Shystoryteller

Here we are, a little over halfway through another year, and my bookshelf looks like it’s been through a delightful tornado. Twenty-seven books down, twenty-five to go – or at least that was the plan when January me optimistically declared “52 books this year!” with the confidence of someone who clearly forgot about the existence of life, work, and chaos.

The Rare One-Star Wonder

Let’s talk about that book – you know, the one that shall remain nameless because, honestly, if you can’t say something nice, why say anything at all? Out of over 700 books I’ve catalogued on Goodreads since 2011, only seven have earned the dreaded one-star rating. This year added another soldier to that tiny, unfortunate army.

What fascinates me is that I actually finished this literary disaster. Usually, books that don’t spark joy get the Marie Kondo treatment – thanked for their service and gently returned to the shelf, unfinished and unrated. But something about this particular book made me stick it out, like watching a train wreck in slow motion. Maybe it was curiosity, maybe it was stubbornness, or maybe it was just the reader’s equivalent of rubbernecking.

The Two-Star Territory of Strong Feelings

Two-star books occupy this fascinating emotional real estate where I feel things intensely – just not the things the author probably wanted me to feel. Take Wuthering Heights, for instance. That book stirred up such passionate reactions in me that I wanted to shake certain characters and ask them to please, for the love of all that’s holy, make better life choices. The way love was portrayed made me want to write strongly-worded letters to fictional people from the 1800s.

But here’s the thing – strong feelings, even frustrated ones, deserve recognition. Two stars aren’t a dismissal; they’re an acknowledgment that this book made me feel something, even if that something was exasperation.

The Beautiful Chaos of Serial Reading

I’m what you might call a reading serial hopper – currently juggling four to five books simultaneously like some sort of literary circus performer. There’s something deliciously chaotic about switching between a fantasy, a love story, a textbook, and a non-fiction, all in the span of a single evening. My brain apparently thrives on this beautiful disorder of genres and voices.

Fiction and non-fiction dance together in my reading life like old friends who complement each other perfectly. One feeds my imagination while the other feeds my curiosity, and somehow they never seem to compete for attention.

The Magic and Mystery of Re-reading

Two re-reads this year brought completely different experiences. The first one left me questioning my past self’s taste – seriously, what was I thinking years ago? It’s like finding an old photo where you’re wearing something that seemed incredibly fashionable at the time but now makes you wonder if you were temporarily possessed by questionable fashion spirits.

The second re-read, though? Pure magic. Every page revealed subtle details I’d missed the first time around, like discovering hidden treasures in a familiar room. It reminded me why certain books deserve multiple visits – they’re not just stories, they’re experiences that evolve with us.

This Year’s Literary Love Affairs

Three books have completely stolen my heart this year:

Blood Over Bright Haven – This one hit me like a beautiful literary truck. The kind of book that makes you want to grab strangers and say, “You HAVE to read this!” (Don’t worry, I restrain myself… mostly.)

Eliza and Her Monsters – An unexpected gem that caught me completely off guard. Sometimes the best reads are the ones you stumble into without any expectations.

Water Moon – A magical journey that left me speechless.

Read full book reviews below –

The Numbers Game (Or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Journey)

I’m currently two books behind my target, which in the grand scheme of reading goals feels about as concerning as being two steps behind in a leisurely stroll through a garden. My reading history is beautifully inconsistent – some years I’ve devoured over 100 books like a literary hurricane, other years I’ve savored just 11 books like fine wine.

The truth is, reading isn’t really about the numbers, is it? It’s about those moments when a perfect sentence stops you cold, when a character becomes so real you worry about them during your commute, when an idea from a book completely reshapes how you see the world.

So here’s to the second half of the year – may it bring more unexpected literary love affairs, fewer one-star disappointments, and just the right amount of beautiful reading chaos. Whether I hit 52 books or land somewhere entirely different, I’ll be here, serial hopping between stories, collecting feelings and memories one page at a time.

After all, the best reading year isn’t measured in quantity – it’s measured in the moments that take your breath away.