by Johny McFliggen, PhD Literature & Business, Oxford

In the hypothetical universe where Robert Macfarlane's "Is a River Alive?" graces our bookshelves, we would find ourselves swept away by the currents of his trademark narrative—a riverine journey through both mind and matter. Macfarlane, with his Cambridge-tinted lens, would likely guide us through the aqueous realms of Ecuador, India, and Canada, as he did in "Underland," probing beneath the surface for more than just geological or historical truths.

One imagines Macfarlane embarking on this literary expedition with the same fervor as Werner Herzog's quest in "Aguirre, the Wrath of God," though with less madness and more mindfulness. His prose does not merely describe the physical properties of flowing waters; rather, it animates them with life, drawing parallels to how indigenous cultures view rivers not as mere resources but as vibrant entities imbued with spirit and agency. This is not an exercise in idle romanticism but a profound inquiry into our own perceptions and misperceptions of nature.

The imagined book likely dances around the idea that rivers serve as both literal and metaphorical lifelines, echoing themes from his previous works like "The Old Ways." Much like the way James Lovelock proposed the Gaia hypothesis, suggesting Earth is a self-regulating organism, Macfarlane would be poised to argue that rivers are not just veins of the planet but also its voice. It's easy to envision him weaving in stories of how these waters shape cultures, languages, and histories—how they are both victims and witnesses to human folly.

Drawing on his extensive fieldwork, Macfarlane would undoubtedly offer a tapestry of anecdotes and insights that challenge our often myopic environmental narratives. Fans of Annie Dillard’s "Pilgrim at Tinker Creek" or Barry Lopez's "Arctic Dreams" would find familiar solace in his writings. They too merge scientific observation with philosophical contemplation, provoking readers to reconsider their place within the natural order.

While no such book exists in reality, one can almost taste the critical acclaim it would attract—inevitably showered with accolades like a reverent pilgrimage to the Wainwright Shrine of Nature Writing. The absence of "Is a River Alive?" leaves a palpable void in contemporary literature, a reminder of our need for authors who can eloquently bridge the chasm between humanity and the earth. Until such time as Macfarlane decides to bestow this imagined work upon us, we must content ourselves with the echoes of his previous explorations, waiting patiently by the riverbank for the next current to carry us onward.

Purchase Link: Is a River Alive? on Amazon

by Johny McFliggen, PhD Literature & Business, Oxford

"REMEMBER US" by Robert M. Edsel, with Bret Witter, is a testimony to Edsel’s dogged dedication to unveiling the oft-overlooked heroism of the Monuments Men during World War II. Much like the cinematic spectacle "The Monuments Men," which left George Clooney and his ensemble cast elbow-deep in Renaissance art and Nazi intrigue, this book too seeks to captivate our imagination with tales of valorous art historians and soldiers. Only this time, Edsel gives us a dozen personal stories that are as poignant as they are revealing.

Edsel, whose very name has become synonymous with the preservation of cultural heritage, dives deeper than ever before into the intricate web of duty, sacrifice, and what can only be described as a quixotic quest to preserve humanity's artistic soul amidst the chaos of war. If "The Monuments Men" was a sweeping epic, "REMEMBER US" is its more intimate counterpart—a series of vignettes that paint a fuller picture of the individuals behind the mission.

The book does not merely recount historical events with a dry precision; it breathes life into them. The personal narratives of these unsung heroes are woven with such deftness that one can almost smell the musty air of bombed-out cathedrals and hear the echoing silence of empty galleries. Edsel’s meticulous research is akin to a master restorer’s touch—bringing clarity to a canvas obscured by time.

Comparatively, while Lynn H. Nicholas's "The Rape of Europa" offers a panoramic sweep across the European cultural landscape ravaged by war, Edsel's work zeroes in on the microcosm of human experience within this vast tableau. Similarly, Edmund de Waal’s "The Hare with Amber Eyes" shares an affinity with Edsel's work in its personal approach to cultural history, yet it remains more introspective, less embroiled in the grand theater of war.

That said, "REMEMBER US" is not without its challenges. The sheer density of historical detail can be reminiscent of navigating through an academic tome. It’s not unlike attending a Wagnerian opera—rich, complex, and requiring an investment of time and attention. However, for those willing to immerse themselves, the rewards are substantial.

In a literary landscape where World War II non-fiction often veers towards the militaristic or political, Edsel’s focus on cultural preservation is both refreshing and necessary. It is a reminder that in the theater of war, art becomes more than mere decoration; it is the embodiment of identity and memory—a beacon of what civilization strives to protect against barbarism.

While "REMEMBER US" may not have snagged any shiny accolades just yet, it doesn't need them. Its value lies in its contribution to our understanding of the past and its call to remember those who fought not just with guns but with an unwavering belief in the power of art and culture. In an age where the ephemeral often overshadows the eternal, Edsel’s work stands as a clarion call to remember what truly matters.

Purchase Link: REMEMBER US on Amazon

by Johny McFliggen, PhD Literature & Business, Oxford

In a literary world saturated with rehashed tales of historical figures, Hampton Sides' "THE WIDE WIDE SEA" attempts to chart a fresh course through the tempestuous waters of Captain James Cook's final voyage. Known for his masterful narrative style in works like "On Desperate Ground," Sides takes on the ambitious task of navigating both the literal and metaphorical wide sea that defines Cook's controversial legacy.

The book, which seemingly emerges from the depths like a long-lost artifact, offers a comprehensive yet intimate exploration of a voyage that has been dissected and debated ad nauseam. Yet, in true Sides fashion, it is the nuance and detail that breathe new life into this well-trodden subject. One might compare Sides' approach to Cook with Ron Chernow's treatment of Alexander Hamilton—reverent yet unflinchingly critical. The narrative is as much about the man as it is about the myth, and Sides adeptly balances the two.

In delving into Cook's final voyage, Sides does not shy away from the controversies that have dogged the explorer's legacy. He tackles the moral complexities surrounding Cook with the same rigor that historians like David McCullough apply to American founding fathers in "1776." These are not mere historical footnotes but essential threads in a tapestry that seeks to understand the intersection of exploration, imperialism, and cultural encounter.

Sides' portrayal is reminiscent of the rich, immersive storytelling found in Nathaniel Philbrick's "In the Heart of the Sea," where every page seems to salt your lips and fill your lungs with briny air. The author conjures an era of exploration with such vividness that one can almost hear the creaking of the Endeavour's masts amid a backdrop of diplomatic fumbling and cross-cultural collisions.

However, unlike many historical narratives that conveniently sanitize their subjects for modern sensibilities, Sides presents Cook as a flawed yet fascinating figure. In doing so, he echoes the thematic complexity found in Hilary Mantel’s depiction of Thomas Cromwell in "Wolf Hall." The result is a portrait that invites readers to grapple with the uncomfortable truths of history rather than indulge in hero-worship or blanket condemnation.

While some might argue that Sides occasionally indulges in minute historical details at the expense of narrative pace, this meticulousness is precisely what allows "THE WIDE WIDE SEA" to transcend mere recounting. It is an intellectual endeavor that demands patience, much like a symphony requiring one to savor every note.

In conclusion, "THE WIDE WIDE SEA" stands as a testament to Hampton Sides' mastery of narrative non-fiction. It is an invitation to journey beyond the horizon of established history into the murky, uncharted waters where fact meets interpretation. For those willing to embark on this intellectual voyage, be prepared: you may find yourself revisiting what you thought you knew about Captain Cook and questioning where history ends and legend begins.

Purchase Link: THE WIDE WIDE SEA on Amazon

by Johny McFliggen, PhD Literature & Business, Oxford

Ah, "Empire of the Summer Moon," a title that conjures images of vast plains and intense struggles beneath an unforgiving sun. S.C. Gwynne's exploration of the Comanche Nation, with its twin narratives of tribal dominance and the life of Quanah Parker, reads less like a history book and more like an epic saga that HBO might one day adapt into a miniseries. Imagine "Game of Thrones," but with fewer dragons and more mustangs.

Gwynne, with his journalist's knack for unraveling complex histories, dives deeply into the lore of the Comanche, a tribe whose mastery of horseback warfare made them the Spartans of the Great Plains. Their resistance to European-American encroachment isn't just fodder for historical footnotes but a compelling testament to the power dynamics at play during America's westward expansion. It's a tale as riveting and brutal as any told by Mel Gibson in "Braveheart," albeit with considerably less blue face paint.

Quanah Parker, the last Comanche chief, emerges not merely as a historical figure but as a character with Shakespearean depth. The son of a Comanche chief and a white woman captured during a raid, Parker straddles two worlds, embodying the cultural collision that defined his era. Gwynne deftly navigates this duality, presenting Parker not just as a leader but as a symbol of an era's tumultuous transformation.

However, it's worth noting that Gwynne occasionally romanticizes the violence inherent in the Comanche's way of life. While this might attract critique from those preferring the sanitized tales of American history taught in high schools, it also injects a robust realism into his narrative, much like Dee Brown's "Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee," which similarly refuses to shy away from the harsh realities of Native American displacement.

The book's recognition as a Pulitzer Prize finalist and its bestseller status are well-earned accolades. Gwynne's work is more than a historical account; it is an immersive experience that brings the reader face to face with the gritty realities of frontier life. In the realm of historical non-fiction, it stands shoulder to shoulder with other giants, offering a focused lens on the unique role of the Comanche in shaping American history.

In conclusion, "Empire of the Summer Moon" is a must-read for anyone with an interest in the intricate tapestry of American history. Gwynne's masterful storytelling ensures that this tale of defiance and adaptation resonates long after the final page has been turned. It's not just a book; it's a journey into the heart of America's past, one that leaves you contemplating the complex legacies left by those who rode under the summer moon.

Purchase Link: EMPIRE OF THE SUMMER MOON on Amazon

Chris Broad’s Abroad in Japan is what happens when an Englishman in his twenties is dropped into the underbelly of rural Japan with no cultural compass, a camcorder, and a mild resentment toward other humans. It’s not a travel book. It’s an accidental anthropological field report delivered by someone who wandered into the experiment by mistake and decided to vlog it.

To call it a memoir would be both accurate and insufficient. Yes, Broad recounts his ten years in Japan—from being a disillusioned JET Programme teacher in the forgotten snowbanks of Yamagata to becoming one of the most recognizable British voices in online travel media—but the throughline isn’t transformation. It’s estrangement. At every turn, Broad maintains a healthy distance from both Japanese and British cultural pretensions. He is the anti-YouTuber: allergic to enthusiasm, suspicious of spectacle, and constantly undermining the very notion of awe. The result is a travel narrative that feels more like a slow, ironic deflation of every naive expectation people bring with them to Japan.

Broad is not interested in teaching you about Japan. He’s interested in showing you what happens when you live there long enough to find the cracks. The absurd bureaucracy. The performance of politeness. The social isolation that hides behind the orderly smiles. It’s not mean-spirited, but it is unvarnished. His greatest gift is in his ability to translate culture shock into comedy without falling into cruelty. He avoids the well-worn tropes of anime obsession or sushi rhapsody and instead fixates on things like overpriced fruit, unbearable summer humidity, and the grim psychological toll of being treated like a guest for ten years straight.

In that sense, Abroad in Japan is more aligned with the work of Karl Pilkington than, say, Pico Iyer. It’s a book that refuses to pretend cultural understanding is easy or desirable. Broad never becomes fully fluent, linguistically or socially, and that stubborn foreignness becomes the point. He turns his outsider status into an aesthetic. Even the most profound moments—a student’s suicide attempt, the Fukushima disaster—are presented with a mix of dry restraint and the implicit discomfort of someone unsure whether they have the right to tell this story at all.

And yet, the book works. It works because Broad is willing to make himself look bad. He is, at times, petty, bitter, judgmental—and refreshingly self-aware. This is not the story of a Westerner who found his place in Japan. It’s the story of someone who never really did and decided that maybe that’s more honest. He peels back the ‘quirky Japan’ veneer and exposes the loneliness beneath. He acknowledges the country’s elegance without pretending it’s utopia. That ambivalence—toward Japan, toward himself, toward the whole idea of having a “journey”—is where the book finds its depth.

The second half of the memoir shifts toward his rise as a content creator, and while the narrative pacing occasionally falters in these sections, it also gives us a glimpse of the strange new media economy that rewards disaffection. Broad didn’t become popular because he loved Japan, but because he refused to romanticize it. His audience trusts him precisely because he doesn’t try to sell them anything, least of all an idealized version of Japan.

Unlike most expat memoirs, which veer toward either reverence or rejection, Abroad in Japan does something far trickier. It hovers in the middle, suspended in ambivalence, animated by deadpan humor and an unwillingness to resolve into either gratitude or regret. It’s not a love letter to Japan. It’s more like a long voicemail from someone who can’t decide if they’re staying or going—but keeps hitting record anyway.

Rating: 8.8/10
The rare travel memoir that trusts its reader enough to be both unimpressed and unafraid of saying so. Wry, weary, and far more insightful than it pretends to be.

by Johny McFliggen, PhD Literature & Business, Oxford

It seems Ed Helms, the affable "Nard Dog" from "The Office," has ventured into the world of non-fiction with "SNAFU," an exploration of historical blunders spanning from the 1950s into our current century. The title itself, a military slang acronym for "Situation Normal: All Fouled Up," promises a jaunt through the delightful messiness of human error. Helms, with his comedic chops, is perhaps one of the more unexpected guides through this minefield of missteps.

If we take cues from his work on the "Snafu" podcast, one can assume that Helms approaches these mishaps with a blend of humor and curiosity. The prospect of a comedian dissecting historical errors recalls Jon Stewart’s subversive take on news in "The Daily Show," only Helms appears to be casting an even wider net, diving into the chasms of historical faux pas. His perspective is likely less about schadenfreude and more about understanding the innate fallibility that makes us human, much like Malcolm Gladwell's approach in "Outliers."

The book is anticipated to be a tapestry woven from threads of cultural commentary and anecdotal evidence, potentially echoing the style of Bill Bryson’s "A Short History of Nearly Everything." But where Bryson explores the scientific, Helms seems more interested in the sociopolitical and personal arenas where things have gone amusingly awry. One might imagine Helms' narrative voice as a congenial, if slightly sardonic, narrator who relishes in the absurdity of it all, not unlike Michael Lewis in "The Big Short."

What makes this book intriguing is not just the subject matter but how Helms might frame these blunders within the zeitgeist of their respective eras. A blunder in the '50s, with its backdrop of post-war optimism and nuclear anxiety, holds different implications than one in today's digital age of instantaneous outrage and misinformation. The potential for insightful cultural critique is vast, especially when we consider how hindsight often reveals these snafus as inevitable stepping stones in our collective journey.

Readers might find themselves comparing "SNAFU" to Erik Larson’s historical narratives, which breathe life into forgotten tales with vivid detail and a touch of drama. If Helms manages to capture even a fraction of Larson’s flair while maintaining his comedic sensibility, "SNAFU" could be a delightful contribution to the genre.

In a market saturated with self-proclaimed experts and their formulaic takes on history’s foibles, Ed Helms' entry might just be the refreshing voice we need—a reminder that even when things are at their most fouled up, there's always room for a chuckle at our own expense. Whether this book will stand as a definitive guide to human error or a humorous footnote remains to be seen. But if Helms' previous work is any indication, it will at least be an engaging ride through the chaos.

Purchase Link: SNAFU on Amazon

Another week, another dispatch from the front lines of the Great Obsolescence Panic. This time, it arrives not as breathless techno utopianism nor as dour academic prognostication, but in the guise of Koby Ofek’s practical manual for the professionally anxious. One must admit, the timing is impeccable. The question haunting workplaces, from the C suite down to the poor souls wrestling with recalcitrant spreadsheets – “What happens if a robot, or more likely, an algorithm, takes my place?” – has graduated from hypothetical water cooler chat to a palpable, ambient dread. Ofek, commendably, doesn’t waste time on philosophical hand wringing about the singularity or reciting Harari’s greatest hits, though he nods politely in their direction. Instead, this book attempts something far more grounded, perhaps even more necessary: a field guide for navigating the immediate turbulence. I appreciate pragmatism, even if it sometimes lacks the intellectual grandeur of predicting the end of history. The author argues, quite sensibly, that passive waiting is professional suicide, offering instead a toolkit for proactive adaptation within the shifting landscape of one’s own field.

The core of Ofek’s offering lies in a veritable arsenal of frameworks. We have the Trend Decoder Canvas, the Flashback Filter, the Capability Radar, the Human Advantage Matrix, the Task DNA sequencer, the Skill Barbell strategy, AI Shadowing Sprints, Portfolio Paycheck Economics… one almost expects a laminated fold out chart. These tools are designed, clearly, to help the reader diagnose their vulnerability, map their skills against AI capabilities, and plot a course towards resilience. There’s a certain comfort in this structured approach, a sense of control imposed on chaotic change. I can see the appeal for those feeling adrift. Yet, I must pose the question: does this proliferation of matrices and radars risk becoming a sophisticated form of procrastination? Can the messy, often intuitive work of genuine adaptation truly be captured in a five step process or a four quadrant grid? Is there not a danger that meticulously sequencing one’s Task DNA becomes a substitute for the bolder, perhaps less quantifiable, leaps required to stay relevant? It feels less Taleb, more… structured self help for the MBA set. Useful, perhaps, but potentially confining.

Ofek wisely anchors his advice in historical precedent, reminding readers that technological disruption is hardly a novel phenomenon. The Luddites smashing looms, the telephone operators facing automatic switchboards, the bank tellers watching ATMs multiply – these vignettes serve as effective therapy, demonstrating that adaptation, not extinction, has been the historical norm. It’s a welcome corrective to the often ahistorical pronouncements of tech evangelists and doom mongers alike. This grounding in the past lends the book a certain weight. Still, I wonder if the parallels aren’t perhaps a touch too comforting. The speed, the cognitive nature, the sheer scalability of the current AI wave – does it represent a difference in kind, not just degree? Are the lessons of the steam engine or the spreadsheet truly adequate preparation for large language models that learn and evolve exponentially? The historical analogies are soothing, certainly, but one hopes they aren’t merely lullabies sung to quiet the anxieties of a workforce facing a fundamentally unprecedented transformation.

The book champions the cultivation of uniquely human skills – the heavy side of the Skill Barbell, the terrain of the Human Latency Premium. Empathy, judgment, creativity, complex problem solving, ethical reasoning – these are presented as the defensible moats against the algorithmic tide. It’s a sound argument, echoing the sentiments of many thoughtful observers. But I am left pondering the inherent dynamism of that category. What constitutes a “uniquely human” skill seems suspiciously like a moving target. As artificial general intelligence, however distant, continues its march, could today’s strategic moat become tomorrow’s automated commodity? Is the Skill Barbell a durable strategy for the long haul, or a temporary bulwark against the inevitable, a way to feel productive while the ground fundamentally shifts beneath our feet? The book acknowledges AGI briefly, but perhaps doesn’t fully wrestle with its potential to upend even the most carefully constructed human advantage frameworks.

Finally, Ofek extends his pragmatism to the personal sphere, offering sensible advice on diversifying income streams via the Portfolio Paycheck and managing the undeniable psychological toll of this era through mental fitness strategies. Recognizing the anxiety and burnout is commendable; offering concrete coping mechanisms is useful. Yet, I find myself asking whether this intense focus on individual resilience – build your portfolio, manage your stress, adapt your skills – inadvertently sidesteps the larger, systemic questions. Does framing this primarily as a personal challenge let society, corporations, and governments off the hook too easily? The book touches upon the need for broader social safety nets and policy interventions, particularly in the later chapters, but the overwhelming emphasis remains on individual adaptation. Is this sufficient, or does it risk normalizing a future where the burden of navigating technologically induced disruption falls squarely, perhaps unfairly, on the shoulders of the individual worker?

In sum, Koby Ofek has produced a valuable, eminently practical guide for professionals seeking to navigate the immediate impacts of AI. Its frameworks offer structure, its historical context provides perspective, and its focus on actionable steps is a welcome antidote to passive anxiety. It is, as advertised, a grounded, realistic attempt to help readers secure their footing. I find it generally favorable, a useful tool in the current climate. But the deeper questions linger – about the limits of frameworks, the true applicability of history, the shifting sands of human advantage, and the crucial balance between individual adaptation and collective responsibility. Ofek provides a map for the current terrain, but the thoughtful reader will continue to scan the horizon, wondering about the lands – or perhaps the oceans – that lie beyond its borders. A worthy read, certainly. Just don’t mistake the toolkit for the territory.

Purchase Link: Keep Your Day Job on Amazon

by Johny McFliggen, PhD Literature & Business, Oxford

In the absence of an official release or detailed information on "On Character" by Stanley McChrystal, one must venture into the speculative realm—a task not unfamiliar to those who appreciate the artistry of constructing narratives with incomplete data. As someone steeped in both literature and the business of leadership, I am inclined to draw upon McChrystal's previous works to frame what "On Character" might entail, should it ever grace our bookshelves.

Stanley McChrystal, a luminary in the sphere of military leadership and strategy, has carved out a niche where the precision of military operations marries the fluid adaptability required in civilian enterprises. His previous works—"Team of Teams" and "Leaders: Myth and Reality"—provide more than a mere glimpse into his intellectual landscape; they are testament to his prowess in dissecting and disseminating the tenets of leadership.

If "On Character" is indeed penned by McChrystal, one might expect a rigorous examination of what constitutes character in leadership. Much like Michael Corleone’s complex evolution in "The Godfather," character in leadership is not a static attribute but a dynamic interplay of decisions, ethics, and adaptability. McChrystal, with his military pedigree, would likely dissect character in a manner that challenges both conventional wisdom and modern sensibilities.

What sets McChrystal apart, and indeed what would set "On Character" apart, is his ability to traverse the often rigid boundaries between military discipline and the chaotic unpredictability of civilian life. His narrative style—akin to a blend of Churchillian gravitas and Sorkin-esque dialogue—captures the reader's attention much like a well-executed Wes Anderson film, where every detail serves a purpose, every line resonates with intent.

In comparison to other military strategists-turned-authors like Jocko Willink or Simon Sinek, McChrystal's potential exploration of character would likely be less prescriptive and more analytical. He possesses a deftness akin to a chess grandmaster, revealing how character is less about inherent traits and more about the choices made under pressure—a perspective that aligns with the existential musings found in Viktor Frankl's "Man's Search for Meaning."

If reviews were to emerge for "On Character," they would likely praise McChrystal’s ability to extract universal truths from his military experiences, presenting them with a clarity that resonates across industries. One can imagine these critiques echoing those of his earlier works, lauding his storytelling prowess and practical insights.

In sum, while "On Character" remains an enigma as of this writing, any book bearing McChrystal’s name promises an intellectually stimulating exploration of leadership and character, one that would undoubtedly enrich our understanding while challenging our preconceived notions—much like the best episodes of "The West Wing." Until then, one must wait with bated breath or perhaps delve into his previous works to catch a glimpse of the wisdom that might await.

Purchase Link: On Character on Amazon

by Johny McFliggen, PhD Literature & Business, Oxford

The clamor surrounding Anna Malaika Tubbs's work, particularly with "The Three Mothers," anticipated a follow-up that would perhaps continue her exploration into the unheralded forces shaping our collective history. If "Erased" is indeed Tubbs's latest foray, it promises to be a piercing examination of American patriarchy—a topic ripe for dissection by someone with Tubbs's intellectual acuity and flair for narrative.

Tubbs's previous work, "The Three Mothers," deftly intertwined the personal and the political, shining a spotlight on Alberta King, Louise Little, and Berdis Baldwin, who collectively served as both the silent architects and unsung heroines of their sons' monumental legacies. With "Erased," one might expect a similar excavation of marginalization—this time focusing on the systemic erasure perpetuated by patriarchy throughout American history.

If Tubbs has indeed turned her scholarly gaze toward patriarchy, she enters a crowded room already inhabited by stalwarts like bell hooks and Rebecca Solnit. Yet, Tubbs's strength lies in her ability to humanize the historical narrative, transforming abstract societal structures into tangible, lived experiences. Her exploration would likely weave personal stories with broader social critique, much like she did in her exploration of motherhood and social activism.

In anticipating "Erased," I imagine Tubbs taking on the Sisyphean task of unraveling the threads of patriarchy with the same care and empathy she demonstrated in "The Three Mothers." It would be a work that challenges readers not only to recognize historical injustices but also to reckon with their own complicity in perpetuating these systems.

Given her track record, Tubbs would likely employ a narrative style that is both accessible and deeply engaging, eschewing dry academic discourse for something more akin to the rich storytelling found in Isabel Wilkerson's "Caste" or James Baldwin's essays. Her approach could very well include comparisons to contemporary movements and figures who have sought to dismantle patriarchal norms—perhaps even drawing parallels to recent cultural moments reminiscent of "The Handmaid's Tale" revivalism in our current socio-political climate.

Ultimately, if "Erased" aligns with Tubbs's prior work, it will be less a mere historical account and more an invitation for readers to engage in active reflection. It would demand not just to be read but to be wrestled with—a quality all too rare in contemporary non-fiction. Whether or not such a book exists under Tubbs's authorship remains to be seen, but if it does, it promises to be a necessary contribution to both feminist literature and the wider discourse on power dynamics in America.

Purchase Link: Erased on Amazon

In a culture that demands performance not just on stage but in our pain, Jennette McCurdy has delivered something akin to a literary mutiny. I’m Glad My Mom Died is not a title engineered for shock value alone, though it performs that function efficiently enough. It is a thesis statement, a declaration of war against the myth of the perfect mother and the culture that venerates suffering children as long as they smile through it. In a publishing landscape bloated with victimhood narratives that turn trauma into digestible anecdotes, McCurdy does something altogether different. She refuses redemption. She denies catharsis. And in doing so, she tells the truth.

This memoir is not about Hollywood, though it happens to take place there. It is not even primarily about McCurdy’s time as a child star on Nickelodeon, though the details—revolting, fascinating, grotesquely banal—are all here: calorie counting administered by her mother before puberty; her refusal to drink water before auditions to avoid bloating; the disordered eating camouflaged as career discipline. Her relationship with “The Creator”—an unnamed but clearly identifiable television executive—lives somewhere between corporate predation and surrealist horror. Yet none of this is dwelled upon. McCurdy is not interested in sensationalism; she is interested in power.

Her mother, Debra, is the central figure, and she looms with such scale and specificity that the reader can almost smell the anxiety coming off her. McCurdy sketches her not as a monster but as a monument to every unchecked instinct of martyrdom and narcissism that American motherhood sanctifies. This is a woman who insists on showering her teenage daughter, who teaches her that beauty and thinness are synonymous with love, who imposes dreams under the guise of support. The abuse is not hidden. It’s documented, direct, and cruel. But more disturbing than the acts themselves is the sincerity with which they’re delivered. Debra is not a Machiavellian schemer—she believes she is a good mother. And that makes her dangerous.

McCurdy’s style is unsentimental to the point of caustic. The writing is clipped, punchy, and darkly hilarious. It carries the comedic timing of someone who survived not by transcendence, but by noticing the absurdity in every moment that should have destroyed her. What she pulls off here is rare: humor that does not trivialize, but reveals. The jokes are not armor. They are scalpels.

There’s an almost nihilistic refusal in McCurdy to deliver a bow-tied ending. Even her mother’s death does not unlock some mythic healing. There is no grave-side forgiveness, no final whispered thank you. There is only the slow, unglamorous work of disentangling a self from a performance. She documents recovery with the same brutal honesty she documents abuse: therapy that doesn’t always help, relationships that falter, the echoing voice of her mother in her mind even years after her death. The book’s climax is not a moment, but a revelation: that grief can be liberating, and that some people do not deserve a second chance in your memory.

In the pantheon of modern memoirs, this book sits closest to Educated by Tara Westover, but without the grandiose prose or the eventual reconciliation. It shares a tone with Augusten Burroughs’ Running with Scissors, but without the self-satisfied chaos. It has the directness of Mary Karr but stripped of Catholic residue. I’m Glad My Mom Died is, in short, a new genre: a memoir of anti-redemption.

It is a dangerous book. Not because it corrupts or scandalizes, but because it suggests a forbidden idea: that not all mothers are good, and not all daughters are required to forgive. In a society that weaponizes guilt and repackages trauma as inspiration, McCurdy offers no uplift. What she offers is something rarer. She offers honesty.

The publishing industry will no doubt learn the wrong lesson from this book. They will chase its virality, copy its title format, and commission a hundred inferior knock-offs. But they will miss its actual power. Because the power of I’m Glad My Mom Died is not in its title, or even its trauma. It’s in the precision of its insight: that survival is not a journey upward, but a messy, sometimes petty, always unfinished refusal to let someone else write your story.

Rating: 9.3/10
Not a healing narrative. A literary act of self-exorcism. Necessary. Unforgivable. True.