narration, which makes this very much a vibes novel.

Jatgeir keeps to himself in the novel; he has one friend, Elias. There’s a moment in the middle between the two that I found heartbreaking. It’s a quiet moment, yet it shows the power in Fosse’s writing.

It’s hard to guess where it’s all heading, but Fosse manages to sail us into swelling emotions as he navigates out of Vaim and back again.

Recommended for those who like powerful slice-of-life tales that are a little vague and a little strange.

Smyth is growing as a writer with each book, and The Unfathomable Curse is the best in the series so far.

In this instalment, The Undetectables detective agency faces its most personal case yet, and they are on the clock to solve it before a fatal deadline.

Will they solve the mystery in time, or will they be left with more questions and corpses?

That depends on whether they can get the Ghoul Council to react without first holding a meeting about it.

From the opening pages, Smyth is whisking the characters between gravesites, witness interviews, and stakeouts, while coping with a still-not-right Theo and running two investigations.

What is brilliant is that this book focuses on Cornelia. I was a bit miffed reading the last one because Smyth moved Mallory away from the centre of attention and made Diana the main focus.

Though this didn’t occur to me until I was a good chunk in, I now see that each book gives one of them their moment in the spotlight. I can see this choice means the reader gets to know and understand each of them better by getting into their heads. I want to go back and re-read the earlier books now that I know Cornelia better.

Now I understand why this is a four-book series.

It’s one of those books where it’s better not to think too deeply about the structure of the world-building.

For example, the Ghoul Council burying itself in paperwork rather than addressing the crisis directly explains why Cornelia’s relationship with her family is the way it is (her parents head the council) and helps move the plot along by their inaction, so the detectives can investigate without their help. I can understand why Smyth chose to do this, but it can feel off because they seem constrained by the plot rather than by their own behaviour.

The only other issue is that sometimes scenes with the main characters turn into isolated bubbles where the side characters are forgotten. There are moments where the other people in the scene should be having quite a strong response to what has just been revealed to them.

For example, late in the book, actions have been taken that I would demand be repaired, but no one demands anything, and no one talks about it. Instead, those other characters just seem to vanish from the conversation and the scene itself – to be fair, I might have missed the description of it happening, but it shouldn’t have been a throwaway line if it was mentioned.

Given this book’s ending and Theo’s behaviour throughout, the final instalment will almost certainly focus on his thoughts, feelings, and motivations.

It’s one of those books where you get towards the end and wonder why you’ve got so many pages left. It’s because Smyth has more surprises to spring. The revelations are well thought out and presented in surprising and shocking ways.

The ideas introduced here also cast the earlier mysteries in a new, disturbing light.

My love for Mallory, Diana, and Cornelia is only getting stronger. Though I wonder if I’ll ever like Theo again.

If you, too, were captivated by the lives of Mallory, Diana and Cornelia and enjoy seeing them work a case, then you’re going to enjoy this.

I have no idea what the final book will reveal. Smyth has put many pieces in play by seeding them throughout the books. I predict I’ll be pleasantly shocked by what the 4th and final book, The Unsolvable Case, reveals.

Rating Scale: Loved/Inducted (Personal Canon, 4.5-5★) • Liked/Passing Through (Not Quite Canon, 3.75-4.25★) • Impactful but Flawed/Missed Swings (2.75-3.5★) • Reshelved (Soft DNF) • Not for Me (1-2.5★ or Hard DNF)

What if something was eating your memories? You were also aware that it was happening but didn’t know what it had taken, or what you were doing to stop it, because it wasn’t just your memories it was taking, but everyone else’s too? And what if it wasn’t just one thing but lots of ‘things’ that could affect people’s memories? Then what would you do?

We are used to ideas (memes) breaking containment.

…an internet meme is a concept or piece of media that spreads via the internet. It could be anything – a video, hashtag or image…They can come from social interactions, pop culture, or political views.

Source: MEMES: WHAT ARE THEY?

Memes change the world, and anti-memes do too. qntm’s There Is No Antimemetics Division explores what happens when ideas don’t spread, but instead resist being remembered and slip from the mind.

An antimeme is an idea with self-censoring properties; an idea which, by its intrinsic nature, discourages or prevents people from spreading it.

Source: Antimemetics Division Hub – SCP Foundation

It opens with Marie Quinn walking into a meeting that feels wrong, and from there, everything feels out of place.

qntm takes the weirdness of VanderMeer’s Area X novels, combines it with the government bureaucracy of Stross’s The Laundry series, and puts it in a pressure cooker, releasing the results in a series of intense, interlinked sections.

As a novel that plays with memory, it has its own logic, but it also has jarring moments. It takes what you’ve been told from earlier scenes and twists and changes them, which doesn’t automatically mean you’ve misremembered them.

It originated as a web serial, and I wonder if that’s why it occasionally feels fragmented. Whether the fragmentation is accidental or deliberate, they add to the uncertainty and enhances the creeping horror signposted throughout.

As a reader, I don’t think you’re expected to ‘keep’ up with the changes, but you do need to accept that the reality you now see is the one in that moment.

Cosmic horror is, at its heart, about the uncaring nature of the universe and the entities who are bigger than us, but qntm makes this personal for Quinn, and by extension, the reader. Quinn is perhaps cruelly given back memories she’d lost, only to have them taken away again.

This is a clever novel; it may frustrate and infuriate, but it builds toward a moment via the mantra:

No, this is not your first day.

Recommended for readers interested in the 2026 Arthur C. Clarke Award shortlist and for fans of Jeff VanderMeer, Charles Stross, and creeping existential horror.

Is this Arthur C. Clarke Award-winning book worth your time? Yes. 100% yes.

When There Are Wolves Again is a climate-focused speculative fiction novel that shows how our choices can nudge the world toward a different, hopefully better, place.

I’ll let you decide whether Swift is giving us a what-if, making a prediction, or whether her words can become a manifestation?

Decades from now, two women sit by a fire and speak. Lucy tells us directly how she has fought for nature. Hester reports on her life as if she were an outsider looking in. Lucy uses direct action to force change, while Hester records her observations and shares documentaries of those moments to shift her audience’s perspective.

It might seem like they’re recounting a fantasy, but the story challenges the current world’s assumption that we can’t respond radically enough to climate change. Instead, it offers an alternative future in which we let nature return and be wild. Their stories empower the reader by showing how something dramatic can be achieved through the choices and sacrifices of just two people.

I did start to worry that the time-leaping format would feel like a biographical run-through, which would leave me with an ‘oh well’ feeling at the end, but Swift doesn’t just wander aimlessly back to the fireside chat that frames this tale.

The leaps ahead in time feel deliberately random, and they work. The reader just needs to trust that it will all make sense because it builds an emotional jigsaw that pays off when the last piece clicks into place.

This is because Swift is willing to pause and examine who we are in those moments; that’s what makes it meaningful.

The message is that grief, sadness, and regret are part of life, but it’s what we do afterwards that matters.

Hester leaves home and turns that into an observation of the world, using her camera lens to give nature a voice and, unintentionally, exposing herself. But only after Lucy’s actions for wider change do we understand the cost.

In contrast, Lucy is an outsider from the start. She takes that rejection and pain, and it fuels her as she shouts and screams for a better deal for nature.

The author’s skill emerges best in the scenes where the characters are with their family, friends, and enemies. These moments aren’t forced; they’re where Lucy and Hester process their feelings. I got emotional more than once because of how they have to face themselves through their past decisions, present circumstances, and inevitable futures.

And there is a realisation, followed by discomfort as a reader, that they might not have had a happy life. But their happiness has always been and will remain secondary. The question raised here is: was that worth it? Swift argues, through the changes their lives make to nature, that it is.

It’s a novel that sticks your hand in the dirt and forces you to look at nature, free to live and die without human constraint or interference. The challenge is to go outside, stick your hand in real soil, and help change things.

This is for anyone who cares about our future and wants to see a hopeful one made possible by the sacrifices of two remarkable people.

My Ratings

• Loved / Inducted (4.5–5★)
• Passing Through (3.75–4.25★)
• Impactful but flawed / missed swings (2.75–3.5★)
• Not for Me / Back on the Shelf (1–2.5★ or DNF)

I impulse-bought The Somewhat Wicked Witch of Brigandale after tylersshelf posted a TikTok review saying, ‘This book is so silly, so campy. It gives you all those fairy-tale vibes but with adult themes.’ Given the heavier reading I’d been doing, I bought it and bumped it right up my TBR. It’s rare that humour works for me in a novel.

His review was spot on — I loved it for being fun, and now I’m keen to read another of his recommendations, The Lost Story by Meg Shaffer.

It’s a 6/5  read that has set the bar high for the rest of my 2026 reading.

It’s brilliant. Waggoner takes the leave-a-baby-that-is-probably-a-king-with-a-witch-to-raise trope and has fun with it. Drawing on humour and concepts that feel schooled by Pratchett’s approach to fairy tales and witches (with their practical approach to problem-solving combined with keen-eyed observations on human nature), Waggoner cranks up the narrative snark and uses it to tell the story of a mother (Gretsella) who will bring down a kingdom just to see her son (Bradley) happy. 

The playfulness begins in the chapter subheadings and extends into the footnotes and descriptions, all of which are carried by the narrator’s voice, which reminds me of a sassy magical mirror.

The characters have substance, the cast is varied, and Waggoner sticks with fairy-tale‑like scenarios, adds twists so they feel fresh, and it works. The key reason for picking this up was the queer love story, which is sweet, doesn’t dominate, and lets it be just two people in love. It is utterly cosy.

The pacing, with the interludes and asides, feels like it’s always moving things forward or giving you fun snippets. It’s smart, charming, and cosy, and at 210 pages, it doesn’t outstay its welcome. The ending hints that further tales of Gretsella and Bradley may follow. I, for one, vote they do.

As you can tell, I was charmed — maybe enchanted — by it. Regardless, I now feel compelled to enjoy it all over again, as I’ve never giggled this much at a book, and I hope you do too.

Spoilers: None
Genre: Fantasy 
Format: e-ARC 
Source: NetGalley (in exchange for an unbiased review) 
Rating: Mixed

Together, Kiamling and her grandmother fight ghosts, spirits, and other monsters who threaten the citizens of British Colonial Hong Kong. No one appreciates the work they do. Everyone believes that the pair brings bad luck. 

When her grandmother is spirited away, Kiamling continues to scrub pots by day and fight monsters by night, while trying to keep her sister untainted by association with her ‘bad luck’ so her sister can have a happy married life. 

To Kiamling, this is a loving burden to carry, but to her sister, it comes across as resentful.

And initially, I thought her personality was just a reaction to her grandmother’s constant corrections. But after seeing her solo encounters, I think Chan wants to heavily reinforce that her sister is the light and Kiamling is the shadow – and went full grimdark to prove it. 

Chan piles on the pressure. She relentlessly places the main character’s acerbic, headstrong personality in situations that shouldn’t cause conflict for anyone else, but of course for her that’s exactly what happens. Kiamling doesn’t build relationships, so her jobs don’t go well. She generally upsets people. The love triangle feels forced and painful, though maybe with good reason. She’s not a likeable person; she keeps showing herself up. She’s like a grimdark Buffy, and that made reading it feel like a slog.

I think I’m too old for it. I think its audience is younger, or people who like grim late-teen/early-twenties characters grumping around while doing the right thing.

And what makes me grumpier is that this is obviously what the author wants and intends: to make the characters and the world grim and to give the reader an exhilarating yet grim time. 

Chan shows how the British are there for profit and exploitation, and they believe they are superior. Because of this arrogance, they have no regard for local traditions, which goes against everything she and her grandmother represent.

This sets up some great action scenes, including the opening, where a soldier almost kisses a corpse; an event for the dead, where the British don’t realise the consequences of their actions until fires start burning buildings; and another, where Kiamling has to bring stone statues to life to save the day. More generally, it felt like a real place. All this shows what the author is capable of.

There are also some structural issues. The pacing and urgency don’t seem right, and if the character grated less, I think I could have forgiven it more. It is mostly me, despite the issues. Maybe book 2 will smooth things out.

Throughout, Chan presents ‘tests’ for Kiamling, culminating in the final exam question, ‘Will she grow as a person?’

If you can stand an annoying MC, then read it and decide for yourself. 

Note: I rate on a four-tier scale: Loved (4.5–5★), Liked (3.75–4.25★), Mixed (2.75–3.5★), and Not for me (1–2.5★).

On my copy of Dungeon Crawler Carl (DCC), under the dust jacket, it says, ‘You Will Not Break Me’. Whatever else you think of Carl, this sentiment holds true through book one and, based on what happens here, through the series as a whole.

DCC is one of the most popular titles in the relatively new genre label of LitRPG, and it deserves that status.

It focuses on Carl and his ex-girlfriend’s cat, Princess Donut, who just happen to be outside in the right place when the game commences and wipes out most of humanity.

As a reward for surviving this near-extinction-level event, all new players, Crawlers, must survive a series of puzzles, skirmishes, and occasional boss battles against “things” that are solely there to kill them. Their survival mostly depends on getting stronger and killing “things”, even if those things turn out to be their fellow humans. 

I had to pause reading DCC around 1/3 of the way in, as I grew uncomfortable with Carl’s initial portrayal.

I am very much a ‘I care about the people more than the system’ person. Carl kills a confused, mutated woman and a crèche of goblin babies, showing little reaction to either his actions or his foes’ deaths.

I may have prematurely concluded that ‘I understand what DCC is trying to do, and I don’t think finishing it will change that—but maybe I’ll come to like it.’

But thinking more about the fact that it falls within the system-apocalypse microgenre, and reading around the subject, I wanted to push on and see if I was getting the full picture. 

After picking it back up and reading more, I did. I saw Carl as stoic and practical in his response — he later reflects that they are all there to die. Given Carl’s background as a Coast Guard veteran, I wondered if that’s just how they make them. His cat does act like an arsehole. But that’s a cat for you, especially one with trophies and rosettes, though even she acknowledges that Carl is trying to do the right thing in challenging circumstances.

Given his mantra of ‘You Will Not Break Me’, I started taking notes on when Carl was sympathetic or heroic in the face of everything he’s been pitted against. I feel the evidence shows he’s a ‘good guy’ in a bad world, and it makes you wonder what you would do. Just wait to die? Or try to survive and hope?

The ‘cleverness’ of this work, and perhaps of the genre, is that it takes the core mechanics of an RPG and reveals the brutal reality behind them. The system is against him—he’s there to kill and, ultimately, to die, in an entertaining way.

And that’s what video games do: they work in the abstract; they are pixels on a screen, and now there’s blood on the dungeon floor.

This isn’t a game. It’s real life, with all the complexities and the games within games that we all experience.

Carl gets to see that as he’s introduced to more than one of the Wizards behind the curtain. And in later scenes, Matt draws Carl into what the game represents: the politics, the promises and the control it exerts over everyone, because almost everyone is a victim. 

As a video game-to-page adaptation, I can’t fault it. The explanations of weapons, bosses, and other baddies are good, and the AI overseer is funny, often inappropriately so. It feels like a video game experienced through all five senses.

You have to assume that everyone is going to die, including the crawlers and the NPCs (non-playable characters), even if they themselves might not know it. It’s a story told against that injustice, focusing on a character who’s trying his best, given his upbringing and background.

There is a lot to enjoy. The interactions, the characters, the system, the politics, and the backdrop against which it’s set. 

Am I going to read the next one? Yes. And the one after that. I’m told that books 2 and 3 need to be read together to get the point Dinniman is trying to make. 

I don’t think it’s a celebratory story; it’s brutal and shows the reality of RPGs while trying to satirise late-stage capitalism, which values money and entertainment over anything an individual might experience. 

Do I expect it to soften its use of problematic gazes (see below)? Hopefully. I hear that it does as the series continues. 

I guess we’ll see. 

Addendum:  

As a satire on capitalism, it’s complicated. Carl and probably the author, Matt, see the world through a white male gaze. I know more about the anatomy of his encounters with women than I wish. I’m not sure he ever mentions the guns, pecs, and thighs of any of the men he encounters.

As other commentary has pointed out, it’s great to call out what capitalism represents, but it might still rely too heavily on the language and framing of the worldview it’s trying to satirise, which makes it hard to distinguish between commentary and ingrained bias. 

Spoilers: Mild (premise, themes, and early plot developments)
Genre: Science Fiction  
Format: Paperback 
Source: Bought 
Rating: Loved

Would you fight for a love that feels right, even if it’s for someone you’ve never met? Not because you don’t want to, but because time has separated you by 6 months? Sounds crazy, right? But that’s what happens to Tressa Fay Robeson in Cosmic Love at the Multiverse Hair Salon.

Tressa Fay is a successful and popular hairdresser known for giving her clients life-changing hairstyles. She is still recovering from a break-up when a random text message sends her across town on a date, only to be stood up at the bar. Well, not exactly stood up. Her date tells her where she is, but they aren’t there. And they didn’t stand each other up. They were both at the bar. It’s just that Tressa Fay is in the present and her date (Meryl) was waiting for her six months ago. Tressa Fay tells her friends that she’s texting a hot woman in the past, and they believe her.

From there, you and the characters enter a trust bubble. You have to trust that Meryl and Tressa Fay can communicate via text as the characters do, and believe that it’s really happening. We spend the opening section of the book focusing solely on Tressa Fay in the present. This shows us that, in the past, Tressa Fay hadn’t met Meryl and confirms she wasn’t supposed to. But Meryl doesn’t want to be trapped in a future where she disappears and doesn’t get to love Tressa Fay, even if it has consequences.

I think Annie Mare does an outstanding job not only of bouncing between timelines but also of guiding the reader through complex scientific concepts. Mare navigates them expertly because she’s hyper-focused on the emotional connections shared by all the characters.

This is Mare’s and the book’s strength. She was happy to hold my heart in her grip. I cared about all of their futures with all my heart. I teared up, held my breath, and crossed my fingers for the right things to happen.

But the science isn’t the driver of the story; the driver is two people who are passionately in love, desperate to meet and desperate not to lose each other, but it’ll only happen if they play the science right.

With seemingly nothing to lose but everything to gain, they start messing with time.

All their pasts and futures become tangled; their connections are so tenuous because the present could be changed, and they could be severed from each other at any moment.

They have the power to tell Meryl her future, and I kept wondering which upcoming past event they would choose to change and how it would manifest in the present. This tightened her fist around my heart like a vice for almost the entire time.

It’s a hard premise to land — how much of the mystery do you explain? Do you go where the readers expect, or where you expect? I think the concept for resolving the overlapping time was masterful; I was expecting one last dramatic revelation, and it didn’t come, and what happened as a result didn’t work for me.

Mare, I think, wanted a specific tone for the ending, but instead of leaning into the danger of their experimentation, she played it too safe. All the tension I had been holding slipped away, leaving me slightly deflated.

Cosmic Love at the Multiverse Hair Salon, to me, is a meditation on the nature of love. The story itself feels like an instructor. I was its student. Because Meryl doesn’t want to be trapped in a future where she disappears and never gets to love Tressa Fay, every observation felt like something I needed to study and hold onto. There were so many observations I felt compelled to write down to study later. I loved watching them and taking notes as I explored, changed, loved and laughed — I just can’t promise you’ll like the last few pages.

Recommended for anyone who enjoys (or thinks they’ll enjoy) a mix of sapphic yearning and science fiction.

Note: I rate on a four-tier scale: Loved (4.5–5★), Liked (3.75–4.25★), Mixed (2.75–3.5★), and Not for me (1–2.5★).

I flew through the first 1/3 of the novel because I love the video game RPG genre and this was my first experience reading about how LitRPG turns them into a linear adventure. But my opinion changed when I read two scenes that came quite close together.

Now, for the next three or four paragraphs, there are spoilers: Carl, up to this point, has been killing non-human characters to survive; it’s been very much attack-or-die. As a reader, I haven’t really expected him to have been deeply reflecting on the horror of the situation

But there were two scenes where Carl wasn’t immediately attacked and had a chance to interact rather than react to the ‘baddies’.

*** There are spoilers in the next two paragraphs ***

In one, a mutated human speaks Spanish, which shows his opponent is scared and confused. Carl doesn’t understand Spanish, and a translation isn’t provided to the reader. But he still acts with violence, despite the doubts he expresses about facing an almost-human character.

Matt doesn’t pause the action here; Carl moves on. He meets a group of goblins who don’t kill him on sight because they recognise his tattoo, which he received as a ‘bonus’ for killing another goblin group earlier. He doesn’t explain this. Instead, he uses it to gain access to their inner sanctum. They treat him with kindness, and he repays that by carrying out a mass killing.

I thought that it would set the tone for the rest of the book – kill indiscriminately, get loot, and level up.

But without the author exploring the emotional impact, it felt like it would be reductive and ultimately a hollow experience. I need to at least feel there is a point to the story, even if it makes me feel uncomfortable.

And when I reached this thought earlier last week, I closed the book, fully intending to DNF it.

I shared my disappointment on Bluesky, hoping someone would tell me I was wrong.

Ummm, at 1/3 in, I’m not sure that I like Carl or the cat in Dungeon Crawler Carl.

And I’m grateful to Somhairle Kelly for situating Dungeon Crawler Carl within the system-apocalypse microgenre.

The thing that hit me from the thread was:

Some are grimdark for the sake of grimdark. Characters often lament never getting planes, the internet, mobile phones, etc. again, but they don’t contemplate the sheer horror.

It made me wonder if my reaction was the problem. Carl wasn’t supposed to care, and that was intentional and an expected trope because the genre as a whole focuses on the macro rather than the individual’s emotional impact.

I’ve previously said, way back in 2023, in the context of The Poppy War Trilogy:

I don’t plan on going back to grimdark consciously, at least not for a while, unless I read a series that is grimdark but I don’t realise it is.

And it seemed that reading Matt or the Clarke Award had ‘fooled’ me into reading it.

But both Somhairle’s framing and the fact that it’s up for a Clarke Award have me intrigued. I’m wondering if I can continue, knowing this will be the pattern from here on out.

The replies in the thread imply that Carl doesn’t suddenly become empathetic as the series goes on. Growth may kick in about book 4 or 5.

And the creator has said that it’s not what it first seems:

Every war, every social movement has multiple battlefields, and not every battlefield has to be the front line. I want people with different points of view to enjoy these books at face value. If I then manage to drill through their thick skulls and make them think about the broader themes and maybe grow an empathetic spark, all the better.

The above is a larger extract from a Reddit post, ‘We are not talking current event politics here, and every deliberately political post will be deleted. Repeat violators will be banned. This is why’

So, maybe I am having the reaction that the author is expecting. I went out of my way to translate the Spanish dialogue in that first scene, and I think that’s perhaps what led me to project a negative association between Carl and his creator.

I think the problem is that I don’t feel that I need the lesson.

Killing anything should come with awareness.

And I wonder if my curiosity would drive me to read through my own discomfort and dissociation, to complete my reading of the rest of the books. Given that I can’t even force myself to read the next book in the series that I LOVE, I highly doubt it.

By the way, I love how the RPG elements are integrated; it’s just the lack of empathy for the ‘Non-Playable Characters’ even if that makes readers think about the choices that Carl is and isn’t making.

And because of Kelly’s framing, I do want to go back to DCC with both the author’s intent and the type of genre it is.

I now want to read The Transcendent Green by Mati Ocha (https://matiocha.com) as it was recommended by Somhairle Kelly, as they described it as ‘respectful, authentically Gaelic, and depicts the horrors without callousness or apocalypse porn. And fundamentally hopepunk‘

I understand what DCC is trying to do, and I don’t think finishing it will change that—but maybe I’ll come to like it. Should I continue, or is this just not for me?

In July last year, I gave myself two reading challenges:

1. Read the  British Fantasy Awards 2025 shortlist for Best Anthology
2. Read the World Fantasy Awards 2025 shortlist for Best Novella

I managed the novellas, but burnt out on the anthologies.

So I have form, if not an entirely successful track record, with reviewing award shortlists. It does help me focus — giving me a deadline to aim for and pushing me to read books that might otherwise sit on the ever‑growing TBR pile.

I also did a ‘live’ reading of Annie Bot by Sierra Greer (at Dan’s request), which went on to win the Clarke Award.

That pushed me to read it more closely and think about it more deeply — and I think I saw some of what the Clarke judges did in it. A worthy winner.

So I’m wondering whether to set myself a new challenge: read the Hugo and Clarke shortlists before the winners are announced.

Despite having somehow forgotten, checking the list reminded me that they are all books I’m interested in.

Best Novel

• A Drop of Corruption by Robert Jackson Bennett (Del Rey; Hodderscape)
• Death of the Author by Nnedi Okorafor (William Morrow; Gollancz)
• Shroud by Adrian Tchaikovsky (Tor UK; Orbit US)
• The Everlasting by Alix E. Harrow (Tor US; Tor UK)
• The Incandescent by Emily Tesh (Tor US; Orbit UK)
• The Raven Scholar by Antonia Hodgson (Orbit US; Hodderscape)

I’ve only read one (The Incandescent), which isn’t a great start — especially as it’s currently at the bottom of the list, sorry. In theory, I have plenty of time to catch up on the other five before the winner is announced on Sunday, 30 August 2026, at 8:00pm Pacific (4am?!).

The good news is that I already have all of them, including special editions of Death of the Author and The Everlasting. I enjoyed Robert Jackson Bennett’s previous series, and The Raven Scholar has enough hype that it seems to be living up to it.

If that feels ambitious, I’ve checked the other categories, and the Best Novella looks much more manageable and should give me an easy and early win.

Best Novella

• Automatic Noodle by Annalee Newitz (Tordotcom)
• Cinder House by Freya Marske (Tordotcom; Tor UK)
• Murder by Memory by Olivia Waite (Tordotcom)
• The River Has Roots by Amal El-Mohtar (Tordotcom; Arcadia UK)
• The Summer War by Naomi Novik (Del Rey US; Del Rey UK)
• What Stalks the Deep by T. Kingfisher (Nightfire; Titan UK)

I’ve read half of them — Automatic Noodle, Murder by Memory and What Stalks the Deep — all worth reading. I owe reviews of two of them. But if I had to rank them, I’d go Noodle, Deep, then Memory. I’m curious how that would change.

The Arthur C. Clarke Award shortlist this year is:

• Dungeon Crawler Carl – Matt Dinniman (Michael Joseph)
• The Dream Hotel – Laila Lalami (Bloomsbury Circus)
• Luminous – Silvia Park (Magpie)
• There Is No Antimemetics Division – Qntm (Del Rey)
• When There Are Wolves Again – E.J. Swift (Arcadia)
• The Salt Oracle – Lorraine Wilson (Solaris)

I bought The Dream Hotel and Dungeon Crawler Carl especially to read for this, so I’m committed in terms of TBR. The Arthur C. Clarke and Hugos always have a lot of debate, and I want to avoid FOMO and join in.

The winner of the Arthur C. Clarke Award will be announced on 12 August 2026, putting it just over two weeks before the Hugos. In order to meet both deadlines, I’d need to read 10⅔ novels plus three novellas in just over two months.

Should I commit to it? Would you do it? Have you read any? Who would you vote to win?

PS

The British Fantasy Awards 2026 Shortlists are also out, including the Best Anthology Award:

• Lesbians In Space: Where No Man Has Gone Before, edited by J S Fields, William C Tracy, Heather Tracy (Space Wizard Science Fantasy)
• Blood in the Bricks, edited by Neil Williamson, NewCon Press
• This Way Lies Madness, edited Dave Jeffery, Lee Murray, Flame Tree Press
• Silk and Sinew: A Collection of Folk Horror from the Asian Diaspora, Kristy Park Kulski (Bad Hand Books)

And while I’m not reading the anthologies this year, I’m curious about them. Have you read any? What should I pick up?

I have a copy of Everything Not Saved on my desk (in fact, I have two), and I keep meaning to review it. I’ve settled on being comfortable with writing reflective reviews of books I’ve previously read but haven’t yet reviewed. Since it’s Pride Month in the UK and we’re sharing queer reads, here is my review of a book I’m really proud to own. I know how much went into making this happen, and I’m really glad it’s out in the world. It also means I can take it off my desk and avoid the feels I get when I see it.

Should you review books that you’ve seen in draft and given feedback on? Probably not, as it will be seen as biased almost immediately. So let’s get that out of the way. I’m 100% biased here. 

What I expected going in was a really sweet coming-of-age tale with video game references. What actually happened was that I became way too emotionally invested to be an analytical reader – it took me too long to read because of the feelings it brought up – and I definitely fed that back. With that out of the way, let’s get on with the review.   

The opening scenes show M (Mikey) arriving, with his mum and older brother, in the ‘vibes are definitely off’ village of Pytt End. His welcome to his new school is less than stellar. Luckily, a joint passion for video games means he finds a friend, K (Kris).

Everything Not Saved is told from M & K’s alternating viewpoints, which not only gives the reader insight into both teenagers and their perspectives on their friendship, but also what is happening when they’re not in each other’s company. 

In this type of tale, you’d think it would be repetitive, but Coveney keeps the momentum going when the chapters switch. 

What is really strong is the complexity of families and how school, especially, affects them (because teenagers who need education lack the autonomy that adults have, such as being able to move to a new school if they don’t like their current one).

Coveney manages to make you protective of our teen protagonists, so that at certain moments your heart stops or you want to shout at them, ‘But don’t trust her.’ He’s also not shy of exploring the darker sides of life. It made me cry at least twice, in part because it made me think of how I felt growing up. And if I’m not careful, writing this review will make me cry again. 

The other major thread is video games, and Everything Not Saved captures the 1990s atmosphere in which video games were played offline, physically with friends, and studying to play them was as much a part of, if not a major part of, playing them. 

The reason it’s stuck with me is my emotional connection to it, but I can’t be the only gay man who’s going to have that reaction. In the sense that literature shows you the lives of people, this does exactly that. I’m not saying it’s the author’s lived experience, but Coveney’s managed to capture what it’s like to grow up in a small village, be gay, and be geeky.

Looking back, I’m not ready to re-read it yet, but I envy anyone who has felt those feelings and is ready to feel them all again. 

My verdict is that it captures the creepy village vibe, invokes video game nostalgia, and is an emotional roller coaster of a coming-of-age tale about two teenage boys. The ending lands, and all the set-ups come together. Though given the dark events, do they get a happy ever after? Or do they just leave readers, this reader, feeling haunted? I highly recommend you read it and find out.

To repeat, I feel very proud of my copies of Everything Not Saved. I can’t wait to read (on publication or earlier) what NMJ Coveney writes next. 

Spoilers: Mild (themes and setup only
Genre: Fantasy
Format: e-ARC
Source: NetGalley (in exchange for an unbiased review)
Rating: Liked

This is Carey’s take on a short story by Hans Christian Andersen, unsurprisingly also called The Tinderbox. He tells the tale of a soldier and a witch whose existence has been put at risk by the deeds of their rulers.

If you’re wanting an action/adventure you’re not getting that. What you do get is a slower examination of good, bad, wicked and truly evil.

Set in a small Eastern European country of Allesheim, where there is a seemingly endless war with its neighbours, Ehrlich and Pozhka, though it’s unclear what they are truly fighting about.

It’s implied that whoever wins this fight for control will ultimately make no difference to the lives of the citizens of each country. And while the rulers squabble, their citizens are starving and dying for the sake of a war that has no end in sight.

The tone of the book is set by Mag Tresti, as he describes his honourable medical discharge being conducted alongside the execution of his condemned comrades, who have been branded as faithless cowards and are to be executed in batches. Both events are carried out on behalf of, and in the presence of, the king.

The soldier notes that, despite the pending deaths and general unhappiness of the gathering soldiers being honoured, a semblance of approval has been conjured up for the king’s speech where there was none. This hints at the power of the adviser, which is both magical and political.

Mag, the now ex-soldier, is shunned by those he comes across on his search for new employment, but eventually finds himself asking a reclusive widow, Jannae Mirchella, for work. Surprisingly but brusquely, she agrees, initially with terms acceptable to both.

But the terms offered—payment on completion of work—are not fulfilled, as she is always finding work to be done. This doesn’t seem to matter until Mag is doing a dangerous task and comes into possession of a Tinder Box.

This event soon coincides with him leaving the widow’s employ; formerly a man without power, he now seems to possess something powerful, though he doesn’t know at the time that it contains three devils.

The widow, however, is a witch. One who has been waiting for some unspecified right moment to go back into the world. This is not the moment she was waiting for, but recovering the box is overwhelming.

While travelling she starts to remember her past, and becomes haunted by a key moment, forced to look back at this and other decisions her circumstances forced her to take. She examines the most important one—taking her revenge—and why she’s been putting it off.

We start with Mag’s narration, but the story demands we see into the heart of Jannae, so it is then told from her perspective. And we get to understand what she’s willing to sacrifice, and are challenged to believe that there might be some good in her cold heart.

We switch between the two as one hunts the other down.

We even get to see the world through the king’s adviser, though we see nothing redeeming through his eyes.

The limits of choice are a theme that cuts across our three main characters, and we get to see the world from each of them, which may be a bit disappointing to those who were enjoying the ex-soldier’s narration and were happy to see the world from his point of view.

Told from multiple points of view, this allows Carey to provide better commentary and insight. The slower nature of the story gives space for this. He examines women in this society, who are not well thought of; the role of soldiers, seen as replicable; the ambivalence of those who hold power, though it is really the people who hold it; how people can be oh so very petty, where telling tales really doesn’t have consequences; and overall the value of a life, which becomes about living in the moment.

Ultimately, it is the story of how life doesn’t like people who want to live outside the boxes that society puts them into, making sure they toe the line, which is literal in the case of the three devils.

The skill of Carey’s storytelling is shown in scenes where Mag tries to befriend the inhabitants of the Tinder Box – like Aladdin’s genie, they can seemingly grant any wish, but they are prisoners bound to the commands of their possessor, and unlike the genie they have no end to their sentence. Does he win them over? Are they actually wicked or have they also found themselves on the wrong side of an ambivalent ruler?

There are reflections from both the living, the meta-living, and the dead.

On what happens to the living after death, one of the prisoners of the box says:

‘That knowledge Elohim has not shared with any. I have always assumed that there is a mill where old souls are washed and made new, but if there is I’ve never seen it. Perhaps they only fade. Or perhaps there is another place somewhere in which they enjoy a different existence. In any event, their persistence on this plane is short’

It doesn’t matter to the god of this world (Elohim); like the King, both treat the world as if there will always be more people, and more souls, to do their bidding, and that’s how they inevitably become worthless.

Carey makes you feel that everyone is worthy, well maybe not the evil King or his court. But everyone else—yes, there is a cost, but aren’t things of real value worth the price?

I am trying not to say too much, because it’s not packed with events; it’s more thoughtful and meditative. I think this will frustrate some readers, which would be a shame.

But if they stick with it, it’s a story of making the best of things, with some unrequited love—or perhaps lust—woven in.

Overall, it’s a fairytale stretched into a novel, spending that extra time exploring the meaning of life and what can be achieved if you truly live.

Note: I rate on a four-tier scale: Loved (4.5–5★), Liked (3.75–4.25★), Mixed (2.75–3.5★), and Not for me (1–2.5★).

Spoilers: None
Genre: Literary Fiction
Format read: Print
Disclosure: None [this book was purchased by me]
Loved (4.5–5★)

This is Haddad’s second novel. His first, Guapa, won the Polari First Book Prize and was set over 24 hours during the Arab Spring. Floodlines starts in July 2014 and ends in November 2014, but it documents events that happened decades earlier, and they ripple through its pages.

Haddad shows us that dreams play a significant role in the trajectory of our lives. He presents us with characters who are happier when the past is forgotten and buried in the sand, and contrasts them with those whose childhood nostalgia is so powerful it demands their shared past be uncovered. A past cleaned up and carried aloft with pride, like a tarnished family heirloom of uncertain value.

As the story progresses, some of the characters’ imagined pasts are shown to be untethered from reality. These conflicting memories explosively converge by the end of the novel. They often take the form of a waking dream, in which past events in Iraq intrude on the reality of their English country-cottage family home. Hopes for the future—a future where those displaced by the wars in Iraq are able to go home and re-find their identities—are harshly exposed as fantasy. But the reality is that a swept-away past has been left to fester.

On its surface, this is a story of three sisters who are arguing over how to honour or preserve their father’s artistic legacy. Their father was a hero in Iraq, still revered as a great artist, and is remembered for the impact he had. But the plan to track down his art and exhibit it unravels the past that has been tightly bound and hidden away.

There is an early email exchange in which Zainab states to Mediha, “I am copying in Ishtar because all three of us, as Hayder’s daughters, should be involved in these discussions.” However, this exchange later boils over with the reply, “Your concern for Baba’s legacy is laughable. What is driving all this sudden love and adoration?”

Haddad weaves a tapestry using the points of view of a son (Nizar, a war journalist turned sex worker), his mother (Zainab), her two sisters (Ishtar, the middle sister, and Mediha, the youngest and carer to their mother), and their mother (Bridget). Each point of view is a loose thread that the characters and the story tug on, as the lies their lives were built on unravel.

Art does not heal the trauma, and exposing the realities through factual reporting doesn’t either. The act of creation and observation does, however, expose the inner self. For example, Zainab collects objects and creates handicrafts and is seen as a lesser artist, while Ishtar has turned her art into political protest but is now beating a drum that only she can hear.

Lies sit at the heart of the novel because they are used to sweep away the truth. It is a story of dreams and quests, but also of the realities of displacement, and of how setting the past aside in favour of the present does not remove its burdens.

Though the story opens with Nizar, it is ultimately a family story. Haddad centres each of them, and some of the most powerful moments come when Bridget’s past and present merge. In these skilfully described scenes, you wonder if you are in a country home in the UK or standing in a house in Iraq. By the end, you know their mother has moulded them, but their history, and the desert heat, have fired them.

Floodlines asks: What does their father’s art reveal? And is that knowledge worth it?

The answer challenges taboos and conformity, exposing the lies we tell others and ourselves to feel safe. Ultimately, it serves as a warning that art is the heart revealed.

Originally Finished: 11 December 2025
Spoilers: None
Rating: Loved — 4.5–5★
Format Read: Audiobook & eBook
Disclosure: None [all versions purchased by me]

If you don’t feel for the monsters in the end, I worry about your humanity.

I think Abercrombie is a bit of a softie, really. He tells the story of a werewolf, an elf, a vampire, a necromancer, an immortal, and—I’m not entirely sure who or what Baptiste is—and makes you care about what happens to them.

They are the Chapel of the Holy Expediency’s congregation, bound to the Church to deal with its more problematic issues.

Their latest mission is to see a princess safely return home while avoiding other challengers to the throne.

On the way, they get into several scrapes, several shags, and let out several screams.

Steven Pacey’s audiobook performance embraces the text, almost revelling in the violence and vulgarity.

Recommended for lovers of fun but grizzly fantasy.

God’s Junk Drawer is the story of a child, Billy Gather, who, along with his sister, Beau, and father, goes missing during a rafting trip and ends up in a valley with dinosaurs, aliens, Neanderthals, and androids. It isn’t as silly as you’d expect. Clines takes it seriously, and because of that, it’s more emotionally resonant than I could have imagined.

Rating: 4.5★ / 5

I liked it, I think. Let me explain.

I’ve stepped back from reviewing for a while because I felt a bit of an imbalance. The analytical side of my brain — the part that holds the book in a buffer in my mind and runs analysis on it — had, I think, started to take away from the feelings that make reading enjoyable, the joy that my more emotive side gets from a book.

This might explain why I’ve been enjoying books that give a strong emotional response, even when I can see ‘flaws’ that my more logical side would normally have focused on and criticised the book for. God’s Junk Drawer is exactly the kind of book that benefits from that shift — one that hits the emotional notes even if the logic sometimes feels like unwelcome static.

It opens with clippings about a missing boy who is suddenly found, and he claims he’s been to a fantastical valley full of dinosaurs. In the present, the now‑adult Billy (Noah) has figured out a way to return there — but not without accidentally taking a group of graduate astronomy students and their guide with him, none of whom, unlike Noah, had prepared for the trip.

Once that happens, it becomes clear why Clines has chosen to alternate points of view (PoV). Jumping from head to head is probably my least favourite storytelling technique. Here, though, it feels essential: a group of people experiencing the fantastical from different perspectives, with no preparation, alongside one adult who was certain the valley hadn’t changed.

There’s a childhood naivety mixed with a teenage arrogance to Noah — he insists he knows everything there is to know about the valley — but he’s proven wrong pretty quickly. Not only about the current landscape, but about the nature of the valley itself. Clines does an exceptional job of keeping me guessing, and even as we reach the climax, he still has one or two surprises left to reveal.

It’s a very open‑minded work, and it plays a lot with the histories of its characters. One pair in particular has an ‘aha’ moment that reframes why they hate each other so much — a reveal that lands with real emotional weight.

It’s also a very brutal book — not just because the valley is dangerous, but because Clines is telling a story with real impact, rather than one that prioritises emotional safety.

Now that I’ve sat with it a bit, thinking about what the valley is and its history, I do like it. I’d recommend resisting the urge to understand the valley early on; Clines reveals its nature gradually, setting things up only to pull back a curtain and show something else. Even then, I think there are still a few gaps I’d have appreciated more insight on.

Overall, I really liked how Clines shows Noah that what his teenage self remembered was not reality, and that the sacrifices he’d made to get back had a far wider impact — both positive and negative — than he’d selfishly assumed.

If you want to experience a valley with dinosaurs, consider your own survival odds, and have your assumptions happily eroded, I’d recommend it.

Note: I rate on a four-tier scale: Loved (4.5–5★), Liked (3.75–4.25★), Mixed (2.75–3.5★), and Not for me (1–2.5★).

Automatic Noodle by Annalee Newitz is virtually perfect. Newitz exquisitely pulls off a chewy tale of survival, camaraderie, and noodle-making. I loved it. Can we have more of these heartfelt, low-but-high-stakes stories, please?

Rating: 4.75★ / 5

In a near‑future San Francisco, a crew of robots awaken to find they’ve been abandoned along with their employer/owner’s food‑making business, but because of late‑stage capitalism, they also have bills to pay. So they decide to pool their collective skills and set up their own ghost kitchen, selling noodles for collection or delivery. It all seems to go well until the 1‑star reviews.

Over 160‑odd pages, Newitz tells a low‑stakes but high personal‑impact tale set in the present but kneads into it the origins of each member of the staff, and if you don’t cry when you hear about the memories one of them holds on to in order to relive them, your heart is harder than mine.

The skill here is that Newitz makes each robot feel alive. They are not just humans in robotic shells; the challenges they face are unique to each of them. And collectively, they have to stay under the radar of the Californian Vigilance Committee.

It’s the hope for collective success, as well as getting to know them, that is the heart of Automatic Noodle. Seeing the unfairness of the 1‑star reviews, and how manipulation by aggrieved people impacts those who are innocent and harmless, is truly upsetting, but seeing how they go about facing it is heartwarming.

Highly Recommended

Note: I rate on a four-tier scale: Loved (4.5–5★), Liked (3.75–4.25★), Mixed (2.75–3.5★), and Not for me (1–2.5★).

If you’re in the mood for an occult mystery set around a TV production in a creaking old mansion, complete with a matching doll’s house, you’ll have a great time with this.

Five months after their first case, the Undetectables (Diana, Mallory, Cornelia) are drawn into a new investigation: a murder in which the supposed victim turns up alive… and is an ex‑girlfriend of one of them.

In my review of the first book, The Undetectables, I mentioned that Smyth tried to pack a lot into that debut. Now that everything is established, the narrative moves with far more confidence. Smyth dives straight into the mystery-solving, and the pacing feels smoother. She’s created a lovely set of supporting characters, including an actress whom I can see as an homage to Fenella Fielding.

The trade‑off is that, because the plot keeps moving and keeps confounding Diana, Mallory, and Cornelia, it can feel as if we don’t get to hang out with them in the same way as we did in the first book. 

That said, there are some very emotional moments (on pages 399 and 507), and it’s structurally more assured.

If you enjoyed the first book and want more time with Diana, Mallory, Cornelia, and Theodore, I heartily recommend this. Alternatively, if the idea of an occult detective agency run by three friends — with some not-so-subtle yearning — appeals to you, start with the first book to get to know the characters and the background to their current situation, including why Diana can’t hear anything and why Theodore is acting strangely.

The third book, The Unfathomable Curse, is already out, and the final mystery, The Unsolvable Case, will be out in September.

Note: I rate on a four-tier scale: Loved (4.5–5★), Liked (3.75–4.25★), Mixed (2.75–3.5★), and Not for me (1–2.5★).

Books Read & Reading This Week.

Finished:

• ???

Nothing this week.

Currently Reading: 

• A Dictator Calls by Ismail Kadare (trans John Hodgson) [2023]
• The Masquerades of Spring by Ben Aaronovitch (narrated by Kobna Holdbrook-Smith) [2024]
• The Two Doctors Górski by Isaac Fellman [2022]

I’ve not read a whole lot this week because I’ve been distracted by other hobbies, but also, I’ve reached a point in The Masquerades of Spring that I’m a bit nervous about. Aaronovitch has put the stakes up with threats against the gay couple, and I’ve read a few reviews to see if there is any hint at an HEA (Happy Ever After) for them. It seems there is but also I don’t think I could handle a ‘bury your gays’ trope popping up.

The Two Doctors Górski is giving me The Incandescent by Emily Tesh vibes, I wonder how dark it’s going to go? It’s been highly recommended, so no pressure on their taste.

DNF’d

• ???

Nothing this week.

Book-ish Things

The preorders are flowing in. This week I’ve recieved:

• The Apple and the Pearl by Rym Kechacha
• The Old Fire by Elisa Shua Dusapin [Translated from French by Aneesa Abbas Higgins]
• Dominion by Addie E. Citchens
• Nine Goblins by T. Kingfisher

A good mix of potential reading joy I think you’d agree.

Non-Book-ish Things

One of my other major hobbies is video games, and last year I made a more concerted effort to put time into them, which partly helped me cope with the reading slump that dominated the first few months of 2025. At the moment, I’m playing Persona 5 Royal, a JRPG with over 100 hours of gameplay. The problem is, at 50 hours in, I’ve discovered I’ve been playing it wrong. This means I’ve started again, and this time I am paying attention to what the game is telling me and using tips that other players have shared to us.

So if you’re wondering why I’m not reading. That does have a lot to do with it.

I’ve also watched the first episode of Star Trek Academy, and I’m sold. Really keen to see what this young crew can do. If you liked Discovery or Voyager, I think you’ll like this.

Cover(s) of the Week

Outro

Hopefully, I’ll be able to report that I’ve finished reading something next weekend. Have a good reading week, all.