Thrillers: Because Apparently My Anxiety Needs a Hobby

I recently started reading another thriller. It’s very good so far… but it has already made me a nervous wreck. As if I needed help in that department. My anxiety does a fine job all on its own, thank you very much.

The book opens with a woman going out for an evening jog. She and her husband recently moved to a small town a few months ago. As she runs, she reflects on memories and thinks about the art exhibit she’s attending later that night at the town gallery.

So far, normal.

But here’s where my editor brain and general common sense start twitching. She goes jogging with no phone, no ID… just her house keys. Who does this?

Anyway, she returns home after the run, a little winded, probably feeling accomplished, ready to shower and get ready for the exhibit. She goes to unlock the door… and the key doesn’t work.

Odd.

She knocks, assuming her husband will answer.

He doesn’t.

Instead, another woman opens the door.

And here’s where things get delightfully insane. The woman looks like her. Sounds like her. And—just to make it extra creepy—is wearing the exact black velvet dress the jogger planned to wear that night.

Then the woman calmly says her name. The same name as our main character. Naturally, the husband appears at the door next… and doesn’t recognize the jogger at all. He believes the woman standing beside him is his wife.

Yikes.

This sounds crazy. And messy. And exactly the kind of thriller rabbit hole I’m about to dive into.

Stay tuned. I have a feeling this one is going to make my blood pressure spike.

A Tiny Paperback and a Reality Check

I recently went to my local library to return a book and—my favorite part—pick up two books that had come in that I’d placed on hold.

Naturally, I had to stop at the main display case when I walked in. You know the one. The “new arrivals” section. The one that whispers, You don’t have enough books yet.

Of course I grabbed one.

Anyway, I made my way to the desk and happily chatted with one of the librarians. They all know me there. Not only am I their local author, but I’m also in there constantly because… well… I love books.

So she checks out my books and slides the stack toward me.

And that’s when I notice it. One of the books I placed on hold is a paperback.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I love paperbacks. But this wasn’t just any paperback. This was one of those tiny paperbacks.

You know the ones. The very small ones that used to be popular years ago—back before publishers started printing books in sizes humans could actually read without a microscope.

I’m pushing 50. My eyes, even with glasses, are not what they once were.

So now I’m staring at this tiny little book with what I can only assume is microscopic print.

Did I say anything? Of course not. I smiled politely, took my stack of books, and walked out like a normal person… while internally thinking, There is absolutely no way I’m going to be able to read this.

I guess I have two options now: Start requesting large print editions, or actually pay attention to the size of the books I place on hold.

Lesson learned.

Maybe.

What about you? Do you have a favorite book format or size? Hardcover? Trade paperback? Large print? Or are you one of those magical people who can still read tiny print without squinting?

Since When Did We Decide This Was A Word??

 Unputdownable.

I’d like to know who sat in a marketing meeting one day and said, “You know what this book needs? A word that sounds like it tripped down the stairs.”

Un-put-down-able.

It feels less like a word and more like someone lost a fight with a hyphen.

Since When Is This a Thing?

At some point, perfectly normal phrases like:

• “I couldn’t put it down.”
• “I read it in one sitting.”
• “I stayed up way too late.”

…apparently weren’t dramatic enough.

Now we have:

“A completely unputdownable thriller.”

Completely? As opposed to partially unputdownable? Like you could put it down briefly to microwave popcorn but not long enough to fold laundry?

Let’s Break It Down

“Put down” = normal.

“Put-down” = insult.

“Putdownable” = questionable.

“Unputdownable” = chaos.

This is what happens when English realizes there are no adult supervisors.

The first time I read “unputdownable,” I genuinely paused and thought:

1. Is this a typo?
2. Did my eyes glitch?
3. Did someone’s autocorrect go rogue?

But no. It’s everywhere. Thrillers. Rom-coms. Cozy mysteries.

Apparently, every book is now aggressively unputdownable.

Is it even real? Technically? Yes. It’s in dictionaries now. Which feels like the linguistic equivalent of: “Well… fine. I guess.”

English is a living language. It evolves. It grows. And sometimes it duct-tapes words together and hopes no one notices.

The real question is…

If a book is “unputdownable,” does that mean:

• You physically cannot release it?
• It adheres to your hands?
• You develop a mild panic if you attempt to set it on the nightstand?

Because if that’s the case, I have concerns.

What’s Next?

• Unwalkawayable?
• Unsnoozeable?
• Unleftthehouseable?

Please. Let’s pace ourselves.

Do I roll my eyes a little when I see “unputdownable” on a cover? Yes.

Will I still pick up the book? Also yes.

Because as much as I pretend to be above it, I am absolutely susceptible to dramatic adjectives and bold blurbs. And if a thriller actually keeps me up past midnight whispering, “Just one more chapter…” Fine.

Call it unputdownable.

But I’m still judging it a little.