The Silkworm by Robert Galbraith

This is the second novel by Robert Galbraith, aka she-who-will -not-be-named. I’m curious as to why, after the truth about the author’s real identity was revealed, they didn't just plaster her real name on the cover of this one, but the deeper I dig, the more confused I become. Robert has his own website … you can even follow him on Twitter and Facebook. No joke! And “he’s” tweeting! Though “he” only has 18.4K followers and 2K Facebook likes, whereas Ms JK has an equal 3.5 million on both platforms. So what’s the point? I don’t get it. Maybe it helps her with her process, but for me it’s just a distraction from what I do like, and that’s the books!

Rowling’s standard form is on full display in The Silkworm. Interesting (and over the top) characters, a sweeping and drawn out plot, and thorough descriptions that carry you into another world, only this world is London and not Hogwarts. Cormoran Strike is on the case of a missing writer, and in the process of trying to find him he uncovers all sorts of oddities and perversions in the publishing world. You can’t help but wonder if this is JK’s own bit of “revenge” against some of the people she undoubtedly had to deal with over the years.

The tone of this novel is a little dark, even more so than the first one, and there is a gruesome murder straight out of Silence of the Lambs/Seven, but it’s still classic gumshoe, with Strike and his gal Friday Robin unearthing bits of the literary puzzle that eventually leads to the missing author and his (spoiler alert) killer. Towards the end it does feel like Rowling is writing to form. There is a little too much of the keeping-the-secrets-til-the-big-reveal-at-the-end, and it gets a little annoying, but I guess that’s the standard detective novel playbook for you. Speaking of which, I’m not usually fan, but I will continue to read this series, as let’s face it, the woman, I mean, man… whatever, can write  

Life Drawing by Robin Black

Life Drawing is an intricate tale about marriage, infidelity, and death. Robin Black takes a risk with this novel by informing the reader in the first sentence that the narrator’s (Augusta, Gus, Augie) husband (Owen) is dead, and then allows the rest of the book to chart the course of his demise. There are no hints at first as to whether his death is natural, at his own hands or from violence, and it seems as though their new neighbor, Alison, is somehow involved, but that is also unclear. So why keep reading if you know how it ends? This is no mystery novel, but instead an intimate look at a marriage and the effects of infidelity and betrayal on it. Halfway through you might even forget that Owen, a novelist, is going to die at some point, but then the tension begins to build and build until he does, and it’s hard to put the book down. Gus is a painter, and Black herself draws (haha) you into the detailed world she’s painted (hahaha) with excellent writing and compelling characters. There is no fairy tale ending here, but many memorable passages like this one:

 “There are often two conversations going on in a marriage. The one that you’re having and the one you’re not. Sometimes you don’t even know when that second, silent one has begun.”