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Appalachian Reckoning is a well-reasoned response to J.D. Vance’s bestselling Hillbilly Elegy, which many readers have assumed is the definitive commentary on the troubled region. While the editors, Anthony Harkins and Meredith McCarroll, firmly establish that they’re not attacking Vance personally, they do take umbrage with his bootstrap story, which they note is “largely devoid of analyses of broader socioeconomic and historical dynamics.” Their interest in publishing this collection is to bridge that gulf. The book is divided into two sections — Part I, Considering Hillbilly Elegy, delves into the complex social construction of Appalachia. Some of its essays are long and scholarly, with pages of footnotes and citations, such as Lisa R. Pruitt’s “What Hillbilly Elegy Reveals About Race in the Twenty-First Century.” It’s exactly what a reader would expect from a university press. However, it dwells alongside simple paragraphs of just a few lines and photos, like “Falling in Love,” Balsam Bald, The Blue Ridge Parkway, 1982” by Danielle Dulker. Part II, Beyond Hillbilly Elegy, features more personal stories and photoessays, notably “Olivia’s Ninth Birthday Party” and “Watch Children.” Chelsea Jacks’ untitled essay about her mothers employment with PepsiCo, and Linda Parsons’ free-verse poem, “Tonglen for My Mother,” explore the distinct difficulties facing families in Appalachia, especially in an era of capitalism run amok. The overall intent of Appalachian Reckoning, which is ably achieved, is to dispel Vance’s convenient stereotypes and demonstrate not just the diversity of the region, but how his tale of neglectful families riddled with drug addiction and disease is not the only story of Appalachia. As Chelsea Jacks notes, “this is not a story about someone who ‘got out’ of Appalachia.”

"The Terror Courts" exposes the reality behind the Bush administration's attempts to sanitize the abuse of prisoners at Guantanamo Bay. From the usual suspects -- Rumsfeld, Cheney, Addington and GWB -- to the military prosecutors shocked by the administration's brazen power grabs, readers come away stunned by the unapologetic lawlessness of cabinet officials and awed at the courageous protests of JAGs and military lawyers refusing to rubber-stamp confessions elicited by torture. Whatever remaining credibility the Bush administration may claim in the "war on terror," Jess Bravin undermines with his meticulous research, much of which was gathered while he covered the commissions on site at Guatanamo.

In this disappointing sequel to Mennonite in a Little Black Dress, Rhoda Janzen moves past acknowledging the value of the faith she grew up in to embracing the Pentecostalism of her new boyfriend -- a man she dismissed as incompatible in her previous memoir. A bout with a particularly severe form of breast cancer drives her pursuit and acceptance of prayer, abstinence, tithing, Godly marriage and baptism by immersion, all of which are accomplished in the trite & predictable fashion of The 700 Club. Most of the friends featured in Little Black Dress have disappeared, and her career as an English professor at a Michigan college (conveniently Christian) is virtually ignored. Finally, although Janzen acknowledges several times that she and her boyfriend are incompatible on an intellectual level, she glosses this over to insist that their mutual religious beliefs form a strong platform for their God-centered marriage. That may be true, and I wish Ms. Janzen well, but following her journey in this second memoir is a jarring ride on a bumpy road.

Galilee Garner is a prickly, self-contained high school biology teacher who lives in the restricted, regimented world of a dialysis patient waiting for her second kidney transplant. The only excitement she allows herself is a patient devotion to rose breeding, where she hopes to debut her own specimen. It takes the arrival of her troubled teenaged niece, Riley, to shake her out of her cloistered world and realize that she might be better served by broadening her focus. This book had a lot of personal meaning for me, as my boyfriend spent the last two years of his life on dialysis. I was quite familiar with the dietary and fluid restrictions, medications and processes of dialysis Gal details, authenticity that Ms. Dilloway credits to her late sister-in-law. She also captures well the "me first" attitude of most dialysis patients and its tendency to alienate even the closest friends & family members. Although my personal story is not that of Gal, I'm quite familiar with the road she walks, and it was gratifying to read a novel that reflected closely on my life.

I expected so much more from this novel: magical realism, Southern gothic, the kitsch of Florida. Instead I found a story that started off powerfully, but straggled into a tired, ordinary tale that overstayed its welcome -- by the time Ava makes her trip into Hell, the reader is already there. I expected much better from the author of St. Lucy's Home for Girls Raised by Wolves.

After two awful entries in the Dexter series, Jeff Lindsay has regained his mojo for the fifth book, Dexter is Delicious, which introduces Florida's most ethical serial killer as a brand-new father. Enraptured by his daughter, Dexter resolves to put his Dark Passenger behind him, only to find that there are those in his life who actually demand its return. While two girls from an expensive private school go missing -- along with scores of undocumented workers -- someone from Dexter's past wriggles into his life, and our hero is anything but pleased. His sister, Deborah, is determined to save one of the kidnapped girls, and because she dislikes her new partner, drags her brother along on her investigation. What the two of them find is a gruesome underworld centered around a sinister nightclub, Fang, which caters not only to Miami's vampire wannabes, but a far darker group with decidedly different tastes. Lindsay is back in fine form, taking bizarre plot elements and weaving them together into a credible tale for the sole graduate of the Harry Code.

While second-person narrative is difficult for most writers, Mark Richard's House of Prayer No. 2 is so compelling that the tale wouldn't sound right any other way. His memoir of being born with deformed hips in mid-50s rural Virginia is rich with description, reflection, resentment, astonishment and gratitude. From his long body-cast stays at Crippled Children's Hospital in Richmond to hauling nets on a fishing boat on the Outer Banks to an NYC writing workshop where he meets his future wife, he never stops searching for faith, for signs, for direction. It leads him back to where he began, the small southeastern Virginia town where, while financing a new church for his mother's congregation at House of Prayer No. 2, the deliverance Mark has sought is finally delivered, in all its marvelous glory.

Second in a trilogy collecting the enormous loss inflicted by Katrina, Where We Know: New Orleans as Home compiles essays, short stories and historical documents in an effort to lay a foundation for the massive tragedy that transformed the City that Care Forgot into the City that America Forgot. Editor David Rutledge has categorized chapters into four sections: Home, Culture & History, Loss, and Home II. Virtually every neighborhood – Gentilly, Marigny, Baywater/Upper Ninth, the French Quarter, Touro, Holy Cross, Carrollton and Treme – is covered. And with historic and current maps bracketing the collection, even readers not familiar with the Big Easy can come to an understanding of just what was lost in August 2005.

Florida’s preeminent psycho trickster is up to more hilarious hijinks in Electric Barracuda, his thirteenth excursion across the Sunshine State. Not only is a full posse of federal agents trailing Serge and Coleman up and down Florida, but they’re saddled with a new partner, surprisingly dropped on them by the ever-malicious Molly. Not to mention Doberman, an idiotic motorcycle-mounted bounty hunter accompanied by busty chicks and a bus screeching Kiss tunes, and the venal lawyer Brad Meltzer (Tim Dorsey must have lost a bet to his fellow author), who’s trying to cheat the very clients – Serge’s grandfather and his pals – who trusted him with their Prohibition-era secret. And, of course, the ever-present Agent Mahoney, whose presence delivers a shocker Dorsey obviously saved for the magic number 13.

Sports Illustrated writer Jim Gorant chronicles the life of the forty-plus dogs rescued from Michael Vick's Bad Newz Kennels, taking readers through their harrowing lives as fighting dogs to the loving rehabilitation -- and even therapy careers -- the pit bulls have found today. For those who favor forgiving Vick, read this book and reassess your opinion. I doubt it will be the same.

As a political junkie who followed the 2008 presidential race like Lost fanatics obsess over Oceanic Flight 815, this book was a must-read for me, especially after Heileman & Halperin revealed prepub tidbits about John & Elizabeth Edwards. I was absolutely fascinated by the revelations in this book -- Sarah Palin went catatonic during debate prep; both Bill & Hillary Clinton couldn't accept her losses; Barack Obama was confident to the point of recklessness, and John McCain seemed ambivalent about his second presidential run. The only complaint I have about this volume is that far more pages were devoted to the Democratic race than the Republican -- I'd have liked more detail on Mitt Romney, Rudy Giuliani and wild card Joe Lieberman -- but even knowing how the overall story ended, I was on the edge till the very last page of this masterful political piece.

Five years after giving up her daughter for adoption, Bernice is determined to reclaim the girl from David and Tessa, the conservative Christian couple who became her parents. However, as she rushes headlong into action without a plan, she not only finds herself unprepared for parenthood, but bewildered that no one comes to her defense. As Bernice flees Colorado for her native Baltimore, their daughter's kidnapping exposes the deep flaws in David and Tessa's marriage, especially as a woman named Robin exposes David's many secrets and flaws ... none of which fit with his professed faith. While the story sounds promising, the delivery is not. Geoffrey Becker delivers an uneven tale with little plot and no real plan, just like Bernice. Not even Emily, the little girl ostensibly at the heart of the action, is interesting. Many of the characters -- especially the adoptive father, David -- are dusty stereotypes and never emerge as real people. Even what are supposed to be revelations, such as the identity of man who impregnated Bernice all those years ago, fall flat. Apparently Mr. Becker is capable of much better work -- his story collection, Black Elvis, won the 2008 Flannery O'Connor Prize for fiction -- but it's not evident in Hot Springs.

Eliza Minot is a talented writer, but her story of the Bramble family just didn't capture my interest. Not her fault; maybe I've read too many novels about multi-generational family life, or am too occupied living a version of this story right now. It wasn't a book for me, but there are many readers who would enjoy Ms. Minot's well-crafted chronicle.

I had hoped to enjoy A Better Angel more than The Children's Hospital, Adrian's breakout novel, but I came away from this short story collection just as confused as I did from his full-length apoca-drama. Dr. Adrian is a talented writer, but he's not my cup of tea.

Serge A. Storms and Dexter Morgan have a lot in common. Both are Florida-based serial killers who only target those who deserve their fate, and each has a wicked sense of humor. But Dexter – in print, if not onscreen – has been hampered by his increasingly barren creator, Jeff Lindsay, while Serge’s inventor, Tim Dorsey, continues his character’s breakneck momentum into his 12th novel, juggling a complicated and intense story with antics that can only be attributed to the Sunshine State’s greatest maniac. Gator a-Go-Go reunites all the Dorsey characters that have survived so far: Coleman, City and Country, the G-Unit, the Davenports (in the form of their son Melvin), Johnny Vegas and, of course, Agent Mahoney. (Lenny and the lone surviving Diaz brother appear as drive-by references, as does the not-so-dearly-departed Sharon). The story revolves around Patrick McKenna and his son Andy, who have just been unmasked after fifteen years in the Witness Protection Program. The question running through the novel is: who will get to them first, the Miami-based drug dealers or the FBI? And just who, in that equation, are the bad guys? The action takes place during spring break, progressing from Panama City Beach to Fort Lauderdale, as Serge films a documentary on the annual event and Coleman becomes the guru of a band of faithful collegians that includes Andy McKenna. He’s not only fleeing his frigid New Hampshire campus, but a quartet of killers intent on erasing him, and any companions, as revenge for his father’s testimony a decade and a half earlier. As the assassins unerringly track Serge and his merry band throughout their journey, they realize a good guy has turned informant, and Serge, naturally, becomes Andy’s protector … but he isn’t sure he trusts Florida’s pre-eminent psycho trickster, especially as the mayhem reaches record levels (along with spot-on references to Flat Stanley and inspired use of Bacardi 151). While the usual band of spring break participants are trotted out – drunk & crazy kids, Girls Gone Haywire, bikers, hookers, preachers, pawn brokers and reality TV -- Dorsey keeps the story fresh by injecting the regular crew, along with a troop of newcomers, in consistently interesting sidelines that eventually, and seamlessly, meld with the main story. He never drops a character or incident, and he maintains a level of suspense Lindsay’s Dexter tales have never managed – all in the service of Serge A. Storms. May his freak flag bravely, and forever, wave.

While I came to Julia Child’s My Life in France on the crest of her resurgent popularity, based on Meryl Streep’s turn in Julie & Julia, her story is always fresh for those aspiring to follow her gastronomic path to success. In this lovely book, co-authored with her husband’s grand-nephew, Alex Prud’homme, she details not only her discovery of food, cooking and the domestic life, but her relationship with the love of her life – and the man she credits for making her the household name she became – Paul Child. Covering their years in France – from Paul’s USIS assignment in 1948 to when she closed their home in Provence in 1992 – she not only covers her stint at Le Cordon Bleu, the lengthy and arduous co-production of Mastering the Art of French Cooking, and her enchantment with everything francais, but her long and loyal partnership with the man who devoted his life to helping her succeed in bringing European dishes to American kitchens. Filled with Paul Child’s marvelous photos and Julia’s familiar, witty and unpretentious banter, this is the model for the perfect memoir.

I’ve read most of Larry McMurtry’s non-Western novels, which is habit more than enjoyment, because every time I finish one, I wonder not only why he’s lauded, but why I spent time chasing his words. More than any other “literary” novelist, he seems to make stories out of nothing at all … the page-turning equivalent of Seinfeld. And of all the characters he’s chronicled, he’s made the most out of the nothing that is Duane Moore, most recently sighted in Rhino Ranch. Moore is, as previously titled, depressed: his second wife has dumped him for another man, he’s being pursued by a teenaged porn star, and is intrigued by a globe-trotting billionaire with the urge to rescue the endangered black rhinoceros on a dusty Texas preserve. He also uses a lot of phone minutes chatting with his former therapist, Honor Carmichael, who now lives in New England with her latest lover. Duane engages in all sorts of silly behavior – the most egregious being a vasectomy – basically giving McMurtry 278 pages to document his drinking, spending and sexual escapades, as well as fulfilling whatever remains of his contract with Simon & Schuster. If you need a forgettable book to read on an airplane or sitting by the hospital bedside of a loved one, Rhino Ranch is a good choice. Otherwise, to quote the author himself … horseman, pass by.

Major Ernest Pettigrew (retired) has spent his life living by the rules of the military and English society. But after his brother dies, he finds himself bonding with the local shopkeeper, Mrs. Jasmina Ali, and starts to see the conventions -- and their keepers -- as the snobs they are. As he steps out of the routines that have guided him all his life, Major Pettigrew finds himself in positions he never imagined -- and faces them with dignity and dash. A thoroughly delightful debut novel.

A novel of four stories linked together by a single organ -- obviously, the liver -- Self not only creates original tales, but brings Greek mythology into the 21st media-driven century. While the stories are entertaining, no real connective thread (other than the organ) exists, and the most compelling tale is that of a dying British matron, Joyce Beddoes. I enjoyed Liver thoroughly and am honored to have been chosen as an Early Reviewer, but rank it with another British novel I loved but never really understood: Martin Amis's London Fields.

Matt Prior's life is falling apart: he left the world of business journalism to start a website combining financial advice with poetry, but is quickly running out of money. He's behind on the mortgage, and his Alzheimer's-disabled father lives with him. Oh, and his wife is having an affair with her high-school sweetheart. But in this darkness, he finds an unlikely bright spot: becoming the town's marijuana dealer. This novel's hilarious pathos reminded me of Wonder Boys. Grady Tripp and Matt Prior are the twin sons of different mothers, long may they reign.

Tomato Girl has all the elements of a good novel: a mentally ill mother, a tempted father and a little girl trying to hold everything together as her world is shattered, saved only by a wise old black woman. But first-time novelist Jayne Pupek fails to build an adequate story, randomly splashing out cardboard characters in clichéd situations and failing to provide even the most rudimentary conclusion. Other novelists – Kaye Gibbons, Jill McCorkle, Elizabeth Berg – have visited this basic premise with far more fruitful results. Pupek obviously hoped to ride their coattails – a wish surely shared by her editors at Algonquin – but she fails in every respect.

This is hawked as a loving memoir of motherhood on America’s last frontier, but emerges as a maudlin collection of essays penned by a martyr who relies on clichés. From her first-chapter anguish of being excluded from her college-bound son’s scrapbook to simmering anger at her oft-absent husband, Kaylene Johnson overlooks no insult or opportunity to whine, and her tendency to haul out God at every turn grows tiresome, especially when the reader hasn’t been warned of religious content. Johnson bears striking emotional resemblance to Sarah Palin, about whom she penned an admiring biography, and this shallowness erodes the collection of any significant meaning or value.

When a one-night stand leaves Mary Pols pregnant, she reacts not with fear, but joy: she's finally having the child she's longed for, albeit in much different circumstances. She navigates a tricky relationship with the child's father, introduces her family to her new status, and embarks on a difficult but ultimately joyous journey: motherhood, which changes her far more than she could have anticipated, for the better. Especially touching is her decision to name her little boy for her father and grandmother, neither of whom have had a namesake. None of the difficulty is glossed over, but the ecstacy is unvarnished as well. I consider it one of the best books ever published on modern parenthood.

Brett and Layla Foster have been a couple since high school, so Brett’s decision to separate not only shocks everyone, but strains their family – because the Fosters are the only relations the parentless Layla has. What happens when a clan prefers an in-law to blood kin? And what happens to an extended family when its bedrock crumbles? Using alternating narrators, Caprice Crane deftly illustrates a tribe in crisis, and how they handle the hardest problems life dishes out.

Nancy Balbirer reflects on her lackluster acting career in NYC and LA, crazed roommates, awful boyfriends, major & minor celebrities, outlawed diet drugs, and bad decisions. Her tales of the 80s and 90s are dated -- many of the celebrities she gossips about are virtually unknown today -- and never rise above a simmering bitterness. Gossip about SNL and Seinfeld are especially boring. She's aiming for "darkly funny" and "searingly honest," but doesn't come close.

While McCorkindale's stories of adjusting to rural Virginia life after leaving suburban New Jersey are generally funny, there's a clear strain of bitterness and more than a whiff of disdain for the residents of Fauquier County and its lack of commerce. This doesn't work for me, a suburban Richmond girl who happily moved to the western-central Virginia boonies (and its lack of commerce) when I fell in love with a wild-eyed country boy. McCorkindale lurks in the shadows of feminine humor masters Laurie Notaro and Celia Rivenbark -- take a page from them, Suzy, and get back to us when you learn something.

"Split estate" is a mining term, but it also applies to Arthur King and his family. After his wife jumps from their NYC high rise, he moves his two children to his childhood home in Wyoming, hoping to outrun the family tragedy. However, it only makes matters worse ... much worse. While I didn't enjoy this book, Charlotte Bacon is a talented writer who fleshes out a modern-day Shakespearian tragedy.

Molly Marx suddenly finds herself on the other side of life, aka the Duration, but discovers she can still keep tabs on those she left behind ... her beloved daughter, errant husband, the woman he's been seeing ... and the man she deeply loved (who wasn't her husband). While she watches, she searches for why and how she died ... and reaches peace with how life goes on, no matter which side of the curtain you're on.

Both hilarious and harrowing, Russell Brand details his life in sex, drugs and showmanship, from his infancy as the child of divorced & dysfunctional parents, to the talented young man consumed by heroin & cocaine. Just like his stage performances, Brand doesn't hold back anything on the page -- the book starts just after he's entered a sex addiction clinic in Philadelphia -- but instead of appalling readers, his honesty makes his story more compelling and his recovery a triumph.

In a world where the horror of nuclear war has been superseded by a bomb that literally makes the physical world disappear, Gonzo Lubitsch and his nameless best friend head up the Haulage & HazMat Emergency Freebooting Company, a ragged band of troubleshooters who quell problems in the aftermath of the Gone Away War. Through their lives pass ninjas, mimes, pirates, parents and specters surpassing the most active imagination, leading to revelations that shock the reader and stun the soul -- but permeating all is the unmistakable stamp of love in its many and varied forms. The Gone-Away World is a literary masterpiece, and Nick Harkaway is a genius practitioner.

I've never been able to resist a bizarre title, so naturally I picked this off the shelf while canvassing my local library. Unfortunately, the tale doesn't live up to its moniker, unless someone at Princeton advised the author to pen this story. Donleavy relates the tale of Stephen O'Kelly'O, an aspiring composer swept into a strange and brief marriage, without benefit of grammar, sentence structure or the slightest semblance of a storyline. On a literary par with the film Eraserhead, I can't imagine reading Donleavy ever again.

Firmin is a novel very much in the somber -- some would say depressing -- tradition of Thomas Hardy. Born in the basement of a Boston bookstore, the 13th in a litter of rats finds by nibbling on books that, unlike his siblings, he can read, think and write (at least in his mind). Choosing to spend his life in the building where he was born, rather than set out for "up top," he reads widely, scrounges for food, and loves the humans in his building, whether or not they return his affection -- all while the neighborhood, Scollay Square, falls into decline and is slated for demolition. His intelligence is just as much a blessing as a curse, making him aware of his homely appearance, his inability to speak, and frequent reminders that humans view him as a pest, not a sentient being (such as the "goodbye zipper" debacle). Illustrations by Fernando Krahn not only flesh out Firmin for readers, but add a ghoulish note -- the black & white drawings accent the novel's bleak tone. A cover blurb from the Los Angeles Times refers to Firmin as a Dickensian hero, but with its conclusion, I see an inevitable comparison with Hardy's Jude Fawley.

Leaden, awful. Badly sketched characters, ridiculous story. Almost as bad as attending an actual Renaissance fair.

Given that Plum Island is an animal disease testing facility for the US government, I expected a cross between Richard Preston and Michael Crichton. The island's actual purpose, however, proves to be a red herring for recuperating NYPD cop John Corey, who struggles to solve the murder of two government biologists by digging through the island's legends & history. Despite the lack of scientific intrigue, DeMille lays out a very human story and leaves the reader satisfied at novel's end.

Having grown up between the empires of Pat Robertson in Virginia Beach and Jerry Falwell in Lynchburg, I can testify that no Virginian is neutral about either evangelist. However, as an outside observer with a solid background in financial reporting, Dirk Smillie has written a remarkably fair assessment of Falwell's fiscal and religious realm, including a family history that explains many of his motives and actions. All the warts are on display, but so are the merits, resulting in a riveting narrative that will not only interest chroniclers of the Religious Right, but every resident of the Commonwealth who watched the spectacle unfold.

I've received some great books from Library Thing's Early Reviewer program, but this is the first one I haven't been willing to pass on -- it's just too beautiful to let go. Rachael Hale's lovely portfolio of babies doesn't feature them as creatures or plants like Anne Geddes, but simply captures them in all their chubby, cheerful joy. Included are baby-oriented quotes (my favorites are from Charles Osgood & Teresa Morrison), nursery rhymes, tips (swaddling, bath games, folding a cloth diaper) and worldwide traditions. A wonderful book that will banish gloom & gladden the coldest heart.

Since reading my first Dick Francis novel in 1982, he’s been at the top of my favorites list, and I took it badly when his wife, Mary, died in 2000. He’d never hidden how essential she was to his work – she was his primary editor and researcher – and declared that, without her, his writing days were over. Thankfully, that wasn’t the case – he returned with a fourth Sid Halley tale in 2006’s Under Orders – and now son Felix is helping him turn out his classic tales. The latest entry is Silks, where barrister (and amateur jump jockey) Geoffrey Mason finds himself entangled not only as a defense attorney, but in a fight for his life. The plot follow well-established Francis territory, but what draws me – and fans worldwide – to each novel is the freshness with which this former jockey (and the only three-time winner of the Edgar Award) covers ground that would, in the hands of a lesser writer, prove sterile.

It soothes my frazzled nerves to know that illustrious Yankees like David Mamet & Howard Norman enjoy Southern cooking as much as those of us who were raised on it. Jimmy Kennedy's recipes are slightly adapted to Northern groceries & palates (Breakfast Pasta, p. 85), but are definitely steeped in his Mississippi roots (Chicken-Fried Hamburger Steak, p. 98). The only category missing is drink recipes, but then again, you can just reserve some liquor from the Whiskey Cake (p. 205). Five-star recipes and terrific stories to go along with them.

A useful, if somewhat predictable, guide to decorating a home for cooler weather. Ms. Moss brings an elegance and style to her advice that is missing from more pedestrian fare, if only because the designer names she drops are better-known and aspirational. Still, this is a book craved by those who prefer lower temps to beach days -- myself included.

After sitting on my reading list for two years, I finally bought this book, after all three of my public library systems refused to buy it. Now I know why. From a first-paragraph description of the sexual position used to conceive her first child, Erika Schickel spends 228 pages bemoaning her “pussy belly,” hating her minivan, vacillating between alterna- and trad-moms, playing Grand Theft Auto, and getting lap dances from female strippers. I enjoy warts-and-all mothering books, because it was the most difficult, demanding and immediate-reward-deficient assignment of my life. But a history of drugs used by stay-at-home moms to medicate their misery (while bitching about how hard it is to quit smoking weed)? Excuses for how much you hate your cat, to the point of returning it to the shelter? (As a mother of three refugee dogs, that one really set me off.) Losing your cookies because foot surgery hurts and renders you temporarily handicapped? I should have known this book wasn’t for me when I saw Susan Reinhardt’s prominent blurb. She and Schickel peddle the same tone-deaf pseudo-humor (apparently the specialty of their publisher, Kensington), and I’m dedicating the rest of my life to avoiding it.

I love books about home renovation, New Orleans is one of my favorite settings for a story, and I'm a fan of Julia Reed's writing -- I adored Queen of the Turtle Derby -- so this book arrived on my reading list with a pre-approved stamp. Thankfully, it lived up to the label. Not only did I enjoy the warts-and-all renovation tale, but completely related to Julia's long journey to trade uncommitted single life for married domesticity. Add in the intrigue of Hurricane Katrina, along with Julia's irrepressible urge to entertain -- as a friend says, "A fool and her money throw great parties" -- and you've got one hell of a good read. Hilarious appearances by Vogue's Andre Leon Talley are icing on the cake.

Liz Phoenix has always known she was different, but has no idea just how much separates her from the rest of mankind until she finds her foster mother, Ruthie, in a pool of blood in her kitchen, dying from wounds inflicted by an otherworldly beast. She’s quickly sucked into the battle between good and evil, populated by seers, demon killers, fairies, skinwalkers, dhampirs, berserkers and vampires, amongst many others. Along the way, she discovers the secrets lurking behind many otherwise normal faces, as well as unsavory aspects of her youthful love and fellow foster child, Jimmy Sanducci. Having never read any paranormal romances, I wasn’t prepared for the energetic & graphic sex featured throughout. Especially disturbing was the bondage theme that emerged in the last quarter of the novel, when the story shifts to a Manhattan high-rise. However, Handeland’s descriptions never reach the explicit levels of Anne Rice’s vampire novels, and genre readers most likely expect a vivid mix of sex and mysticism.

Fun, frivolous and feisty, Southern chick lit always focuses on scrappy women refusing to sit back and take s**t, getting on with their lives even when -- yes -- their hearts are breaking. That's what Texas hairdressers/sleuths Edwina and Debbie Sue help Paige accomplish in this tale of heiresses, horse-napping and hijinks. Dixie Cash doesn't write serious literature, but the sisters behind the pen name (Pamela Cumbie & Jeffery McClanahan) create fun reads that help feisty ladies, Southern or otherwise, get through the rough patches of life.

Three strong-willed Southern women unite to keep an awful secret, without considering the young woman it accidentally damages. While I'm glad I read this novel, Ms. Shaffer would have done her tale more justice by creating a less abrupt ending. As it stands, an otherwise excellent story is amputated, rather than concluded.

Combine a combative Congressman, a pissed-off president and a TV jurist for a constitutional crisis of ... well, supreme ... proportions. Add a (fictional) dash of the real Court, and you've got another knockout Buckley winner. Thoroughly funny and, in this era of TV judges and a divided Supreme Court, scarily prescient.

Not as funny as I expected. Kevin Nealon's revelations about the journey that led him to become a father later in life are interesting, but true to the title, he talks too much about himself and not enough about the little boy who made him a dad.

Eloquent, heartfelt, and I'm not even a cat lover. While Stacy Horn's two feline companions are important to this collection of essays, she ruminates on many topics: life, death, relationships, loneliness and why she loves graveyards (an obsession we share). I loved this book & can't recommend it enough.

I don't know how David Shields puts up with his dad, but I do know this: his dad is related to my boyfriend. They're both exasperating. Thank you, David, for the field guide -- it helps tremendously.

Everybody and their book group loves Sue Monk Kidd, but her allure eludes me. I was so bored by this novel I didn't even make it a quarter of the way through. Elizabeth Berg or Kaye Gibbons covers this territory in much finer fashion.

A wildly funny expose of the cosmetic extremes women reach for in order to preserve their youth -- or create one that never existed -- all driven by the beauty industry. Dermatologists barrage Teitell with different opinions, cosmetic companies hawk miracle elixirs, and star hairstylists promise life-changing transformations for a three-figure price (not including airfare). Reading this not only made me laugh, but cheered me about dropping out of the beauty race long ago.

Take an Eastern liberal with no mechanical aptitude, pair him with a down-to-earth college friend who knows his way around an engine, and put them in a retooled Mercedes for an eight-day trip across the country while begging restaurants for fry-oil fuel -- and you'll have a laugh-aloud read that leaves you longing for French fries. Greg Melville & his pal Iggy travel from Burlington, Vermont to Berkeley, CA in the footsteps of cross-country driving pioneer H. Nelson Jackson, while searching for greener alternatives to everyday life. Not only do they glimpse Al Gore's Tennessee mansion and visit Fort Knox's geothermally-powered complex, they also encounter Hank in Nebraska (and his self-published Jesus screed), endure teeth-chattering cold as they climb the Rockies (the Mercedes' heat stops working when the car exceeds 50 mph), and discover another college pal is gay (his computer log-in is “Two Gay Guys”). Combined with side trips to Google, Dartmouth, the National Renewable Energy Laboratory, a wind-turbine farm, and the world's first green Wal-Mart, Melville delivers a funny and thought-provoking tale that not only splits your sides, but makes you ponder reducing your carbon footprint.

Having been deprived of his weekly column for the last few years, I'd forgotten how Dave Barry is the king of belly-laughs. He borrows liberally from his friend and Miami Herald colleague Carl Hiaasen in setting up this story -- one of the heavies is almost identical, even by name, to a thug in Hiaasen's Native Tongue -- but dreams up a tale all his own. Sprinkled with his trademark humor and citing events that could only occur in South Florida, Barry constructs a believable tale of high-sea hijinks and nuttiness where the bad guys get what they deserve, the good guys triumph, and the retirees keep pushing nickels into the slot machines

Chick lit is dismissed as fluff, but there are times when even the most serious reader needs something sweet to distract from everyday life. This is the perfect choice: light, breezy and funny, with just enough fact-based drama (the author survived the famous Rosie invasion of McCall's) to make it realistic. I thoroughly enjoyed Little Pink Slips -- in fact, was sorry to finish it -- and hope Sally Koslow has another book up her brocaded Mandarin sleeve.

I picked this up mainly because a distasteful fellow patron at my local library declared it "sad." I figured if she disliked it, it couldn't be all bad ... and it's not. A plucky single Manhattan mom runs a cozy knitting shop while coping with her headstrong preteen daughter and the sudden reappearance of the girl's father, while patrons of the shop build an informal support group they brand "The Friday Night Knitting Club." Yes, the story has some sad moments, but what I took away from it was the immense strength offered by a group of friends who become your chosen family.

A moving chronicle of life's end, from the perspective of both the elderly and their caretakers. Clyde Edgerton's funny, accurate and sensitive tale of the varied residents of Rosehaven, a skilled nursing facility in Listre, North Carolina, is one of his best works ... ranking, in my opinion, with his masterpiece, Raney.

This isn't a novel; it's a polemic against Democrats (with the prominent exception of the Kennedys). The volcanic explosions, which were the only reason I picked up this tome, aren't worth turning the pages of this GOP weapon of mass distraction.

Stellar as always, although I was surprised the villain was unmasked earlier than usual. Deaver reveals more about Lincoln Rhyme's background with each book, and in The Broken Window he saves most of his trademark "ahas!" for the personal issues (although there's plenty of criminal mayhem flying around -- would it be a Deaver story otherwise?). There also aren't many authors who can poke fun at current culture so slyly, indicated in a typical exchange between Rhyme and NYPD detective Lon Sellitto during a web-monitored takedown: "You watching, Linc?" "No, Lon, Dancing with the Celebrities is on. Jane Fonda and Mickey Rooney are up next." "It's Dancing with the Stars, Linc."

Feng shui, homeland security and bat mitvahs seem like a weird combination, but Debra Galant makes hilarious work of them in this novel about a yoga teacher, her recently outsourced meteorologist husband, and their teenaged son, muddling along in the wilds of modern New Jersey.

Like most people in their forties, I've lost several friends to death, and this take on what comes beyond is not only one of the most original and thought-provoking stories I've ever read, but has prompted me to think more frequently of those who have departed. If the dead truly do live on in the memories of those they leave behind, then Kevin Brockmeier has written a field guide to the afterlife.

A better title would be "A False Advertisement of Comedy." Although the dust cover described this as darkly funny, I found almost nothing about it laugh-provoking. It was just another tiresome woman searching for meaning in her life after suffering several setbacks, following a predictable path to the typical results. I don't feel like I lost brain cells to this book, but I didn't gain any either.

An excellent summary of natural & man-made disasters and the behaviors that prompted some to survive and others to perish. Amanda Ripley proves the Boy Scouts are right: be prepared! Should be required reading for everyone.

One of the sweetest books I've ever read. A tale of twins -- both human and porcine -- filled with love and laughter; even the bad guy meets a good end. Jimmy's not a literary genius, but he's fun and generous, and in my opinion, sometimes that counts for more than brilliance.

Perfectly sums up small-town life -- coping with isolation, family, community and figuring out where you belong.

I'm not a big fan of memoirs, but checked this out under duress from the local librarian. A few pages in, though, I was hooked. Carolyn Jourdan returns home from a high-powered job in Washington, D.C. after a family crisis to eventually discover that her dream of helping people and fixing the world is best accomplished where she started, in her rural hometown in east Tennessee. Without a doubt, the best book I've read in 2007.

A friend of mine gave this to me as a good-luck gift just before major surgery. It has saved my life many times since then, mostly because George Singleton never fails to demonstrate that even the openly deranged can survive in Southern society. This is a good reminder for me, as I've spent my life teetering on the edge of sanity.

I never thought any writer could out-nuttify Carl Hiaasen, but Tim Dorsey proved me wrong. I'll never look at a Coleman cooler the same way again.

Quite simply, the funniest book Buckley has ever written. That's a high accolade, given his body of work, but it's the only way to sum up such an outrageous, and accurate, novel.

I was so moved by this, the latest in the Dalziel-Pascoe series, that I had a hard time moving on after the story ended. Focusing on the cops rather than the robbers makes this a moving addition to the series.

Paula tells her inspiring story, warts and all. While she berates herself for smoking, having an affair with a married man, and being an imperfect parent, those very faults make us (her less-than-perfect fans) love her all the more. Well done, Lady!

This is, hands-down, the best book I read in 2006, and probably one of my best reads of the decade. It's even better than Case Histories, and I didn't think Ms. Atkinson could top that. I'm in awe of her ability to build an incredibly complex and detailed story -- and make it look so easy.

This book is rude, crude and lewd. Every page made me laugh. And then I made my boyfriend read it.

This is one of the sweetest books I've read in years. Not a literary masterpiece, but a funny, charming and heartfelt glimpse of small-town life that reminds me, once again, why I'm so proud to be Southern. I just wish there was a Piggly Wiggly in my town for me to waltz in the aisles.