Murder Your Darlings is a smart, unsettling literary thriller that digs into power, ambition, and the darker side of creative mentorship. It’s a book about writing, but even more so about who gets access, who gets believed, and what people are willing to overlook in the presence of talent and charisma.

What really worked for me is how psychologically grounded the story feels. The tension doesn’t come from flashy twists so much as from discomfort that slowly builds. The novel understands how loneliness, insecurity, and the desire to belong can cloud judgment, even for capable, intelligent people. That makes the characters feel painfully real.

The use of multiple points of view is especially effective. Each perspective adds a different angle on the same events, and together they create a growing sense that something is off, even when everything looks fine on the surface. It’s the kind of book where small moments and seemingly generous gestures take on more weight the longer you sit with them.

I also appreciated how meta the book is about storytelling itself. Writing, editing, and creative collaboration are woven directly into the narrative, raising interesting questions about ownership, influence, and the ethics of turning lived experience into art. The title phrase, “murder your darlings,” takes on layered meaning without ever feeling heavy-handed.

This isn’t a light or cozy read, and it’s not a fast-paced thriller in the traditional sense. It asks the reader to pay attention, sit with discomfort, and read between the lines. If you enjoy literary thrillers that focus on character, power dynamics, and the messier sides of creativity, this one is well worth picking up.

I generally enjoyed Fated Skates, especially for how thoughtfully it explores identity, autonomy, and the emotional aftermath of elite athletic success. This is a romance set in the world of figure skating, but at its core it’s really about what happens after the applause fades and how difficult it can be to figure out who you are when your entire life has been built around performance.

One of the book’s biggest strengths is its attention to the physical and psychological cost of excellence. The skating scenes are vivid and embodied, and Quinn’s interior life feels grounded in the reality of chronic injury, constant scrutiny, and the pressure to be perfect. I also appreciated how the story interrogates tradition and control within elite sports, especially around how much agency athletes are actually allowed to have over their own bodies and choices.

The romance is more quietly swoon-worthy than explosive, and I think that’s very intentional. The chemistry between Quinn and Ben is rooted in shared history, physical proximity, and a deep, unspoken understanding of life under intense public pressure. Their best moments come from being on the ice together, moving in sync, or simply existing in the same space without needing constant emotional declarations. There’s something intimate about how much of their connection is communicated through motion, body awareness, and familiarity with pain and discipline. Rather than big, dramatic gestures, the romance offers steady warmth, longing, and emotional recognition, which will give many readers “all the feels.” If you’re looking for fireworks or nonstop banter, this may feel understated, but if you love romances built on mutual respect, physical chemistry, and the sense of finally being understood by someone who speaks the same unspoken language, this one really delivers.

That said, a couple of plot and character dynamics didn’t fully work for me.

First, Quinn’s long-held hurt toward Ben felt emotionally disproportionate to the reality of their past connection. While I completely understood her embarrassment and disappointment that he didn’t stay in touch, the intensity of her resentment after four years didn’t quite ring true given that they only knew each other for a very short time. The story treats his absence as a kind of betrayal, and I had trouble buying into that framing when there were never clear expectations established between them.

Second, there’s a moment later in the book where Quinn says no to a plan involving her family, and Ben ultimately persuades her to go along with it anyway. The narration frames this as “logical,” but I found it frustrating and out of step with the book’s larger themes. Quinn’s initial refusal made sense, and the plan she’s talked into actually creates more complications, not fewer. More importantly, it undercut a central arc of her reclaiming agency. Even if Ben’s intentions are good, the scene felt uncomfortably like her boundaries were being overridden rather than respected.

Despite these issues, I still found the book compelling and emotionally resonant. Fated Skates is strongest when it’s examining autonomy, identity, and the quiet ways people learn to comply instead of choose. I just wish the plot consistently honored those themes, especially in moments where Quinn’s voice and decisions should have mattered most.