A few months ago, I set some intentions around reading and writing. The idea was that by keeping a regular reading practice, I might sharpen my own skills as I continue to work on the manuscript for a debut novel.
If you follow me on Instagram, you know my basic habit: every time I finish a book, I post a quick snapshot in my Stories. Once I’ve read four, I share a Goodreads screenshot of my rough star ratings and reading dates. It’s casual, a bit performative, but it helps me track time.
As an extension of that habit, I thought it might be worth it to write more candidly about what I’ve read—why I picked these particular books, what stayed with me, what didn’t, and what they’re teaching me as a prospective novelist.
This recent stack of four books doesn’t belong to a single genre, exactly, but there’s a shared tension running through them: the pull between form and freedom. I read two true crime-adjacent novels to study the genre I’m writing into—and to see where it stumbles. I read a literary debut by another gay writer, not because it mirrored my work, but because I wanted to feel the emotional register of someone working from a similar key. And I read No Country for Old Men to remind myself that there’s no one way to write a novel at all. You can break rules and still leave the reader breathless.
Some of these books were inspiring. Some were frustrating. All of them, in ways large and small, clarified something I want to do—or avoid—in my own work.
The Lookback Window by Kyle Dillon Hertz
The primary reason I chose this book was to read a debut novel from another gay writer in a similar age group as me. This wasn’t about genre—it was about style, voice, and structure. I wanted to see how someone else, coming from a somewhat parallel world, chose to build their first book. But this was also a pleasure read. I’m always drawn to stories that center gay men and their lives, as complicated, messy, or trauma-marked as they may be.
I moved through this one quickly, despite the intensity of its subject matter. In fact, that speed felt like a kind of permission. It reminded me that a novel doesn’t have to perform its importance with density or linguistic acrobatics. It can be brief, raw, even jagged—and still land with emotional clarity. What stayed with me most was the quiet conviction beneath the prose. It made me feel like I don’t have to write toward a literary ideal. I just have to write something that feels fully mine.
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This Book Will Bury Me by Ashley Winstead
The novel I’m currently drafting is, in many ways, a meta-critique of true crime entertainment, where amateur sleuths and podcast hosts chase not only killers, but clicks, status, and sometimes even fame. When I heard about Ashley Winstead’s upcoming release set in that same world, I was curious to see how she approached it.
Compared to others I’ve read in this genre so far, this is certainly stronger on a line level. The writing is competent and often vivid. But that might say more about the general state of this genre than the book itself. I found the plot fairly predictable, the romantic subplot forced and underdeveloped, and the ending abrupt, unbelievable, and emotionally unearned. It also edges uncomfortably close to exploitative territory, given how directly it mirrors the 2022 University of Idaho murders—at times nearly verbatim.
Still, there are elements I appreciated: the use of online sleuth forums and Signal Messenger transcripts gave the book a lived-in digital realism. Those chapters felt immediate and grounded in a way that made me think carefully about how I might render similar spaces in my own work.
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You Are Fatally Invited by Ande Pliego
This recent debut came with a fun, Clue-style setup that immediately intrigued me. I’m always curious about fresh spins on classic murder mystery structures, especially from newer writers. The premise promised a playful whodunit, but I was ultimately underwhelmed by the execution.
The novel cycles through multiple character perspectives, with each chapter told from a different point of view. While I’m usually drawn to that kind of structure, the voices weren’t distinct enough to make the shifts feel purposeful. Without the chapter headers naming the character, it was often difficult to know who I was following.
What stuck with me most, though, was how the emotional arcs unfolded—or didn’t. Several major character revelations were delivered right before climactic events, as if to justify motivations retroactively. But I tend to prefer when emotional logic is already woven into the fabric of the story—when the choices characters make feel inevitable, not tacked on. This book reminded me that a well-structured twist still needs to be earned through character, not just plot.
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No Country for Old Men by Cormac McCarthy
This one was mostly for fun—though I had been thinking about the film recently, and revisiting the source material felt like a natural step. When I first began reading fiction more regularly last year, I gravitated toward books that had been adapted into films or shows. It felt like an easier entry point back into the literary world.
What I wasn’t prepared for here was just how short McCarthy’s sentences are. It might be the leanest prose I’ve ever read, and it’s remarkable how immersive the experience still is. You’d think such spare text would feel flat or underdeveloped, but it never once pulled me out of the world he was building. His restraint is its own kind of power—he doesn’t rely on exposition, yet everything lands with weight.
It got me thinking about how narrative clarity doesn’t require linearity, and how rules are often illusions. That idea has started to shape the early contours of my next novel—though first, I need to finish the debut.
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All of these reads—whether studied or stumbled into—reminded me that form is a tool, not a cage. More and more, I’m realizing that rigid plot structures—especially in mystery and thriller genres—can lead to predictability, or worse, gimmicks dressed up as twists. Even though the novel I’m writing centers on a murder and a hidden killer, I don’t want the payoff to feel like a sleight of hand. I want it to feel earned. My hope is that, even if the reveal catches the reader off guard, they’ll look back and realize the clues were always there—tucked between the podcast drama and the noise, quietly waiting to be noticed.
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