Review Policies

I would be happy to review your book. Please keep in mind the following:

These are the genres I prefer to review: 

  •   Young Adult
  • Romance
  • Chick-Lit
  • Historical Fiction
  • Dystopian
  • Diary
  • Fantasy
  • Science Fiction
  • Mystery
  • Contemporary

    I prefer paper copies of the book, over E-books.
    Also, please be aware that I hold the right to Just not review it.
    If I don’t like it, I won’t pretend I did. I am VERY HONEST in my reviews. My dislike is not towards the author, but towards the work.
    Please don’t send me hate mail if you don’t agree with my opinion.I post some of my reviews to Goodreads.


Rating Scale: 1%-100%


70-80% This was a good book, that everyone should read

50-60% – It was okay, but it was kinda hard to get into

30-40% -Um, probably never to be heard of again….hopefully.


DFR = Didn’t finish reading because well….sucked. Probably thrown at the wall….


Tell Me Three Things

14240717_298224920533175_342901086_n1Tell me three things is a novel about a girl named Jessie who moves to Los Angles, after her mother dies, and father marries a woman named Rachael. She starts a prep school,  called Wood Valley High School, which is far different from her regular school in Chicago. When she gets there, she receives a message from Somebody/Nobody (aka: SN) who offers to help her survive high school.
All throughout Jessie tries to figure out who S/N is, but with no success. She [Buxbaum] keeps you guessing, even when YOU think you know who S/N is! It’s a real talent to be able to give your reader all the information, and still make them second guess themselves.

Below is an excerpt from her story:

Seven hundred and thirty-three days after my mom died, forty-five days after my dad eloped with a stranger he met on the Internet, thirty days after we then up and moved to California, and only seven days after starting as a junior at a brand-new school where I know approximately no one, an email arrives. Which would be weird, an anonymous letter just popping up like that in my in-box, signed with the bizarre alias Somebody Nobody, no less, except my life has become so unrecognizable lately that nothing feels shocking anymore. It took until now—seven hundred and thirty-three whole days in which I’ve felt the opposite of normal—for me to discover this one important life lesson: turns out you can grow immune to weird.


To: Jessie A. Holmes (

From: Somebody Nobody (

Subject: your Wood Valley H.S. spirit guide

hey there, Ms. Holmes. we haven’t met irl, and I’m not sure we ever will. I mean, we probably will at some point—maybe I’ll ask you the time or something equally mundane and beneath both of us—but we’ll never actually get to know each other, at least not in any sort of real way that matters … which is why I figured I’d email you under the cloak of anonymity.

and yes, I realize I’m a sixteen-year-old guy who just used the words “cloak of anonymity.” and so there it is already: reason #1 why you’ll never get to know my real name. I could never live the shame of that pretentiousness down.

“cloak of anonymity”? seriously?

and yes, I also realize that most people would have just texted, but couldn’t figure out how to do that without telling you who I am.

I have been watching you at school. not in a creepy way. though I wonder if even using the word “creepy” by definition makes me creepy? anyhow, it’s just … you intrigue me. you must have noticed already that our school is a wasteland of mostly blond, vacant-eyed Barbies and Kens, and something about you—not just your newness, because sure, the rest of us have all been going to school together since the age of five—but something about the way you move and talk and actually don’t talk but watch all of us like we are part of some bizarre National Geographic documentary makes me think that you might be different from all the other idiots at school.

you make me want to know what goes on in that head of yours. I’ll be honest: I’m not usually interested in the contents of other people’s heads. my own is work enough.

the whole point of this email is to offer my expertise. sorry to be the bearer of bad news: navigating the wilds of Wood Valley High School ain’t easy. this place may look all warm and welcoming, with our yoga and meditation and reading corners and coffee cart (excuse me: Koffee Kart), but like every other high school in America (or maybe even worse), this place is a freaking war zone.

and so I hereby offer up myself as your virtual spirit guide. feel free to ask any question (except of course my identity), and I’ll do my best to answer: who to befriend (short list), who to stay away from (longer list), why you shouldn’t eat the veggie burgers from the cafeteria (long story that you don’t want to know involving jock jizz), how to get an A in Mrs. Stewart’s class, and why you should never sit near Ken Abernathy (flatulence issue). Oh, and be careful in gym. Mr. Shackleman makes all the pretty girls run extra laps so he can look at their asses.

That feels like enough information for now.

and fwiw, welcome to the jungle.

yours truly, Somebody Nobody

To: Somebody Nobody (

From: Jessie A. Holmes (

Subject: Elaborate hoax?

SN: Is this for real? Or is this some sort of initiation prank, à la a dumb rom-com? You’re going to coax me into sharing my deepest, darkest thoughts/fears, and then, BAM, when I least expect it, you’ll post them on Tumblr and I’ll be the laughingstock of WVHS? If so, you’re messing with the wrong girl. I have a black belt in karate. I can take care of myself.

If not a joke, thanks for your offer, but no thanks. I want to be an embedded journalist one day. Might as well get used to war zones now. And anyhow, I’m from Chicago. I think I can handle the Valley.

To: Jessie A. Holmes (

From: Somebody Nobody (

Subject: not a hoax, elaborate or otherwise

promise this isn’t a prank. and I don’t think I’ve ever even seen a rom-com. shocking, I know. hope this doesn’t reveal some great deficiency in my character.

you do know journalism is a dying field, right? maybe you should aspire to be a war blogger.

To: Somebody Nobody (

From: Jessie A. Holmes (

Subject: Specifically targeted spam?

Very funny. Wait, is there really sperm in the veggie burgers?

To: Jessie A. Holmes (

From: Somebody Nobody (

Subject: you, Jessie Holmes, have won $100,000,000 from a Nigerian prince.

not just sperm but sweaty lacrosse sperm.

I’d avoid the meat loaf too, just to be on the safe side. in fact, stay out of the cafeteria altogether. that sh*t will give you salmonella.

To: Somebody Nobody (

From: Jessie A. Holmes (

Subject: Will send my bank account details ASAP.

who are you?

To: Jessie A. Holmes (

From: Somebody Nobody (

Subject: and copy of birth certificate & driver’s license, please.

nope. not going to happen.

To: Somebody Nobody (

From: Jessie A. Holmes (

Subject: And, of course, you need my social security number too, right?

Fine. But tell me this at least: what’s up with the lack of capital letters? Your shift key broken?

To: Jessie A. Holmes (

From: Somebody Nobody (

Subject: and height and weight, please

terminally lazy.

To: Somebody Nobody (

From: Jessie A. Holmes (

Subject: NOW you’re getting personal.

Lazy and verbose. Interesting combo. And yet you do take the time to capitalize proper nouns?

To: Jessie A. Holmes (

From: Somebody Nobody (

Subject: and mother’s maiden name

I’m not a complete philistine.

To: Somebody Nobody (

From: Jessie A. Holmes (

Subject: Lazy, verbose, AND nosy

“Philistine” is a big word for a teenage guy.

To: Jessie A. Holmes (

From: Somebody Nobody (

Subject: lazy, verbose, nosy, and … handsome

that’s not the only thing that’s … whew. caught myself from making the obvious joke just in time. you totally set me up, and I almost blew it.

To: Somebody Nobody (

From: Jessie A. Holmes (

Subject: Lazy, verbose, nosy, handsome, and … modest

That’s what she said.

See, that’s the thing with email. I’d never say something like that in person. Crude. Suggestive. Like I am the kind of girl who could pull off that kind of joke. Who, face to face with an actual member of the male species, would know how to flirt, and flip my hair, and, if it came to it, know how to do much more than kiss. (For the record, I do know how to kiss. I’m not saying I’d ace an AP exam on the subject or, you know, win Olympic gold, but I’m pretty sure I’m not awful. I know this purely by way of comparison. Adam Kravitz. Ninth grade. Him: all slobber and angry, rhythmic tongue, like a zombie trying to eat my head. Me: all-too-willing participant, with three days of face chafing.)

Email is much like an ADD diagnosis. Guaranteed extra time on the test. In real life, I constantly rework conversations after the fact in my head, edit them until I’ve perfected my witty, lighthearted, effortless banter—all the stuff that seems to come naturally to other girls. A waste of time, of course, because by then I’m way too late. In the Venn diagram of my life, my imagined personality and my real personality have never converged. Over email and text, though, I am given those few additional beats I need to be the better, edited version of myself. To be that girl in the glorious intersection.

I should be more careful. I realize that now. That’s what she said. Really? Can’t decide if I sound like a frat boy or a slut; either way, I don’t sound like me. More importantly, I have no idea who I am writing to. Unlikely that SN truly is some do-gooder who feels sorry for the new girl. Or better yet, a secret admirer. Because of course that’s straight where my brain went, the result of a lifetime of devouring too many romantic comedies and reading too many improbable books. Why do you think I kissed Adam Kravitz? He was my neighbor back in Chicago. What better story is there than the girl who discovers that true love has been waiting right next door all along? Of course, my neighbor turned out to be a zombie with carbonated saliva, but no matter. Live and learn.

Surely SN is a cruel joke. He’s probably not even a he. Just a mean girl preying on the weak. Because let’s face it: I am weak. Possibly even pathetic. I lied. I don’t have a black belt in karate. I am not tough. Until last month, I thought I was. I really did. Life threw its punches, I got shat on, but I took it in the mouth, to mix my metaphors. Or not. Sometimes it felt just like getting shat on in the mouth. My only point of pride: no one saw me cry. And then I became the new girl at WVHS, in this weird area called the Valley, which is in Los Angeles but not in Los Angeles or something like that, because my dad married this rich lady who smells like fancy almonds, and juice costs twelve dollars here, and I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.

I am as lost and confused and alone as I have ever been. No, high school will never be a time I look back on fondly. My mom once told me that the world is divided into two kinds of people: the ones who love their high school years and the ones who spend the next decade recovering from them. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, she said.

But something did kill her, and I’m not stronger. So go figure; maybe there’s a third kind of person: the ones who never recover from high school at all.


Excerpt copyright © 2016 by Julie R. Buxbaum, Inc. Published by Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

A Trick of The Light

A Trick of the Light**SPOILERS**

A trick of the light is a short novel about a boy struggling with anorexia (or, as some may know it as: Manorexia) His mirror is warped to shape his thinking. He doesn’t think he can be an anorexic, because only girls are anorexics, or can have an eating disorder. He thinks he is fat, so he stops eating, and receives help from a girl, who is also an anorexic. She has a boyfriend named ‘Eddy’ and her best friend is “Anna”. What you find out later is that ‘Eddy’ isn’t a person, but a pet name for ‘Eating Disorder’ and “Anna” is “Anorexia”. With help from his real friend, and family, he gets on the road to recovery.

Here’s an except from Lois Metzger’s story, A Trick of The Light:

The first time I reach Mike Welles, he’s in a tunnel.  It’s hot, syrupy hot, July hot, the kind of heat where your breath going out feels the same as the air going in, or so I imagine.  I’ve been trying to talk to Mike but he can’t hear me or can’t listen—the distinction isn’t important.  How long has it been—weeks or months, days?  Time is a syrupy thing, too, not always so easy to pin down.

Mike is walking with his best friend, Tamio Weissberg, in the long tunnel beneath the expressway.  There’s pigeon crap pretty much everywhere, which has earned this place a nickname:  the stinky tunnel.  They just saw King Kong, the original 1933 version, at You Must Remember This, a neighborhood place that shows only the classics.  This is far from the first time Mike and Tamio have seen King Kong, which they hail as the masterpiece of something called stop-motion animation.  But it’s their first time seeing it in a movie theater and, needless to say, they were the only ones in the audience without gray hair.

They have to talk loudly because of the whooshing cars overhead, and their voices echo against the concrete walls.

Tamio:  “That’s the best death scene in movies.  Nobody dies like Kong.”

Mike:  “Every time I keep hoping that he won’t die.  It’s so stupid.”

I couldn’t agree more.  It’s a movie.  It will never change.  But other things can change.  I wish I could tell Mike that.

Mike:  “The expression in his face is so amazing—how’d they do that?  He’s just a little model of a gorilla, but he looks really, truly in love.  Love at first sight, poor guy.”

Tamio:  “On the big screen you really notice his fur moving around.  You can practically see fingerprints on him.”

Mike:  “Well.  You can’t help that.  When you handle the model—”

Tamio (shaking his head):  “Hair spray.  Then the fur won’t move as much.”

Mike is always impressed by Tamio’s knowledge of what seems like everything.  This summer they’re working at a baseball camp for all of July and half of August, along with a kid named Ralph Gaffney.  They’re counselors for the six- and seven-year-olds.  It also impresses Mike how much the little kids love Tamio, how they beg to help him with the equipment.  They’re actually disappointed when they can’t carry buckets of balls.  And when they skin their knees, like a little kid named Ezra did this afternoon, they don’t want to cry in front of Tamio.

Mike:  “You know, when Ezra got hurt, Ralph couldn’t care less—he just got mad because it was taking too long to wash the blood off and put on a Band-Aid.”

Tamio:  “Ralph’s an asshole.  Poor Ezra.  Did you tell him he shouldn’t have been trying to steal third?”

Mike:  “Not only that, but he was sliding.”

Apparently they’re not supposed to slide until they know how to do it right.

Tamio:  “Ezra’s a nice kid, but he thinks he’s in the majors.  When I pitch to him, he tries to tell me how to throw a slider.  Hey, watch out!”  He pushes Mike away from a ton of pigeon crap.

Mike:  “Thanks, you saved my life.”  He laughs.  But he doesn’t feel like it.  I can tell.  I know everything there is to know about Mike Welles.

Why Mike doesn’t feel like laughing:

Sometimes in June, Mike’s mom, Regina Welles, known as Gina, a professional organizer, started sleeping whenever she wasn’t helping people clean out their closets, and at night began taking baths that last so long, the water must be cold by the time she finally climbs out.  Around the same time, Mike’s dad, Douglas Welles, lawyer, started going to the gym.  He spends so much time there that Mike hardly sees him.

I don’t know why this bothers Mike.  He should relish the freedom all of it gives him.  But he can’t resist his natural urge to talk to Tamio.

Mike:  “Things have been kind of weird at home.”

Tamio:  “Yeah?  How so?”


Mike stops walking.

Tamio:  “What’s the matter?”

Mike stares ahead blankly.

Tamio:  “Are you all right?”

Mike is thinking about how he just heard a voice in his head.  A whisper of a voice, but definitely a voice.

Tamio:  “What do you mean, things are weird at home?”

Don’t talk about it.

Mike still can’t move, stuck in the stinky tunnel.  He thinks, Am I crazy?

Tamio:  “Hey, what’s going on?”

Mike:  [nothing]

Tamio:  “Dude.  Say something.”

Mike:  “It’s nothing.”

Mike knows something’s wrong but doesn’t know where to turn.  He thinks things are bad and can only get worse.  He has no idea what achievements are within his reach, what rewards await him, how much better his life is going to be.

Infinitely better.