Fiction

Review, Apr-Jun '26

Wed, 01 Jul 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Another quarter down without making much progress in my life, but at least I’m reading and writing.

Books

In April, May, and June I read 10 books.

The Edible Woman, by Margaret Atwood

“So I’m finally going mad,” she thought, “like everybody else. What a nuisance. Though I suppose it will be a change.”
— The Edible Woman, pp. 134

The Edible Woman is fast-paced, witty, and weird.

“I thought you were the capable type.”
“I am,” she said unhappily. “I was. I don’t know.” She didn’t want to discuss it.
“Some would say of course that it’s all in your mind.”
“I know that,” she said, impatient: she wasn’t a total idiot yet. “But how do I get it out?”
“It ought to be obvious,” Duncan’s voice said, “that I’m the last person to ask.”
— The Edible Woman, pp. 289-290

Margaret Atwood is cemented as my favorite author of all time. She can effortlessly throw down one of the best surrealist satires of all time, a 500 page meticulous historical mystery, or a sci-fi epic.

— 5/5 —

Lady Oracle, by Margaret Atwood

What was the use of being Princess-for-a-day if you still felt like a toad?
— Lady Oracle, pp. 238

Another Atwood book about a sad sack contemplating her sad life, full of miserable, pathetic, quirky characters. I absolutely loved it. It’s not as virtuosic as the The Blind Assassin, and not as funny as The Edible Woman, but it’s close on both fronts.

— 5/5 —

Bodily Harm, by Margaret Atwood

The first thing he said to me was You look like your mother. And that was the end of him.
— Bodily Harm, pp. 102

Bodily Harm is funny, depressing, relatable, and surprisingly disturbing. While still mopey, Rennie has a bit more fire to her than Iris, Marian, and Joan, which was a nice change of pace.

She doesn’t have much time left, for anything. But neither does anyone else. She’s paying attention, that’s all.
— Bodily Harm, pp. 291

The ending was just as perfect as I’ve come to expect. One more masterpiece for the pile.

— 4/5 —

Surfacing, by Margaret Atwood

At the midway pond the heron was still there, hanging in the hot sunlight like something in a butcher’s window, desecrated, unredeemed. It smelled worse. Around its head the flies vibrated, laying their eggs. The king who learned to speak with animals, in the story he ate a magic leaf and they revealed a treasure, a conspiracy, they saved his life; what would they really say? Accusation, lament, an outcry of rage; but they had no spokesman.
I felt a sickening complicity, sticky as glue, blood on my hands, as though I had been there and watched without saying No or doing anything to stop it; one of the silent guarded faces in the crowd. The trouble some people have with being German, I thought, I have being human. In a way it was stupid to be more disturbed by a dead bird than by the those other things, the wars and riots and the massacres in the newspapers. But for the wars and riots there was always an explanation, people wrote books about them saying why they happened: the death of the heron was causeless, undiluted.
— Surfacing, pp. 150

Many people hate this book, for some reason—it’s one of her lowest rated novels—but it might be the best thing that she’s ever written. Surreal, dense, elliptical, brilliant.

— 5/5 —

Thorn in My Side, by C. J. Skuse

Even multiple murderers like day trips.

Somehow, Skuse’s series is still going strong; I might not even call this one a guilty pleasure! Sweetpea #4 is by far the most consistent entry since book #1, and features some of the best side characters of the series. I’m not a major fan of Raphael, but the rest of his family—and their reactions to the crazy nightmare that is Rhiannon—were a fantastic change of pace.

— 3/5 —

Rain, Wind, Thunder, Fire, Daughter, by Hannah Dierdorff

“i” isn’t quite sure if this is a poem but “i” has worried too much about the edges between binaries (heaven / hell) (human / nature) (prose / poetry) to now worry about belonging to a single category
— The Lyric “I” Goes Shopping at Trader Joe’s, from Rain, Wind, Thunder, Fire, Daughter, pp. 71

I’ve never read a book of poetry before this one, mostly, it seems, due to misunderstanding what a book of poetry is. In film there is no hard distinction between an art film relying mainly on visual language, a handheld indie relying more on performances, a big budget blockbuster, or anything in between; they are all just called movies. Therefore anyone interested in movies (see me) will get recommendations for works from Superman (2025), to Frances Ha (2012), to Daisies (1966), and watch all three in a cinema (or, most likely, in a web browser) without a second thought. Yet in writing, poetry is somehow separate, at least in the eyes of the layperson. (Again, see me, but I don’t think this distinction is only in the eyes of a consumer, for even MFA programs tend to separate poetry from, uh, the rest? Prose? Regular writing?)

It seems to me that this distinction does a lot of harm to the potential popularity of poetry. Prior to this I’d thought, Why would I want to read a book of poetry? But there is no hard line separating poetry and prose, just as there is no hard line between art film and blockbuster. Earlier this year I read two books by Alan Warner: These Demented Lands and The Sopranos. While I loved their narrative and dialogue, what I found most interesting and inspirational was their strange (to me) use of language and formatting. The Sopranos opened with a couple jokes without punchlines, instead their humor was explained by small illustrations or figures elsewhere on the page. Each also used strange punctuation, phonetic language (beyond what I’ve seen in other Scots writing), and would switch form between narration, written letter, scrap of historical document, even film script in one instance. Deciphering the meaning behind each of these choices and omissions was a fantastic experience, one I did not immediately connect to poetry, which sat in my mind to refer only to writing structured in verse.

In fact, Warner’s work inspired me so much that I began writing my own material; mostly short, somewhere between memoir and fiction. I found it difficult to categorize the work I liked to read and write in the language of modern reading communities, e.g. “BookTube,” beyond dumping it under the umbrellas of Literary Fiction and Creative Nonfiction. From there, I began reading literary journals, which, thankfully, often do not make such a hard and fast distinction between poetry and prose, memoir and fiction.

I’ve read more poetry this year than I have my entire life, and, eventually, I read the issue of Permafrost that contained As the West Coast Burns, by Hannah Dierdorff. The piece was compelling and personal; it reminded me of Surfacing, by Margaret Atwood, with its mix of anger, pain, sadness over environmental destruction and family history. After learning it was an excerpt from her book, this book I’m supposedly reviewing, I promptly ordered it and, four days later, here we are. I sat down to read the first few poems, to see how they compared, if they compared, to what I loved about the excerpt. Two hours later I had read every word on each of its 111 pages. I really loved this book; I loved the feelings it gave me, the sense of having spent time within another person’s mind; not having them explain their thoughts, but experiencing them.

I will read anything else H. G. Dierdorff writes, and I will read more poetry going forward. It seems to me that literary journals should be the film festivals of writing. Writers submitting excerpts to be discovered, to entice an audience, critics curating. On YouTube and Letterboxd I can follow hundreds of fantastic film critics, who travel to festivals around the world to find new works, new creative voices, and share them with their audiences. It saddens me that there is apparently no modern literary equivalent, but at least now I will have my journals.

— 4/5 —

Life Before Man, by Margaret Atwood

She couldn’t explain why her discovery that rocks were different from each other and had special names was so important. The names were a language; not many other people might know it, but if you found one who did, you would be able to talk together. Only about rocks, but that would be something.
— Life Before Man, pp. 97

Life Before Man is the first Atwood book that tested my patience. The characters were mostly excellent as usual, but the narrative progressed at such a snail’s pace due to following three character perspectives in such detail.

This is the problem. She knows by now that people do not behave the way she wishes them to. So what should she do, change wishes?
— Life Before Man, pp. 298

Similar to my feelings about Trainspotting, there were individual chapters that were absolutely brilliant (Lesje at the dinner party, Chris and Nate playing chess), but I found large sections to be a slog. I think the novel could have been 100 pages shorter and got the same ideas across.

China does not exist. Nevertheless she longs to be there.
— Life Before Man, pp. 351

Another knock out ending, though. Atwood doesn’t miss.

— 3/5 —

The Bad Seeds, by C. J. Skuse

The Sweetpea finale is unbelievably strange. Not only does it take a few characters in nonsensical directions, but it seems to argue that Rhiannon’s behavior over the course of the series was justified. It almost makes me recontextualize the story as cringe fan-fiction, rather than satire. I’m not sure how I feel about you C. J. Skuse. Hopefully the show won’t follow a similar track.

— 2/5 —

The Handmaid’s Tale, by Margaret Atwood

But why show it to me? I said, and then felt stupid. What could he possibly say? That he was amusing himself, at my expense? For he must have known how painful it was to me, to be reminded of a former time.
I wasn’t prepared for what he actually did say. Who else could I show it to? he said, and there it was again, that sadness.
— The Handmaid’s Tale, pp. 145

The Handmaid’s Tale is a good book, but it baffles me that it is her most popular. Is it just that it’s speculative fiction? Is it that it presents her ideas more bluntly than usual? In my eyes it is just another Atwood book (fantastic), but with much less interesting characters (disappointing). I also find the epilogue bleak, mean, and cynical, even for her.

— 3/5 —

The Testaments, by Margaret Atwwod

The truth was not noble. It was horrible.

The Testaments is a bizarre sequel. It is an entirely different tone, and almost an entirely different genre. It seems all these years talking to young girls about The Handmaid’s Tale, combined with the current state of the world, compelled her to write a hopeful young adult novel in the same world. I’m all for YA novels, and it’s fun to see Atwood take a stab at such different characters, but it’s hard to ignore how incongruous this story is with the 1985 original.

— 3/5 —

Poems and Short Stories

I continue reading short works in hope of learning how to write. Once again a # means I loved it, and I’ve introduced the shebang (#!) for the special case something was so 5/5 good I’d universally recommend it.

Permafrost

Elevation, by Alfredo Lafarga
Lick the Knife, by Desmond Everest Fuller #
Maybe a Deer, by Michael Czyzniejewski #
Disafiliation, by Donald Pasmore
Amber, by Erin Rodoni
Old Couple, by Tara Mandarano #
Salt & Ice, by Glo Chitwood
Kith, by Anne Duncan #
Veneration, by Shannon Bowring
[Voicemails in Slow Dissociation], by Judy Xie #
As the West Coast Burns, by Hannah Dierdorf #!

Litro

Illinois, by Desmond Everest Fuller #
Chances Are, by John Brantingham #

Other

Statement on Violence, by Samuel Day Wharton
The Road Out of Juneau, by Caitlin Scarano #
Twenty-Three, by Tobi Brun
Painted Eyes, by Tobi Brun

Music

A bunch of great stuff came out at the end of the quarter!

Nowhere, CA / May December (2026), songs by Hana Bryanne

Hana Bryanne’s Dollface was my obsession during the holiday months of 2024-2025, I must have listened to it 20 or 30 times while on vacation in Mexico. Her new songs are just as excellent; hopefully they indicate a new album in the works!

The Killjoy (2023), by Sarah Gross

I’m not usually one for country, but Sarah’s music is a lovely, modern, catchy mix of country with indie folk/pop/rock and progressive lyricism. I can’t wait for her new album in July, the two singles are bangers!

Chrysalis (2026), by Caronline Culver

to stay is to say

that I want it forever

we make and we break

we don’t know any better

Slush Puppy (2026), song by Tommy Lefroy

I had a feeling I’d go down in flames

just trying to be a girl in a surveilance state

dreaming for a future, waking up too late

sucking it down, don’t it taste so cold

sucking it down, but it’s chemical

I’ve had Slush Puppy on repeat all day as I finish writing up this quarter review. Tommy Lefroy is my favorite new band of the 2020s. They haven’t released much, but what they have is incredible. Born Blue was the best album of 2024.

YouTube

I’ve added a section for YouTube because I found some brilliant channels and I’ve nowhere else to shout them out.

Alison (@alisontalksbooks)

Alison is a refreshingly earnest, open, and authentic video essayist. She writes a substack that is equally worthwhile.

Marisa (@largeicedmochalatte)

It took me a litte while to understand the true brilliance of what Marisa is doing with her fast-paced, self-deprecating, over-sharing videos, that she purportedly writes on the subway after work, and films from her one-bedroom New York City appartment, but she is one of the most authentically hilarious people I’ve ever had the pleasure of listening to.

I think a lot of, you know, the reasons not to kill yourself kind of go out the window when you, when you really are an athiest. I don’t think you should do it, and this is an anti-suicide channel, uhm, because suicide is a lot of work, and why are you doing all that. If I ever die just know I, I am probably happy about it, but I didn’t do that shit myself. That was an act of god… So to speak.
— my thoughts on athiesm, 12:21-12:46

Her channel is a relatable, old-YouTube, sad-werid-person-talks-to-camera vlog, but written, performed, and editied by one of the most talented comedians on the platform. I’ve had to stop listening to the videos in public because I was embarassing myself laughing.

The Action Adventure Twins (@ActionAdventureTwins)

I’ve been obsessed with caves and spelunking ever since I first watched The Descent (2005). These guys may be a bit reckless, but they have the highest quality filming, editing, and energy of any caving channel on YouTube. Every single video is a gripping adventure, as advertised.

Review, Jan-Mar '26

Thu, 09 Apr 2026 00:00:00 +0000

My aim at the start of this year was to read more novels and short fiction, rather than watch the disgusting amount of films I did last year. Three months in, I’ve been somewhat successful.

Books

In January, February, and March, I read 10 books out of the 12 that I’d hoped for.

The Shining, by Stephen King

I’m a big fan of The Shining film by Stanley Kubrick, but I’d always heard that it is very different from the original book. Most of the other media I’ve seen that is based on King’s stories has disappointed me, so I went into The Shining novel with some trepidation.

I needn’t have feared: the book is great. It is quite verbose—the majority of situations are shown separately from the three main characters’ perspectives—but never felt repetitive. The prose is simple, yet still interesting: a breeze to read; I flew through the 600+ pages of my mass market paperback in under six days.

In the novel, Jack’s point of view provides a warped and repressed picture of his past actions and his present motivations. He comes off as a much more sympathetic character than Jack does in the film—until he doesn’t.

Interestingly, while both are scary, the things I found most frightening in book are explicitly supernatural, and left out of the film. Even so, I personally think that Kubrick crafted a great adaptation: it takes liberties, but gave me a similar feeling of dread and decline. I’ll definitely check out more Stephen King, probably starting with the source material for my other favorite movie adaptations: Carrie (1976) and Christine (1983).

— 4/5 —

The next thing I read was These Demented Lands, a sequel to the novel Morvern Callar, which I read last year.

Morvern Callar, by Alan Warner (Read in 2025)

Morvern Callar, directed by Lynne Ramsay, is my unequivocal favorite film of all time. The movie released in 2002, while the novel on which it’s based was written by Alan Warner, and published in 1995. Online you’ll find numerous posts that dismiss the novel as inferior to its adaptation—so it was to my great surprise that I fell in love with the book as well!

It was the first time I’d slept alone in four year and you only listen to your heart when you sleep alone. I had kept my wrist watch on cause there was no one to scratch.
— Morvern Callar, pp. 37

I’ve re-read large sections of it several times, and the paperback stands alongside the blu ray among my most prized possessions. Regardless of medium, Morvern Callar is a story about grief and anxiety, loneliness and alienation, survival and independence. Morvern is one-of-a-kind; the most original and compelling fictional character I’ve ever encountered.

— 5/5 —

These Demented Lands, by Alan Warner

‘Man, you are zilch, you are zilch in weirdyness to things I did and saw way Down There,’ I shouted to him as he approached, the stag’s horns on his motorcycle helmet (that he was later arrested for as an accident hazard) moving slow from side to side as he braked to a stop; the old motorbike phuttering away.
— These Demented Lands, pp. 44

These Demented Lands is a bizarre creation. It’s a sequel that—beyond the narrative voice—never lets on that it is a sequel until the final line; it never even lets on if what’s written is meant to be taken literally. After only one read, I’m not capable of deciphering what it’s all exactly about, but I know that I had a blast. It is a sort of surrealist mix of Morvern Callar with Mad Max; more funny and more disturbing than Morvern’s first adventure, but not quite as profound.

— 4/5 —

The Sopranos, by Alan Warner

I went into The Sopranos not knowing what to expect. Why was Alan Warner writing about “the sexual adventures of Catholic girls,” as the quote from E. Anne Proulx on the back of my copy states? What could possibly have influenced such an about face from his first two works?

The first chapter had me chuckling, though, and I immediately realized my mistake: of course he should write a comedy, These Demented Lands was hilarious! When I reached the chapter titled Hymn to Orla Johnstone, I found he had not deviated at all—I was reading a continuation of the ideas in Morvern, just tackled from new perspectives.

But what Fionnula felt was anger, not anger at Iain or Catriona, not anger at Kay’s folk, not even anger at their absurd religion, but anger at the sky and the roundabout and the whole charade that puts a young, lovely girl, lost in a city; unknown as to what she really wants an too lonely to imagine.
— The Sopranos, pp. 236

The Sopranos is the incredibly written, hilarious, crushingly sad, and wonderfully hopeful story of a life-changing 24 hour period in the lives of six young women. The review I quoted above is unforgivably misleading: there is little on page sexual activity, and what there is, is not lurid. It’s not sexualizing Catholic schoolgirls, the characters are just 17 year olds; their conversations will, of course, veer into risqué territory.

Fionnula accepted what Orla had told her by reaching out, taking the fiver in her hand and gripping it tight, she accepted everything that was going to happen until the end.
— The Sopranos, pp. 323

The final chapter is one of the most emotional endings that I have ever read. Never have I laughed and cried so much while reading one book.

— 5/5 —

Under the Skin, by Michel Faber

Another week and another Scottish novel that served as source material for a film that I love. I won’t rag on this too much, but suffice it to say that the film is almost entirely different—and is much better for it. The characters were plain, the ideas surface level, and the world building made little sense beyond providing a contrived premise for the specific moral quandaries the author had in mind.

— 2/5 —

The Blind Assassin, by Margaret Atwood

But in life, a tragedy is not one long scream. It includes everything that led up to it. Hour after trivial hour, day after day, year after year, and then the sudden moment: the knife stab, the shell burst, the plummet of the car from the bridge.
— The Blind Assassin, pp. 417-418

One of the most impressive novels that I have ever read. It’s a page-turning mystery, a devastating tragedy, a complex romance, and a meticulous piece of feminist historical fiction, all woven into a whole that is even greater. Alias Grace has long been my go-to answer for, “What is my favorite book?” And The Blind Assassin is its equal.

— 5/5 —

In Bloom, by C. J. Skuse

The Sweetpea series is a guilty pleasure of mine. At its best, the writing is incredibly clever and funny. At its worst, the story devolves into trashy smut and the author’s repetitive musings on things that she finds annoying.

Previous to this year, I’d already seen the show and read the first book, but I won’t dedicate a full review to those. The Starz show is better than the novels in many ways—it mostly avoids self indulgence and shows how awkward and disturbing Rhiannon is when observed from outside her perspective—and worse in others—it chickens out of a certain plot line in a way that strains believability.

In Bloom is the second book of the series and it is probably the weakest of the three that I’ve read. Still, it was pretty darn entertaining and the ending was so great that I bumped my opinion into the positive.

— 3/5 —

The Stars in the Bright Sky, by Alan Warner

‘Anne Boleyn lived here for a short time, it said on the Internet.’
‘What happened to her?’ Manda frowned.
Kay drew her finger across her throat.
‘Dozy cow. Must have been asking for it. If she had this place, what more did she want?’
‘I can’t believe you even have a bad opinion of Anne Boleyn.’ Finn shook her head disappointedly.
— The Stars in the Bright Sky, pp. 172

TSitBS is an excellent sequel to The Sopranos, though I did not find it nearly as emotional. It’s also less creative in its language and punctuation, but still experimental in its commitment to ensemble conversations. The dialogue and character work is amazing, as expected, and it’s the funniest Warner book I’ve read so far. The ending is ridiculous—I couldn’t have worked it out even if I had 100 guesses.

— 4/5 —

Trainspotting, by Irvine Welsh

After devouring four Alan Warner novels, I decided to check out other Scots writing. What could be a better choice to start with than Irvine Welsh’s Trainspotting? It’s one of the most popular Scottish books of all time, and Welsh and Warner seem to be good friends.

Trainspotting is one of the most disgusting pieces of fiction that I’ve ever read, and I say that (mostly) as a compliment. Individual chapters would frequently blow me away, but they never wove together in a particularly moving manner—unlike the set pieces in The Sopranos, which crescendo-ed to have me rolling with laughter or bawling my eyes out. Nevertheless, it features excellent prose and complex, entertaining characters, so I will definitely read more from Welsh in the future.

— 4/5 —

The Panopticon, by Jenni Fagan

The Panopticon is YA Trainspotting, for better and for worse. I loved each of the residents, and I was invested in their plights—I was on their side right from the jump, and I loved them—flaws and all. But the author cared far too much that us readers MUST love her characters, and eventually their goodness was spelled out to the point of emotional manipulation. As Scots writing, it felt inspired by Warner and Welsh, but it lacked their experimental brilliance.

— 3/5 —

Dead Head, by C. J. Skuse

The change of setting was welcome in Sweetpea book three, and the new characters were mostly excellent. However, it would periodically insert some bland new sexual predator or child abuser for Rhi to murder, and the author is clearly not interested in writing these scenarios anymore—I’m certainly no longer interested in reading them. Like the first two in the series, there is a fantastic dark comedy in this novel somewhere, but it’s cluttered by commercial trappings.

— 3/5 —

Poems and Short Stories

As I’ve been attempting to write my own short fiction, I decided to read some literary journals. Below are all the short fiction and nonfiction pieces that I’ve read this year. I don’t really know how to rate them, so I’ll just put # after any that I particularly enjoyed.

HAD

The Maw by the Sea, by Morgan Rose-Marie
The way I remember things probably didn’t happen, by Katherine Schmidt
The Ape God Addresses Mononoke, by Steven Duong
Summer Boyfriends, by Emily Polson #
Things I Should Have Outgrown by Now, by Megan Williams
I’m Leaving a Quart of Plain Yogurt and If You Don’t Want to Eat It Do You Mind Throwing It Out?, by Anney Bolgiano
Aries Season, by Frances Klein
Time Capsule Love Song, by Tom Snarsky
IF YOU WANNA FIGHT, FIGHT, by nat raum
Eat Local, by Julia Juster
One-Way Mirror, by Dylan Evers #
Are You Down to Summon Megan Fox, by Dylan Evers #
Ode to the Texture of Grapefruit, by Kyla Guimaraes
Cupid Frontiersman, by June Villers

Permafrost

Other People’s Email, by Andy Stevens
Slow Burn, by Daniel Webre
Hills & Dales Shopping Centre, by Eric Van Hoose
Reality, by Laurence Klavan
How to not drive cross country, by Carmen Catena
Sorrow’s Delicacy, by Matthew Meduri
Waiting for the End, by Angela Miyuki Mackintosh
The Log, by Keigh Ahr
À la Carte Blanche, by Zach Powers
The Trees They Grow So High, by Jacqueline Vogtman #
In the House of Eternal Return, by Michael Sheehan
Settle Road, by Morgan Rose-Marie
Spectral, by Rebecca Meacham
incantation, by Bex Pachl
Looking at the Meat, by Angela Townsend
Chalk Boy, by Charlie Rogers
Woofin’, by Alex Juffer
To the Man Who Didn’t Humiliate Me, by Brian Benson
She Wants to Swim with Narwhals, by Billie Hinton
East Palestine, Ohio: February 2023, by Ashley Anderson

Music

Lots of great albums this winter. Not quite last year with Samia, but we’re still eating well.

Not Anything, Just Everything (2026), by Kristiane

My first impression of Kristiane was that she was a budget Phoebe Bridgers. Nowadays I listen to far more Kristiane than Bridgers. Idaho is so damn catchy.

Tropical Lush Ice / 10 Drunk Cigarettes (2026), by Georgia Maq

Georgia Maq is my favorite artist, this new single and bangin’ cover are just as excellent as everything else she’s released. My most listened songs from the year so far, no contest.

Pumpkin (2026), by Georgia Parker

One of my most anticipated releases, and it did not disappoint. It’s one of those albums I think of as one piece, rather than dilineated songs. I just listened again to try and pick a favorite, but they all blend perfectly, I can’t do it.

Ricochet (2026), by Snail Mail

Snail Mail has been one of my favorite artists ever since I discovered her through one of ManneredMonkey’s chess streams; he’s also how I was introduced to Laura Stevenson, truly a man of fine taste (I haven’t watched him in years, so I can’t vouch for him now). Five years and one vocal cord surgery later, we finally have new Lindsey music! I listened to the whole thing several times over the night it came out, rocking out the whole time. Her voice is different now, softer and less raspy, but the album still slaps. Color me surprised when I went on Reddit and other social media to find middling to negative reviews.

no matter what

or come what may

I bounce right back to ya

ricochet

into the hole

you dug for me

’cause I keep holding you up, girl

there’s no release

People are sleeping on this one, the title track alone might be the best song of her career.

Workhorse (2025), by Isabel Pless

you’re allowed to bleed outside the lines

Isabel, you’re allowed to change your mind

Workhorse came out last year, but only found its way to me in 2026. Isabel is now one of my favorite artists. Brilliant, honest lyrics, and exactly my style of music. She recently released a new single as well!

for myself and for you.m4a (2026), by Olivia Barton

A stripped down, acoustic version of Barton’s excellent album from last year. I suprisingly much prefer this version, I doubt I’ll ever reach for the original again. Truly a special, personal piece of art.