Grace, Grit & Sarcasm

I have always loved to read. And when I say loved, I mean I absolutely devoured books as a child, teenager, and young adult. Books were my escape, my entertainment, and occasionally my excuse for ignoring everyone around me.

Honestly, not much has changed.

I still love to read, and now that I’ve discovered Kindle, I go through about three books a week. Before anyone gets too impressed, I should admit that I resisted getting a Kindle for a ridiculously long time. I was one of those people.

“But it’s not the same as holding a real book.”

“I like turning the pages.”

“I like the smell of books.”

Apparently, I believed using a Kindle meant betraying literature itself.

Then I started traveling more for work and discovered that carrying one small device is significantly easier than packing four books because God forbid I finish one and have nothing else to read.

So, yes. Kindle won.

I still love physical books, but Kindle and I have reached an understanding.

What has become slightly more concerning is my current obsession with psychological thrillers.

Not romance.

Not inspirational stories.

Not cozy little mysteries where someone gets murdered near a bakery but everything still somehow feels charming.

No.

I want manipulation. Secrets. Sociopaths. Unreliable narrators. Husbands who definitely aren’t who they say they are. Wives with suspicious basements. Neighbors peeking through blinds. Missing people. Hidden rooms. And preferably at least one character who seems perfectly normal until Chapter 47 when I discover they have been completely unhinged the entire time.

I’m not sure what this says about me.

Maybe it’s my unapologetic era.

Maybe it’s menopausal rage.

Or maybe I’ve simply been alive long enough that fictional psychopaths no longer seem nearly as frightening as they probably should.

My current favorite author is Freida McFadden. I absolutely love the way her twisted little mind works. Just when I think I know exactly where the story is going, she basically pats me on the head and says, “That’s adorable.”

Then the last few chapters happen and I’m sitting there thinking, “WHAT THE HELL DID I JUST READ?”

That is exactly what I want from a thriller.

Thank goodness that woman writes at approximately the speed I read because I’ve read all of her books and now anxiously wait for each new one like a completely normal person who definitely does not have a psychological-thriller dependency.

Her books are also where I draw the line with my Kindle conversion. I still buy them in physical form because there is something about the weight of an actual book in my hands that I love. And there is definitely something satisfying about seeing all those neat rows of books on my shelves.

Do I need to own books I’ve already read?

No.

Will I continue buying them?

Obviously.

I’ve also developed a fondness for Nicole Trope, although she and I had a bit of a rocky start.

She’s Australian, and her stories take place in Australia. You would think my brain could handle this relatively simple concept.

It could not.

Someone would mention Christmas and summer in the same sentence, and my Midwestern brain would immediately slam on the brakes.

Christmas?

Summer?

Excuse me?

Where is the snow? Why isn’t anyone freezing? Why are we discussing December like it’s a reasonable time to go outside voluntarily?

Then I started noticing words spelled in Australian English instead of American English, and my ADHD decided this required a full investigation.

I would literally stop reading.

“Flavour?”

Flavour.

I know exactly what the word means. There was absolutely no reason for this to derail me.

And yet, there I was.

Eventually, I adjusted. Perhaps a little too well, because I recently caught myself writing flavour instead of flavor.

So apparently Nicole Trope has successfully begun my Australian assimilation.

At this rate, I’ll be celebrating Christmas at the beach and calling everyone “mate” by next summer. (or winter)

What I really love about psychological thrillers is the mind game. I want an author to make me believe one thing for 300 pages and then completely pull the rug out from under me. I want to finish the last chapter, close the book, and stare suspiciously into space while reconsidering everything I thought I knew.

And please—PLEASE—do not let me figure out the twist halfway through.

If I figure out who did it on page 137 and then have to spend another 200 pages waiting for everyone else to catch up, I get irrationally annoyed.

I don’t want to feel smarter than the author.

I want the author to make me feel like an idiot.

Apparently, these are my standards now.

I still enjoy Stephen King and other horror writers, but right now I’m less interested in monsters hiding under the bed and much more interested in the perfectly pleasant woman next door who has three husbands buried under her hydrangeas.

You know.

Relaxing bedtime reading. Romance with a twist of deception and a dash of food poisoning.

So, fellow readers, I need recommendations.

Who are your favorite psychological thriller authors? Give me the books with endings that made you gasp, swear out loud, reread the last three pages with your mouth open, or immediately text someone, “YOU HAVE TO READ THIS.”

The more twisted, the better.

Because apparently this is who I am now.

Some women enter their unapologetic era and take up yoga.

I read about murder.