Long Review
In Killer Art, CL Thomas returns to the damaged world of private investigator Bruce Westman and the people orbiting his violent orbit, and immediately drops the reader back into a life frayed by trauma, addiction, and unfinished business. Bruce wakes up hungover in his beat-up Ford, still haunted by Iraq and the events of a prior case; teenager Matthew Shovinski is trying to live with the fact that he once pulled a trigger to save his sister; and Detective Jeffrey Westman, Bruce’s brother, is grinding through the uglier side of domestic violence cases. Into this already dark mix comes a new threat: a meticulous killer whose relationship with violence is framed as “art,” and whose history of escalating cruelty is revealed in deeply unsettling detail.

The book operates as a character-driven crime thriller layered over a procedural investigation. The narrative moves between Bruce, Matthew, Jeffrey, FBI Agent Shelby, and the killer himself, giving a multifaceted view of both the investigation and the emotional fallout surrounding it. The sections with Bruce are particularly strong: his war trauma, alcoholism, and awkward steps toward connection (including a tentative, reluctant romantic possibility with another man) create a flawed but compelling center of gravity. Matthew’s therapy sessions with Father Murphy and his basketball games behind the church add warmth and humanity, even as the nightmares of his first killing refuse to let him go. The law enforcement sequences—Jeffrey at his desk, the bullpen politics, the FBI consultation—ground the story in a familiar procedural rhythm that crime readers will recognize immediately.

Thematically, Killer Art is preoccupied with what violence does to people—victims, perpetrators, and the ones caught in between. The early section that shows the killer’s childhood cruelty to animals is intentionally hard to stomach, yet it clearly establishes a pattern of dehumanization and control that later plays out in his murders. Scenes involving sex work, drug dependency, and domestic abuse strip away sentimentality; this is a world where life is cheap and bodies are often treated as objects. Against that backdrop, the book searches for small redemptive threads: a priest who actually listens, a neighbor who still cares enough to knock on a car window, a brother who keeps calling even when he’s being cursed at. Those threads keep the narrative from descending into pure nihilism.

Stylistically, Thomas favors clear, direct prose with an emphasis on sensory detail—smells, textures, bodily discomfort, and the grime of everyday life. The violence, when it appears, is often graphic and described in vivid, concrete language rather than being implied off-page. Dialogue leans into rough banter and profanity, which suits the characters and setting but may be abrasive to some readers. Structurally, the book unfolds in a mostly linear fashion, cutting between point-of-view characters to build suspense and widen the scope of the mystery. This multi-POV approach allows for strong momentum once the investigation in the Bronx gets moving and the killer’s pattern becomes clearer.

The book’s greatest strengths lie in its character work and emotional texture. Bruce’s mix of competence and self-destruction feels authentic; Matthew’s guilt and fear ring true for a teenager who did something both heroic and horrifying; and side characters, from Father Murphy to Agent Shelby, are given enough nuance to avoid feeling like stock types. Readers who enjoy dark, psychologically grounded crime fiction will likely find themselves fully engaged.

However, the same elements that will draw some readers in will push others away. The graphic animal cruelty in the killer’s origin sequence and the later depictions of domestic and sexual violence are intense and may be too much for more sensitive readers. The book is unapologetically grim, and its focus on trauma, addiction, and exploitation provides little in the way of light relief outside a few pockets of banter and small acts of kindness. The pacing can also feel heavy early on, as time is spent immersing the reader in backstory and internal turmoil before the central investigation fully locks into place.

Taken as a whole, Killer Art is a dark, emotionally charged crime thriller that prioritizes psychological depth and the cost of violence over puzzle-box plotting. It is not a gentle read, but it is a committed one: readers who appreciate unflinching depictions of trauma, morally complicated protagonists, and a serial killer narrative that delves into how someone learns to see life as “art” to be destroyed will find this a strong, memorable entry in the genre. Those looking for a lighter mystery or who prefer violence to remain mostly off-page should approach with caution.

Short Review
Killer Art follows damaged PI Bruce Westman, traumatized teen Matthew Shovinski, and a weary circle of cops and clergy as they confront a new serial killer whose escalating violence is framed as “art.” The story weaves together Bruce’s alcoholism and PTSD, Matthew’s lingering guilt over a past shooting, and an investigation that reaches from Connecticut to the Bronx, where vulnerable women are targeted with clinical precision.

CL Thomas leans into graphic, sensory detail and multi-POV structure, creating a gritty crime thriller that feels lived-in and emotionally heavy. The character work is the standout: Bruce’s fractured attempts at connection, Matthew’s therapy sessions and nightmares, and the killer’s chilling origin all carry a strong psychological charge. At the same time, the content is intense—animal cruelty, domestic abuse, sexual exploitation, and addiction are depicted in unflinching terms.

This is a book for readers who want their crime fiction dark, raw, and character-driven rather than cozy or puzzle-focused. Fans of serial killer procedurals with a strong psychological bent will find plenty to engage with here, while more sensitive or squeamish readers may prefer to steer clear.

One-Sentence Review
A grim, psychologically charged crime thriller, Killer Art blends damaged-but-compelling characters, graphic violence, and a methodical investigation into a serial killer who treats murder as “art,” delivering a dark, emotionally resonant read.

Book Rating
📘📘📘📘 – Strongly Recommended: A dark, character-driven crime thriller with vivid prose and emotionally complex leads that will satisfy readers of gritty serial-killer fiction, though its graphic violence and heavy themes limit its appeal to more resilient audiences.

Pull Quotes (1–2)

1. “A grim, psychologically charged crime thriller that treats violence not as spectacle but as a corrosive force scarring everyone it touches.”
2. “Bruce Westman and Matthew Shovinski anchor the story with raw, haunted humanity, turning Killer Art into more than a simple serial killer hunt.”

Content Notes

• Language: Frequent strong profanity, including repeated use of the f-word; occasional slurs and degrading language, especially from abusive and predatory characters.
• Violence: Moderate to graphic violence, including detailed animal cruelty, on-page murder, severe domestic assault, and scenes of physical and sexualized harm.
• Sexual Content: On-page but non-graphic and mildly graphic sexual content, including sex work, an explicit oral sex encounter, and references to rape and sexual exploitation.
• Drugs/Alcohol: Regular alcohol use and abuse (including binge drinking and functional alcoholism), depiction of drug dependence among sex workers, and general substance use in criminal environments.
• Sensitive Topics: PTSD and war trauma, childhood cruelty, animal cruelty, homicide, kidnapping, rape and domestic violence, sex trafficking, addiction, religious guilt, and ongoing psychological distress.

ReadSafe Rating

• Rating: R
• Labels: EL, V, SC, DA, ST
• Explanation: The book contains frequent strong profanity (EL), graphically described violence including torture of animals, severe domestic assault, and on-page killings (V). Sexual content includes an explicit oral sex scene, references to rape, and ongoing sexual exploitation within a sex-work and trafficking context (SC). Alcohol abuse is a recurring element in the protagonist’s life, and drug use and dependency are depicted among secondary characters (DA). Sensitive topics such as PTSD, trauma, animal cruelty, kidnapping, rape, and domestic violence are central to the narrative and described in significant detail (ST).

Long Review
Set against the unforgiving backdrop of mid-nineteenth-century Texas, Texas Tainted Dreams traces the Gotcher family as they try to build a life in a landscape scarred by war, captivity, and frontier violence. Vivian McCullough blends family saga with meticulously researched regional history, opening in 1846 with fourteen-year-old Riley Gotcher watching the road for his beloved older brother James, a Texas Ranger fighting on the Rio Grande. That simple image—anxious boy on a porch, chores neglected, eyes fixed on the horizon—immediately anchors the story in intimate emotion even as it gestures toward the wider conflicts that shape these characters’ lives. 

The early chapters move deftly between home and battlefield. James’s fevered awakening in a stinking field hospital tent near the Rio Grande, after weeks of dysentery and a harrowing dream that fuses a Comanche siege with past Pawnee captivity, establishes both the physical brutality and psychological cost of this world. The narrative evokes dysentery, hastily dug graves, and the randomness of survival with quiet, unsentimental detail, making clear that disease and bad water can be as lethal as bullets. 

One of the book’s central strengths lies in the way frontier history is filtered through domestic storytelling. Once James returns home to Bastrop, the family gathers under the trees while he recounts his time under Major Jack Hays and Captain “Ad” Gillespie, the campaigns against Comanche raiding parties, and actions along the Rio Grande. Real historical figures such as Hays, Gillespie, and Chief Placido appear naturally in his account, grounding the fictional Gotchers in documented events without turning the book into a dry chronicle. The tone is that of an oral history by the fire—anecdotal, detailed, and vivid—while still moving the emotional arc forward as Jane, Riley, and the younger children listen in a mixture of pride, fear, and awe. 

The extended sequence describing the battle at Paint Rock is particularly effective. McCullough captures the terrifying asymmetry of forty Rangers pinned inside a rocky “V” while hundreds of Comanche attack in waves, horses and men piling up in the water and among the brush. The description of James shooting a warrior who almost reaches the top of the cliff and then, adrenaline-struck, taking the man’s scalp in a grim mirror of what was done to his parents is one of the book’s most chilling and revealing moments. The scene lays bare a cycle of vengeance and dehumanization; Jane’s horrified reaction and Riley’s near-exultant approval underline how trauma splits even a close family’s moral compass. 

The title Texas Tainted Dreams resonates through these contrasts. The Gotchers dream of safety, land, and prosperity, but every achievement is shadowed by loss. The narrative does not flinch from the racism and hatred many Rangers harbor toward both Native nations and Mexicans, but it presents those attitudes in a way that feels historically authentic rather than celebratory. The book’s perspective remains firmly with the settlers, yet the sheer scale of the violence against Native people and the author’s willingness to show scalp-taking, desecration, and battlefield slaughter invite readers to recognize that the “dream” of Texas statehood came at staggering human cost.

As the timeline moves into the early 1850s, the focus narrows to domestic tragedy. Riley and James deepen their bond through work—hauling lumber, raising cattle, breaking horses—while Jane quietly weakens under the accumulated strain of childbirth, grief, and unending labor. The subplot with Maggie and her older husband Ed, a stagecoach driver, broadens the picture of frontier livelihoods and reminds readers that survival depends on constant adaptation. James’s decision to break a spirited gray colt named Ash sets up a devastating turning point. A misjudged saddle and a single explosive kick to the lower back trigger internal injuries, sepsis, and a desperate, largely futile course of home care and primitive medicine.

These chapters depicting James’s decline are some of the novel’s most affecting. The doctor’s limited tools—laudanum, bleeding, watchful waiting—reflect period practice; swelling limbs, shallow breathing, and rising fever build steadily toward an outcome that feels both inevitable and cruel. Riley’s disbelief that his battle-hardened, disease-surviving brother could be felled by “one kick from a horse” encapsulates the randomness of frontier death. The dogs Ranger and Major pressing close while Riley cries against the barn further humanize a character who has been defined by toughness. 

In the wake of James’s death, Riley drifts through grief, rejecting Hardin’s attempts at companionship and losing interest in the activities that once defined him. Jane’s insistence that James be buried under elm trees instead of the symbolic oak associated with Pawnee captivity speaks to a woman determined to reclaim her family’s story from its earlier horrors. At the same time, her worsening health—excessive bleeding after childbirth, fainting spells, fever—adds another layer of impending loss. These intertwined arcs of bereavement, physical decline, and stubborn survival give the narrative its emotional heft. 

Stylistically, the prose is straightforward and accessible. Dialogue is clear and often tinged with period-appropriate idiom without sliding into caricature. The omniscient third-person narration allows smooth shifts between James, Riley, Jane, and Charles, revealing different facets of shared events. At times, especially in battle recollections, the narrative leans into dense historical exposition that may read more like a detailed after-action report than a scene in motion. Readers who prefer fast-paced, highly interior fiction may find those sections slow or reportorial, but those who enjoy richly contextualized historical storytelling are likely to appreciate the specificity.

Overall, Texas Tainted Dreams reads as a carefully researched, emotionally grounded family saga that illuminates a turbulent slice of Texas history through the lens of one extended clan. The book will especially resonate with readers who appreciate frontier narratives that balance guns-and-horses action with domestic life, grief, and the complicated aftermath of violence. It does not offer an easy, romanticized Texas; instead, it delivers a portrait of courage and resilience permanently stained by what had to be survived.

Short Review
Texas Tainted Dreams follows the Gotcher family through the volatile decades of early Texas statehood, blending personal tragedy with the broader conflicts of frontier life. From Riley’s anxious wait for his Ranger brother James to return from the Rio Grande campaigns to the brutal siege at Paint Rock and the heartbreaking horse-kick that ultimately kills James, the story traces how war, disease, and accident shape one family’s fate.

Vivian McCullough grounds the narrative in painstaking historical detail—naming real figures like Major Jack Hays and Chief Placido, capturing Ranger tactics, and portraying the realities of mid-nineteenth-century medicine—while keeping the focus on sibling bonds, maternal courage, and the long shadow of captivity and massacre. The prose is clean and approachable, and the emotional beats land with quiet force, particularly in the scenes of grief and physical decline. Some sections, especially James’s extended battlefield recollections, skew toward dense exposition that may feel slow to readers seeking a more streamlined, character-interior focus.

For readers of historical fiction, westerns, and multigenerational family sagas, however, this novel offers a vivid, humane portrait of life on the Texas frontier. It acknowledges the ugliness of scalp-taking, racial hatred, and grim combat while honoring the resilience of those who carried on in spite of shattered bodies and tainted dreams.

One-Sentence Review
A historically rich and emotionally resonant Texas frontier saga, Texas Tainted Dreams traces one family’s courage, trauma, and hard-won resilience amid war, captivity, disease, and the unforgiving realities of mid-nineteenth-century life.

Book Rating
📘📘📘📘 – Strongly Recommended: A well-researched, emotionally engaging frontier family saga with vivid battle sequences and domestic drama that will satisfy readers of historical fiction, even if its detailed war recollections and measured pacing may feel dense for those seeking a faster, more tightly focused narrative.

Pull Quotes (1–2)

1. "Texas Tainted Dreams delivers a vivid, humane portrait of a Texas frontier family whose courage and love are permanently marked by war, captivity, and loss."
2. "Rich historical detail and quietly powerful emotional beats combine to make this a compelling saga for readers who want their westerns grounded in real human cost."

Content Notes
• Language: Generally mild; occasional period insults and rough frontier expressions, but no pervasive profanity or modern explicit slurs in the sampled sections.
• Violence: Moderate to strong; on-page depictions of Indian raids, battlefield combat, scalp-taking, injuries, and lingering illness, with some brief but vivid images of death and bodies.
• Sexual Content: None in the sampled sections; marriage, childbirth, and postpartum issues referenced without sexual description.
• Drugs/Alcohol: Regular frontier use of whiskey; laudanum and other medicines used for pain and treatment; no glamorized substance abuse.
• Sensitive Topics: Parental and sibling deaths, childhood captivity, racial hatred toward Native Americans and Mexicans, war trauma, serious illness, sepsis, postpartum complications, and grief.

ReadSafe Rating
• Rating: PG-13
• Labels: V, DA, ST
• Explanation: The book contains sustained depictions of frontier violence, including scalp-taking, large-scale battles, and medically described injuries and illness, which push it beyond a simple PG tone. Alcohol is a normal part of adult life, and laudanum/medicines are used for pain and treatment, justifying the DA label even though substance use is not central. The narrative also addresses sensitive topics such as massacre, childhood captivity, severe illness, and grief, warranting the ST designation. Overall, the content is intense and at times graphic but stops short of the extremity or explicitness associated with an R rating.

Long Review
Michael Baldwin’s Roll Back the Sun is an ambitious, big-hearted novel that marries jazz, neuroscience, spirituality, and Texas realism into a sprawling story about love as a literal organizing force in human life. It opens in Afghanistan in 2002, with a combat scene that immediately sets the stakes: trauma, moral ambiguity, and the question of how a single human consciousness endures violence and chaos. From there, the book shifts into the smoky, neon-lit world of the Catfish Jazz Club in Fort Worth and the quieter landscapes of small-town and lake-country Texas, gradually revealing a web of characters whose lives are shaped, derailed, and redeemed by love in its many forms.

At the book’s center is a cluster of vividly drawn figures—young, searching, often damaged—who carry the story’s emotional weight. Kitty, in particular, stands out as a touchstone character: open-hearted, hungry for meaning, and caught between competing loyalties and desires. Her relationships, both heterosexual and queer, are treated with the same seriousness and tenderness, emphasizing the novel’s core conviction that love is less about gender and more about honest connection and mutual transformation. Around her orbit others: musicians chasing transcendence through sound, veterans living with the psychic fallout of war, spiritual seekers quoting Rumi, and ordinary Texans trying to build decent lives out of grief, regret, and flashes of joy.

Stylistically, the novel leans into a warm, accessible voice that favors feeling over flourish. Chapter titles drawn from jazz standards set the tone for a narrative that often moves like a set list—swinging between lively dialogue, reflective passages, and quietly devastating revelations. The structure shifts across time and place, stitching together Afghanistan, Fort Worth, and rural Texas in a way that suggests a larger, almost orchestral design. Readers who enjoy multi-decade, multi-POV narratives will find plenty to sink into; those who prefer a tight, single-thread plot may need a bit more patience as the pattern gradually comes into focus.

One of the most distinctive elements of Roll Back the Sun is its explicit engagement with neuroscience and “love energy.” The story does not merely gesture at healing or transformation; it folds in concrete ideas about how the brain processes emotion, how attention and intention can generate different kinds of energetic “field,” and how a group of aligned people might shift the emotional climate around them. This blend of science, mysticism, and story gives the book a unique flavor. For readers drawn to spiritual fiction, mind–body connections, or the interface between brain science and compassion, these sections provide a strong intellectual throughline to match the emotional one.

The romantic and sexual content is frank but primarily character-serving rather than gratuitous. A same-sex encounter between Kitty and her friend JJ, for example, is presented as sensual, affirming, and exploratory—more focused on Kitty’s awakening and self-understanding than on titillation. The novel acknowledges the complexities of consent, desire, and trust, including a past “non-rape sex” incident and a dead baby connected to a character’s history, folding these into a larger meditation on responsibility, forgiveness, and whether people can truly change. Adult readers who appreciate emotionally nuanced, sex-positive storytelling will likely respond well; more conservative readers may find some scenes more explicit than expected from the broad, spiritual framing.

Thematically, the book is relentlessly on the side of hope, even as it stares down war trauma, betrayal, addiction, and grief. Its guiding belief is that love—understood as focused attention, deep empathy, and courageous vulnerability—can help “roll back the sun” on the darkest parts of individual and collective life. The climax and resolution (kept spoiler-light here) push that belief into near-mythic territory, offering a vision of how a small circle of people might generate enough emotional coherence to change not only themselves but their surrounding culture. It is an unapologetically idealistic stance that will resonate strongly with readers hungry for an antidote to cynicism.

There are trade-offs to such ambition. The didactic edge to the neuroscience and spiritual explanations may feel a bit on-the-nose to some, especially in the later portions and author’s note, where the concepts are laid out very directly. The large cast and time jumps can occasionally diffuse tension or require readers to reorient more often than they might like. Yet even with these limitations, the emotional throughline remains clear: these are characters trying to live decently, love bravely, and turn their private awakenings into something that matters beyond themselves.

Overall, Roll Back the Sun functions as a hybrid: part love story, part jazz-soaked Texas novel, part spiritual–neuroscientific thought experiment. Readers who gravitate toward character-driven fiction with a strong metaphysical streak—and who don’t mind a blend of romance, philosophy, and science—will find it a rich, rewarding experience. It is not a minimalist or cynical book; it is expansive, earnest, and willing to risk big claims about what love can do. For the right audience, that is precisely its power.

Short Review
Roll Back the Sun is a sweeping, emotionally generous novel that uses jazz, Texas landscapes, and war-haunted backstories to explore how love reshapes lives from the inside out. Moving between Afghanistan, Fort Worth, and small-town Texas, it follows a constellation of characters—most notably the open-hearted Kitty—as they navigate desire, betrayal, trauma, and grace. Romantic and sexual relationships, including a tender same-sex encounter, are treated with nuance and respect, emphasizing emotional truth over shock value.

The book’s distinctive hook lies in its integration of neuroscience and spirituality: love is not just a feeling but a kind of energy that can be understood, practiced, and amplified. This gives the story an unusual intellectual backbone and will strongly appeal to readers curious about the intersection of brain science, mysticism, and everyday life. The tone is warm and hopeful, even when confronting war, loss, and a painful history of consent and secrecy. Some readers may find the explanations of “love energy” a bit didactic and the cast sprawling, but the overall effect is inviting rather than alienating. For adult readers who enjoy character-driven fiction with a metaphysical tilt, Roll Back the Sun offers an absorbing, heartfelt journey.

One-Sentence Review
A jazz-soaked, Texas-rooted, spiritually charged novel, Roll Back the Sun braids love, neuroscience, and war-scarred lives into an earnest, emotionally satisfying story about how connection can transform both people and the world.

Book Rating
📘📘📘📘 – Strongly Recommended: A warm, ambitious blend of love story, Texas realism, and spiritual–neuroscientific speculation that delivers memorable characters and genuine emotional payoff, even if its didactic moments and broad cast won’t suit every reader.

Pull Quotes (1–2)

1. “A jazz-soaked, Texas-rooted, spiritually charged novel, Roll Back the Sun treats love not just as emotion, but as an energy capable of reshaping wounded lives.”
2. “For readers who crave character-driven fiction with a metaphysical edge, this blend of romance, neuroscience, and hard-won hope offers an absorbing and deeply humane experience.”

Content Notes

• Language: Mild to moderate adult language; some profanity but not pervasive.
• Violence: Brief war-related scenes and references to past trauma; no sustained graphic gore.
• Sexual Content: On-page adult sexual content including a consensual same-sex scene and discussion of past sexual encounters; sensual but not anatomically graphic.
• Drugs/Alcohol: Recurring adult alcohol use (wine, beer, social drinking); occasional references to heavier use.
• Sensitive Topics: War trauma, PTSD, a past alleged sexual assault (discussed, not graphically depicted), death of a baby, relationship betrayal, and emotional distress.

ReadSafe Rating

• Rating: R
• Labels: SC, DA, ST
• Explanation: The book contains on-page sexual activity between adults, including a detailed same-sex encounter, and sustained exploration of sexual history and consent. Adult characters drink alcohol regularly, and the narrative engages directly with trauma-related themes, including war, PTSD, an alleged rape, and the death of an infant. While the tone remains compassionate and non-exploitative, the overall mix of sexual content and heavy topics places it clearly in adult territory.

Long Review

“Dear Ms. Guadalupe: Letters to My Librarian” is a warm, imaginative picture book that uses a summer correspondence between a curious boy and his school librarian to introduce young readers to dinosaurs, scientific inquiry, and the art of letter writing. Joey is convinced that a dinosaur lives in the dried creek near his home, and he turns to the most natural research partner he knows—his librarian, Ms. Guadalupe. Across a series of dated letters, Joey shares observations from the creek while Ms. Guadalupe responds with factual information, gentle questions, and just enough skepticism to nudge him toward evidence-based thinking. The premise is simple, but it opens a surprisingly rich space where wonder, science, and literacy intersect.

The book’s structure is epistolary: each spread presents either Joey’s latest letter or Ms. Guadalupe’s reply, paired with a full-bleed illustration that dramatizes his imagination or the prehistoric world being discussed. Early letters focus on habitats and footprints, and Ms. Guadalupe introduces vocabulary like “carnivore” and “herbivore” while also reminding Joey that many modern animals live near creeks. As Joey becomes increasingly attached to the mysterious “Texasaurus”—eventually named “Chomp”—the story gently contrasts his fanciful mental images with the far more ordinary animals that might actually be eating his carrot offerings. The result is a playful but respectful portrayal of how children blend fantasy with early scientific reasoning.

Joey is an engaging main character: earnest, enthusiastic, and deeply invested in both dinosaurs and his relationship with his librarian. His voice on the page feels authentically childlike—short sentences, big feelings, and a delightful insistence that his creek creature must be real. Ms. Guadalupe, in turn, embodies the best of school librarianship. She remembers Joey’s past reading habits, validates his interest (“You’ll be an excellent paleontologist”), and continually feeds his curiosity with specific facts about Technosaurus smalli, a real prehistoric animal discovered in Texas. Her letters never mock or dismiss his ideas; instead, they model how a caring adult can redirect a child’s imagination toward research and observation without crushing the sense of magic.

Thematically, the book operates on several levels. On the surface, it is a dinosaur story with a gentle mystery about the true identity of the “dinosaur” by the creek. Beneath that, it is a celebration of inquiry-based science: Joey notices footprints, draws them, forms hypotheses, and tests them with experiments like leaving out different foods. The narrative also foregrounds the role of the school librarian as an accessible guide to information, showing young readers that the library is a place to turn when questions arise—even during summer vacation. Finally, the story highlights resilience in curiosity; even when evidence suggests that no actual dinosaur is lurking in the creek bed, Joey’s interest in learning about real prehistoric creatures and, later, wild rabbits continues.

Linda Olliver’s illustrations are a major strength. The art uses sweeping lines and a vibrant palette of teals, oranges, and golds to create a dreamy, slightly surreal Texas landscape. Spreads that depict imagined dinosaurs are bold and almost cinematic, with towering sauropods, swooping pterosaurs, and swirling vegetation. In contrast, scenes set in Joey’s present-day world feature rabbits, foxes, and birds near the creek, hinting to observant readers that the “mystery” has a more down-to-earth solution. The visual storytelling offers ample opportunities for picture walks and discussion, from identifying animals to tracking Joey’s emotional arc as his excitement gives way to worry and then to renewed curiosity.

One of the book’s distinguishing features is its extensive backmatter. A “Technosaurus Fact Box” gives concrete data—length, weight, time period, classification, and notable notes—presented as an easy-to-scan chart. A labeled map and time line help situate the creature within Texas and Triassic-Jurassic-Cretaceous history. A separate spread, “How to Write a Letter Like Joey,” breaks down parts of a friendly letter (heading, greeting, body, closing, signature) using a sample letter dated September 6, 2025. Additional pages include “Essential Facts About the Technosaurus smalli,” a short note from paleontologist Dr. Sankar Chatterjee outlining the scientific history and reclassification of the fossil, an author’s note, and a brief works cited list. Together, these features make the book especially useful for classrooms and libraries focusing on STEM, research skills, and informational text.

From a style and pacing perspective, the book moves briskly. Each letter is only a few sentences long, and the repetition of date–greeting–message–closing creates a predictable rhythm that early elementary readers can follow. The emotional beats are clear but understated: anticipation when Joey finds footprints, delight when the carrots disappear, worry when food is left untouched, and renewed excitement when a new animal appears near the creek. The tone remains light, optimistic, and gently humorous, with occasional playful touches such as Joey wondering whether dinosaurs enjoy jokes.

The primary audience is young readers in roughly grades K–3, along with caregivers and educators who want read-alouds that combine story and science. Dinosaur-loving children will recognize familiar themes—a mysterious creature, footprints, and speculation about diet—while also being introduced to a lesser-known Triassic animal and the realities of fossil research. Teachers and librarians will find multiple entry points for lessons: questioning and hypothesizing, letter-writing practice, understanding primary vs. secondary sources, and discussing how scientific knowledge can change over time.

The book’s limitations are mild and mostly tied to its niche strengths. Readers seeking a fast-paced adventure with lots of plot twists may find the quiet, correspondence-based structure more contemplative than thrilling. Some children who are interested in dinosaurs primarily for roaring battles may need adult guidance to appreciate the subtle, evidence-focused story. The rich backmatter, while excellent for older primary students and classroom use, may be too text-heavy for very young listeners during a single sitting. However, these aspects are more about matching the right reader to the right book than about weaknesses in the work itself.

Overall, “Dear Ms. Guadalupe: Letters to My Librarian” stands out as a thoughtful, well-crafted STEM picture book that champions curiosity, respectful adult mentorship, and the joy of learning. It offers a charming narrative framework, appealing art, and unusually robust nonfiction support material, making it easy to recommend for school and public library collections as well as for families with dinosaur enthusiasts at home.

Short Review
“Dear Ms. Guadalupe: Letters to My Librarian” follows Joey, a dinosaur-obsessed student who spends his summer writing letters to his school librarian about the “Texasaurus” he believes lives in a nearby creek. Through their warm, witty correspondence, Ms. Guadalupe shares real facts about Technosaurus smalli and gently guides Joey toward scientific thinking—asking questions, examining evidence, and staying curious even when reality looks different from imagination. Lush, swirling illustrations contrast Joey’s prehistoric daydreams with the ordinary animals of the creek, giving young readers plenty to explore on each spread. Extensive backmatter—including a letter-writing guide, fact boxes, a paleontologist’s note, and a works cited list—turns this into a standout resource for STEM units and library lessons. Quietly humorous, deeply respectful of children’s curiosity, and rich with teaching possibilities, this book is a strong choice for early elementary classrooms, school libraries, and dinosaur-loving families.

One-Sentence Review
A tender, science-rich picture book that blends dinosaur dreams, letter-writing, and a librarian’s gentle guidance into a charming celebration of curiosity and inquiry-based learning.

Book Rating
📘📘📘📘 – Strongly Recommended: A thoughtfully crafted STEM picture book with engaging art, a charming librarian–student relationship, and excellent backmatter, especially suited to young dinosaur fans and classrooms exploring research and letter writing.

Pull Quotes (1–2)

1. “A tender, science-rich picture book that turns a boy’s dinosaur obsession into a celebration of libraries, curiosity, and evidence-based thinking.”
2. “With lush illustrations and outstanding backmatter, this quiet creek-side mystery becomes a standout resource for early STEM and letter-writing lessons.”

Content Notes
• Language: No profanity or strong language; simple, age-appropriate vocabulary.
• Violence: None; dinosaurs appear only in imaginative scenes and factual diagrams.
• Sexual Content: None.
• Drugs/Alcohol: None.
• Sensitive Topics: Brief moments of mild worry when the main character fears his “dinosaur” has left; all resolved gently and positively.

ReadSafe Rating
• Rating: C
• Labels: None
• Explanation: This is an early-childhood/elementary picture book with no profanity, violence, sexual content, substance use, or heavy themes. Dinosaur imagery is non-threatening and framed within imagination and science learning, and the only emotional tension is a brief, age-appropriate worry about an animal possibly moving away.

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A printable certificate (PDF) that includes:

• Author name

• Book title

• Date of rating

• A short highlight line from your review

You can print it, frame it, or include it in media kits and event displays.

3. Feature on the True Voice Reviews “5-Book Shelf”

Your book will be added to our 5-Book Shelf:

• Cover image

• Brief description/positioning

• One key pull quote from the review

• Link to your primary sales or author page

This gives readers, bloggers, and gatekeepers a curated place to discover titles that have met our highest bar.

4. Social Media Spotlight

We will feature your book in a dedicated spotlight post across True Voice Reviews channels, highlighting:

• Your cover + 5-Book seal

• A short summary of what makes the book stand out

• A strong quote from the review

Where possible, we’ll tag or mention you to help you amplify the post.

5. Librarian & Bookseller Highlight

Your book will be eligible for inclusion in a periodic “5-Book Picks” highlight aimed at:

• Librarians

• Booksellers

• Reading groups and book clubs

This includes a short pitch, author name, and a concise quote from your True Voice Review.

6. Loyalty Perk on a Future Review

As a thank-you for doing the hard work that led to a 5-Book rating, you’ll receive a special discount on a future True Voice Reviews package (details provided in your winner email).

This doesn’t change how we rate future books—but it does make it easier to bring your next project through the process.

How to Use Your 5-Book Status (Approved Language)

To keep things honest and consistent, we ask authors to use this wording (or very close to it) in marketing:

“[Book Title] received a 5-Book ‘Outstanding / Must Read’ rating from True Voice Reviews, an independent, reader-focused editorial review service.”

You’re welcome to pair that line with the 5-Book Winner seal and pull quotes from your review.

A Note on Integrity

The 5-Book Winners Package:

• Cannot be purchased

• Cannot be requested separately

• Is awarded only when a book legitimately earns a 5-Book rating under our editorial standards

Our goal is simple: When readers, librarians, and booksellers see “5-Book Winner – True Voice Reviews,” they know it means something.

If you’re ready to see where your book lands on our 1–5 Book scale, choose a True Voice Reviews package—and if your story truly hits that top tier, the 5-Book Winners Package is waiting.