Welcome to the Book Blogger Hop!

This Week's Prompt:

My Answer:

I’m a literary tightrope walker, balancing between the rich depths of character-driven tales and the pulse-pounding thrills of plot-driven sagas. Give me characters so fascinating that they feel like old friends—complex and flawed, haunting my thoughts long after the last page. But if the plot drags, even the best characters can't save me from the boredom blues. I crave that electrifying combo: characters who leap off the page and a plot that keeps me on the edge of my seat. When they collide, it’s pure magic—a masterful dance that awakens my imagination and leaves me sleep-deprived, wide-eyed, and hungry for more. That’s the kind of story that makes my heart race!

〜B.J. Burgess

The holiday season always unleashes a tidal wave of Christmas-themed books upon us. As soon as the leaves start turning, retailers drench their shelves with new festive reads, many of which I suspect fall into the "cringy, silly, and campy" category—think Hallmark Christmas movies in book form. Not exactly my cup of eggnog! In my mind, many of them are little more than candy-coated fluff, devoid of substance. That said, I completely get why readers gobble them up like holiday cookies. Everyone has their taste, and I'm not here to rain on anyone's holiday parade. Read what brings you joy!

However, I haven't completely cast aside holiday romances. That’s the reason I've picked up The Christmas Stranger ^[*], the latest offering from Richard Paul Evans. He’s been a literary guilty pleasure of mine since I first cracked open the enchanting pages of The Christmas Box trilogy ages ago.

Now, let’s talk about The Christmas Stranger, shall we? Picture this: It’s been three long years since Paul Wanless shattered his life in a Christmas Eve accident that claimed his family. If you think he’s just taken a break from the holiday cheer, think again—he's done with life itself. He sold off his computer repair business, the Christmas ornaments are collecting dust, and the idea of connecting with another human being isn't on his radar. Enter a mysterious stranger—Gabriel—who knocks on Paul’s door, claiming to retrieve a laptop. But hold on! This isn’t just about tech support; Gabriel has a mission that’s far more profound. When Paul opens up about his dark thoughts, Gabriel cryptically warns, "I wouldn't do it if I were you. It's not what you think," leaving Paul dumbfounded and questioning reality. This encounter sends him spiraling, but not without a turn of fate when he meets a young widow and her bullied son, shaking up his bleak existence and nudging him back toward the land of the living.

Welcome to the Book Blogger Hop!

This Week's Prompt:

Do you keep up with the hype surrounding books?

My Answer:

I've learned to tune out the hype surrounding new books. It's like watching a circus parade—most of the flashy promotions don't catch my interest unless it's a familiar author. I used to get drawn in by the buzz, often ending up disappointed with overrated titles. Now, I approach the excitement with skepticism, focusing on finding the book that truly deserves my attention.

〜B.J. Burgess

Hello, my fellow Friday 56ers! 

This week, I've chosen A Colorado Christmas by William W. Johnstone and J.A. Johnstone—though let’s be honest, it’s hard to tell which ghostwriter is behind the curtain these days. This book was published in 2016 and belongs to that curious niche of holiday-themed Westerns—yes, you heard it right. Nothing quite like a festive shootout under the snow-laden pines, right? I’ll begin reading the book tonight, and if the holiday spirit—or perhaps my caffeine intake—strikes me right, I plan to whip up a review by tomorrow. If I get overwhelmed by the snowfall of tasks, though, you'll see it next Saturday.

For reasons that still elude me, I find myself enchanted by the enigmatic figure of Marilyn Monroe, the iconic blonde bombshell who left an indelible mark on Hollywood before her tragic demise at just 36. It’s not merely the unanswered questions surrounding her supposed overdose that intrigue me; instead, it’s her undeniable talent that drew my attention. Films like Don’t Bother to Knock (1952), Niagara (1953), River of No Return (1954), and The Misfits (1961)—her last completed film—showcase her ability to transform from a pretty face into a complex character. Ah, but when it comes to her life and death, the plots run thicker than the drama on screen.

Countless books have been dedicated to Monroe, yet most meander through a labyrinth of conspiracies about her untimely death. The latest entry, The Last Days of Marilyn Monroe by James Patterson and Imogen Edwards-Jones, which cheekily dubs itself a "true crime thriller" on the cover, is anything but. Instead, what you get is a biography that barely skims the surface of her “last days,” offering little insight into her tragic end. One wonders: why call it The Last Days of Marilyn Monroe when another book has already claimed that title? And why publish it in 2025, just one year shy of the centenary celebrations of her birth in 2026? Doesn't it seem like a marketing ploy?

The official blurb reads like a Hollywood script: "In life, Marilyn Monroe’s superstardom defies classification. In death, she remains shrouded in mystery." While the world waits for June 1, 2026, to celebrate her 100th birthday, it’s worth noting that she has been absent from the living for far too long. The prologue opens in the early morning hours of August 5, 1962, painting a haunting image of Eunice Murray, Monroe's housekeeper (personal nurse), discovering Monroe's locked bedroom and fearing the worst. When psychiatrist Ralph Greenson arrives, he finds a nude Monroe sprawled on her bed, lifeless, hand clutching a telephone, surrounded by an ominous array of empty pill bottles. The air is thick with sorrow, a sorrow that hangs over her legacy like a cold fog.

The Sunday Post, Issue #287

The Sunday Post is a weekly event hosted by Caffeinated Reviewer.

The Editorial

Despite my flirtation with insomnia, I find myself in surprisingly high spirits. Perhaps it’s the jolt of the strong coffee I just downed, or maybe I’m just riding a wave of euphoria from the latest episode of Landman. It could also be that I’m finally starting to shake off the lingering fog of my recent illness. Whatever the case, I have a hunch today will be far more productive than yesterday—fingers crossed!

Over the span of two days, I devoured The Last Days of Marilyn Monroe by James Patterson and Imogen Edwards-Jones, wrapping it up late last night. While I enjoyed the read, I’m scratching my head over the title. The Last Days? This book is essentially a biography of Marilyn Monroe’s entire life. And calling it A True Crime Thriller? Now that’s a stretch worthy of a seasoned contortionist. It’s more of a historical biography with a smattering of fictional dialogue tossed in for drama. Talk about a case of mislabeling worthy of a mystery itself! I’m working my review today and plan to unveil my thoughts tomorrow, so stay tuned.

In a fit of frustration, I purchased the book in another county since my local Walmart has apparently decided to wage war on its book section. It’s been over two months since they stocked any titles—not even a lonely paperback in sight. They change the price tags as if it's all part of an elaborate joke, while the employees look baffled when I inquire. The irony is hard to miss; they had a “grand” reopening in early November, yet their book section shrank to half its former size, now wedged next to a collection of overpriced DVD sets that will gather dust until the end of time. Adding to the absurdity, the Dunkin' Donuts in the store remains an unfinished ghost of what could have been—a monument to lost hope. What on earth is going on with my local Walmart? And please, for your sanity, don’t even think about ordering books from their website. They’ll taunt you with availability, only to cancel days later, claiming it’s out of stock—classic bait and switch. It’s no wonder people are sprinting toward Amazon like it’s the shining beacon of literature!

Welcome to the Book Blogger Hop!

This Week's Prompt:

What kind of book do you like to curl up with in the winter?

My Answer:

I can almost hear the chorus of familiar voices chiming in, “Oh, just pick a cozy Christmas mystery or a heartwarming holiday romance!” As if the shelves aren’t already groaning under the weight of such predictable fare! But for me, the thrill lies in the unexpected. I tend to be the wild card at the reading party—grabbing whatever Advance Reader Copy (ARC) happens to catch my eye, or diving headfirst into a gritty western, navigating the stars in a Star Trek adventure, or even dusting off an old horror classic that sends chills down my spine. The season? It’s just a backdrop; the weather? Merely a passing thought. My reading choices are dictated by whim and whatever floats my boat at that moment. So, whether it's a snowstorm outside or the sun blazing down, I'll take a journey wherever the pages lead, unshackled by the confines of genre or time.

〜B.J. Burgess

It’s curious how the lens through which we view a book can shift radically depending on our emotional and physical state. Perhaps it’s just me, but I know my mood dances hand-in-hand with my thoughts about whatever narrative I’m reading. This brings me to Tom's Crossing ^[*] by Mark Z. Danielewski—an ambitious tome stretching over 1,200 pages, which I dared to tackle while feeling like I’d been run over by a freight train, thanks to a relentless case of strep throat and bronchitis. Was my opinion colored by my hazy, medicated brain? Undoubtedly, but in the moments when I could focus, I believed that even a sober reading wouldn’t shift my feelings too much. It's an odd twist, but for all its literary pretensions, I found myself oddly drawn to parts of it.

On the surface, the plot reads like a straightforward Western: in the small town of Orvop, Utah, nestled in the shadowy embrace of the mountains, a horrific crime in the fall of 1982 reverberates through the community, but it’s the extraordinary events beyond city limits that linger in collective memory. Nobody anticipated the dead would rise, yet rise they did. Nobody saw a mountain tumbling down like a stone-cold giant, yet it came crashing. And nobody expected a spectacle of courage that would leave an indelible mark on all hearts and minds associated with the Katanogos massif or the tranquil Pillars Meadow. As one brave Orvop high school teacher poignantly noted—mere days before her untimely passing—“Fer sure no one expected Kalin March to look Old Porch dead in the eye and say, ‘You get what you deserve when you ride with cowards.'"

When I picked up Tom's Crossing ^[*], I was stepping into a literary world that had garnered a fair share of praise from eager reviewers who seemed to echo each other a little too closely—leading me to wonder if they were all using the same playbook, perhaps run by an AI or chained to their loyalty to Danielewski. Shockingly, I had never encountered his work before this novel; I can almost feel the gasps of disbelief echoing from the literary community. “You’ve never heard of Danielewski?” Yep, you heard that right! I approached this story with fresh eyes, wanting to jump into its narrative without the weight of prior expectations.

Welcome to the Book Blogger Hop!

This Week's Prompt:

My Answer:

It all comes down to whether we’re discussing my NTBR (need-to-be-read) stack or my non-ARC TBR pile. Today, I’m going with the latter. Here’s the lineup of titles that are practically begging for my attention: First up is Holly by Stephen King, next is another King book, Never Flinch, Going Home in the Dark by Dean Koontz, With a Vengeance by Riley Sager, and King Sorrow by Joe Hill (King's son).

〜B.J. Burgess

The Sunday Post, Issue #286

The Sunday Post is a weekly event hosted by Caffeinated Reviewer.

The Editorial

Winter has unofficially descended upon us, and I can feel it creeping into my very bones. The skies have turned gray, drenching the earth in relentless rain that seems to echo my own mood. As if that weren't enough, I've been dealt an unwelcome companion: a whopper of a strep throat that decided to crash my party. I'm currently engulfed in a quest for relief, surrounding myself with home remedies that would make your grandmother proud. With a to-do list that's growing longer by the minute—errands to run, dust bunnies to evict, pies to bake, and the formidable task of cooking Thanksgiving dinner looming over me—I’m less than thrilled to be fighting off illness. Yes, I’ve been elected the head chef this year, and I’m not even sure how that happened!

In brighter news, my mother made it through her surgery on November 12th, and she’s on the mend. Thanks to all the well-wishers—your prayers and good thoughts really do mean a lot. This Thanksgiving will be a cozy affair—just my parents, an uncle, and me conjuring up a feast that’ll either be a success or a culinary horror show.

As if the universe needed to pile on more chaos, the ancient furnace decided to send its final wheezing breath into the chilly air. There were crossroads: wrestle with replacing the blower motor yet again, or fork over thirteen grand for a brand-new HVAC system. Opted for the latter, and let me tell you, the installation took all day—relentless hours filled with the clanging of tools and the cries of a bank account weeping. Yes, it was a financial hit, but in the freezing grip of winter, heat is non-negotiable.

Tonight, we saddle up and ride into the rugged world of John Slocum—a gunfighter who's perpetually caught in the whirlwind of chaos, always arriving at the right place but the wrong time, plunging headfirst into deadly scrapes while simultaneously managing a dalliance or two with the local ladies of ill repute. Slocum is no ordinary hero; he’s the star of the first American western paperback series under the bold banner of “adult western,” launched by Playboy Press in 1975 and galloping through to 2014, with its final entries published by Jove. A staggering total of 437 books, including the “Giant” installments, make up this raucous saga. The name “Jake Logan” was a mere house pen name, shrouding the creativity of at least thirty-four different authors crafting Slocum’s misadventures.

This brings me to my latest literary escapade: Blood River, boldly advertised on the cover as the 166th installment, though, in truth, it holds the spot of book 156, having been released in December 1992 by Berkley. The identity of the true author remains elusive, wrapped in mystery like a lonesome cowboy's faded bandana. If anyone has the lowdown on who penned this one, do throw a rope my way!

Now, you'd think that breezing through a 184-page tale shouldn't take me over a week, but for reasons I can't quite pin down, I struggled to get into Blood Fever. Don’t get me wrong—I'm an ardent fan of Slocum's brazen spirit! Yet, the by-the-numbers narrative felt as though the author was working from a checklist handed down by some uninspired publisher. It lacked the spark and fire one expects from a Western; it was as if the writer hadn’t much care for what they were crafting, perhaps never having penned a Western or, dare I say, even skimmed through a Slocum adventure. It's not that the story is utterly bad—it just feels like one of those less-than-stellar episodes of Gunsmoke—the ones that, while not your favorites, still manage to stick with you like a stubborn tumbleweed.

Welcome to the Book Blogger Hop!

This Week's Prompt:

My Answer:

In my little town, there’s a single public library. I pop in from time to time, drawn by the promise of free books. The air is thick with the scent of aged paper and quiet secrets; each visit is a delightful escape into the unknown. I know where the libraries are in the nearby towns—like old ghosts haunting my periphery—but for reasons I can’t quite explain, they remain unexplored territories. 

〜B.J. Burgess

Hello, my fellow Friday 56ers! It feels good to be back after taking a little hiatus last week. Life threw me a curveball with my mother’s surgery on the 12th, but I'm happy to report that she’s back home and on the mend. Taking care of her and juggling other responsibilities kept me busy—I'll spill the full details in my upcoming Sunday Post, so stay tuned for that.

For those who might not know, 'The Friday 56' is a bookish meme hosted by My Head is Full of Books, where we share snippets from our current or future reads to indulge our fellow book lovers. This week, I’m featuring the sprawling pages of Tom's Crossing by Mark Z. Danielewski—a hefty neo-western that tips the scale at around 1,229 pages.

Yep, it's a behemoth! I’m gearing up to tackle this literary mountain over the next few days, with an eye towards posting my review on November 29th for a special Gunsmoke & Grit feature. Wish me luck; I have a feeling I’m going to need it!