Iwan Ross | Updates

One for Sorrow — New Release

Iwan Ross — Tue, 14 Jul 2026 00:00:00 +0000

One for Sorrow joins The Haunted Highlands Series on 8 September 2026.

Return to the Scottish Highlands, where a lone magpie watches over Serpent's Manor, the dead keep their secrets, and a grandfather clock counts the hours toward a reckoning.

Join Coby McTavish as he uncovers the truth about Daisy—a mystery that has waited eighty years to be told.

Available in eBook, Paperback and Hardcover.

If you're new to the series, begin with Elm Brook Manor.

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Kindness Is My Currency

Iwan Ross — Wed, 19 Aug 2026 00:00:00 +0000

This morning, exhausted after another late night of writing, I reluctantly made my way to my desk.

The past few weeks have been taxing. My mind has been stretched between drafting, writing, editing, designing covers, publishing, distributing and promoting my work. Since deciding to write full-time, I've also become increasingly aware of a constant need to prove myself—perhaps partly because of the standards I set for myself. I believe those standards are necessary. That doesn't make carrying them any less exhausting.

The phantom limb of my old, predictable job still twitches sometimes, a ghost of security I've willingly shed. Each email, each social media notification, is a tiny validation, a splash of fuel on the fire of this all-consuming pursuit. But the silence that follows is deafening, a stark reminder of the solitary nature of this endeavour.

And into that silence come the emails.

Every author knows them.

Promises of sales. Promises of reviews. Promises of visibility. Promises that, with the right service, strategy, campaign or mysterious algorithmic incantation, your book might finally reach the audience it deserves.

Perhaps that is one of the stranger realities of independent publishing. We don't simply write books. We become publishers, designers, marketers, distributors, publicists, analysts and, occasionally, exhausted people staring at dashboards wondering what precisely we've done wrong.

Somewhere in the middle of all that, I started BlurbCraft Studio.

It grew from a simple idea: if I was going to build something alongside my writing career, why not combine the skills and qualifications I already had with the thing I care most deeply about—books?

BlurbCraft became a place where I could offer editorial reviews and blurb writing from the perspective of someone who understands both sides of the desk. I know what it feels like to hand someone a manuscript and wait. I know what it feels like to wonder whether a description captures the book you spent months or years creating. And I know how much a few thoughtful words about your work can sometimes mean.

Recently, another author left a wonderfully generous review of one of my books. She even suggested that the story would make a good television series or film.

I was delighted.

And I wanted to return the kindness.

So I bought one of her books.

Then I put on my editor's hat.

I read it carefully—not as a favour to be hurried through, but as I would approach any book entrusted to me professionally. I paid attention to what it was trying to achieve, where its strengths lay, what distinguished its voice and what might make another reader stop and take notice.

I prepared an editorial review through BlurbCraft Studio and sent it to her.

She later gave me permission to feature the review as a Casebook on the BlurbCraft website. I published it, sent her a note, and moved on.

Or at least I thought I had.

Then this morning her reply arrived.

She told me that my review had made her day. She described BlurbCraft Studio as a wonderful opportunity for authors. She told me she believed it could be my second calling.

And then she said she intended to promote the studio herself.

I sat staring at the message.

Not because I had expected anything in return. Quite the opposite.

And suddenly a thought arrived with extraordinary clarity:

Kindness is my currency.

There it was.

The proof I hadn't realised I needed.

Over the past few weeks, my confidence had taken a few knocks. There had been reviews I wished had been better. Sales figures I wished had been higher. And, inevitably, emails explaining all the reasons my books weren't selling as well as somebody believed they should—and how, coincidentally, they could fix the problem for me.

It becomes remarkably easy, in that environment, to start measuring yourself.

Copies sold.

Stars awarded.

Pages read.

Followers gained.

Clicks.

Rankings.

Revenue.

We spend so much time looking at numbers that eventually we risk believing we are one of them.

So, for a moment, I put the numbers on one side of an imaginary scale.

And on the other, I put that email.

Kindness won.

Not because sales don't matter. Of course they do. Writing is my profession, and BlurbCraft Studio is a business. Businesses have to earn money if they are to survive.

But perhaps money isn't the only currency a creative life generates.

There is another economy operating quietly beneath it.

A reader tells an author that a character stayed with them.

An author recommends another author's book.

Someone shares a post without being asked.

A writer reads another writer's work carefully enough to understand what they were trying to accomplish.

A few thoughtful words arrive on precisely the morning somebody needed to read them.

None of these things appears on a sales dashboard.

Yet they have value.

Perhaps more than we realise.

That was the discovery waiting for me this morning.

BlurbCraft Studio began partly from necessity. I wanted to combine my professional skills with my love of writing and create another sustainable branch of this strange new career I've chosen.

But perhaps it can become something more than that.

An editorial review shouldn't simply be four hundred polished words attached to a transaction. At its best, it says to another writer:

I read what you created. I paid attention. I understood what you were trying to do. And this is what I found there.

There is something profoundly human in that exchange.

The same is true of a well-crafted blurb. Beneath all the talk of hooks, conversion and positioning lies a simpler responsibility: someone has entrusted you with the story they created, and your job is to find the words that might persuade another human being to open it.

That requires technique.

But it also requires care.

This morning, the phantom limb of my old life twitched a little less.

The uncertainty hasn't disappeared. Tomorrow I'll still look at sales. I'll still check statistics. I'll still worry about books that aren't moving quickly enough and wonder whether the next one will find its readers.

I'm an author. Apparently worrying is part of the benefits package.

But something has shifted.

I no longer want every measure of success to come with a number attached.

If BlurbCraft Studio grows, I want it to grow because authors feel that their work was treated with care. If my books find more readers, I hope some of those readers tell someone else about them. And when another writer does something wonderful, I want to remain willing to say so without first calculating what might come back to me.

Because sometimes something does come back.

Not necessarily a sale.

Not necessarily a review.

Sometimes it's simply an email on an exhausted Wednesday morning that reminds you why you started.

And perhaps that's enough to keep going.

Kindness is my currency.

I think I'm richer than I realised.

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Absent Presence: When a Writer Can No Longer Hear Their Own Voice

Iwan Ross — Tue, 18 Aug 2026 00:00:00 +0000

There is a peculiar moment in writing that I have only recently learned how to recognise.

I call it Absent Presence.

I doubt the term will trouble the great halls of literary academia anytime soon. I made it up. But then, inventing things that do not exist and subsequently behaving as though they do is rather fundamental to my profession.

Absent Presence is the strange condition of having everything required to write — imagination, experience, characters, story, vocabulary and, somewhere beneath the rubble, confidence — while suddenly feeling as though none of it is there.

The writer has not disappeared.

Yet somehow, the writer feels absent.

When Writing Becomes a Committee Meeting

Perhaps one of the cruellest ironies of becoming a better writer is that improvement does not always feel like improvement.

When we begin, we often write instinctively. We don't know enough to interrogate every sentence. We simply tell the story.

Then we learn.

We learn about structure, pacing, point of view, repetition, rhythm, filtering, exposition, dialogue tags, beats, character arcs and a small army of other things apparently waiting to ambush an unsuspecting adjective.

We read more critically. We become more observant. Editors teach us things. Readers teach us things. Other writers teach us things.

Our critical faculties sharpen.

And then something rather unexpected can happen.

Every sentence suddenly has seventeen possible alternatives.

Something we would once have written without hesitation becomes a decision requiring a committee meeting.

Is this word correct?

Is there a better one?

Will the reader understand the joke?

Is the joke too obvious?

Is it not obvious enough?

Would an editor change this?

Has another author done it better?

Will somebody find this ridiculous?

And somewhere during this increasingly crowded meeting, the person who actually wrote the story quietly leaves the room.

That, to me, is Absent Presence.

The Tailcoat Incident

I recently spent an absurd amount of mental energy worrying about a fictional man's jacket.

The man in question is Lord Giddings, an eccentric Grand Master who sweeps into an intelligence briefing wearing a bowler hat, brandishing an umbrella and sporting a rather magnificent item of bespoke Highland tailoring.

He also tap-dances.

This did not concern me.

The supernatural intelligence organisation did not concern me.

Nor did the fact that his agents applaud his entrance, attempt to decipher an appalling chalk charade, shout “Fiat!” while pumping their fists into the air, and are dismissed immediately after somebody actually responds to the question, “Questions?”

No.

What nearly broke me was the tweed.

Was it a tweed?

A tweed jacket?

A tweed tailcoat?

A tailcoat cut from tweed?

Could tweed stand alone as a noun?

At some point I realised something rather alarming.

I was no longer seeing Lord Giddings.

I was seeing the sentence.

Worse, I was seeing everyone else's possible version of the sentence.

The character was still standing exactly where I had put him, probably wondering why his creator had abandoned him halfway through an intelligence briefing.

He had not disappeared.

I had.

Our Characters Know This Feeling

The curious thing is that writers spend their lives creating characters who experience versions of precisely this phenomenon.

We give them flaws they cannot see.

We let fear convince them they are weak when the reader can plainly see their strength.

We allow grief to make them believe happiness has vanished forever.

We let pride distort their judgement, insecurity silence them, love make fools of them and doubt persuade them that everything they once understood about themselves was wrong.

As writers, we can see what is happening because we stand outside them.

We know the brave character is frightened, not cowardly.

We know the lost character has not ceased to exist.

We know the person convinced they have nothing left is carrying the very thing they need without recognising it.

And then, occasionally, we do exactly the same thing.

There is something wonderfully absurd about spending years understanding imaginary people's blind spots while remaining spectacularly vulnerable to our own.

Is This Writer's Block?

Perhaps sometimes.

I don't believe writer's block is one single phenomenon with one convenient cause. A writer can stop because the story has gone wrong. Because they are exhausted. Because life outside the manuscript has consumed everything available inside them. Because they don't yet know what happens next.

But I wonder whether another kind of block begins when creation becomes observation.

Instead of writing, we watch ourselves writing.

Instead of hearing a character speak, we evaluate the dialogue before the character has finished the sentence.

Instead of following instinct and examining the result afterwards, we demand that instinct defend itself before it is allowed onto the page.

Eventually, writing becomes so heavily supervised that nothing moves without permission.

The imagination has not gone.

It is standing at the security checkpoint waiting for seventeen members of the committee to stamp its passport.

Perhaps some writer's block is not an absence of ideas at all.

Perhaps it is an excess of witnesses.

Not Every Reader Is Your Reader

There is another uncomfortable truth writers eventually have to accept.

Readers are individuals.

One will laugh at a line another reader dislikes.

One will adore the character another cannot tolerate.

One will race through a chapter that another considers slow.

A moment somebody finds moving may strike somebody else as sentimental. A joke that has one reader laughing aloud may leave another staring at the page in profound concern for the author's wellbeing.

We cannot control that.

Nor, increasingly, do I think we should try.

There is an important difference between:

A reader cannot understand what I am trying to communicate.

and:

A reader understands it perfectly and simply doesn't like it.

The first may reveal a problem worth examining.

The second may simply reveal a reader.

If we attempt to anticipate every possible reaction, we eventually write for an imaginary consensus that does not exist.

And the price of pleasing that imaginary reader may be removing the very peculiarities that would have delighted the real one.

Feedback Is Evidence, Not Law

This does not mean rejecting criticism.

Quite the opposite.

A good editor is invaluable. So are perceptive readers. So are the people willing to tell us when something confused them, bored them or pulled them out of the story.

But perhaps feedback works best when treated as evidence rather than instruction.

If someone stumbles over a sentence, I want to know.

But the useful question is not necessarily:

What replacement should I make?

It may be:

Why did they stumble?

Once I understand the problem, I can decide whether something needs changing and, importantly, how I would change it.

Because there is a danger in solving every criticism by accepting somebody else's sentence.

Eventually the manuscript may become technically polished while sounding increasingly unlike the person whose name will appear on its cover.

The Thing Worth Protecting

Technique can be learned.

Sentences can be rewritten.

Plots can be repaired.

Continuity errors can be caught. Facts can be checked. Awkward paragraphs can be untangled.

But voice is stranger.

It grows from thousands of decisions we make without necessarily knowing why: rhythm, humour, observation, what we notice, what we omit, where we pause, what we find beautiful and what we find ridiculous.

It is the accumulation of our peculiarities.

That does not make every instinct correct.

It does make those instincts worth listening to.

Perhaps becoming a better writer is therefore not simply a process of learning more rules.

Perhaps it is learning enough to recognise when a rule helps the story — and becoming confident enough to recognise when it doesn't.

Coming Back Into the Room

I don't have a cure for Absent Presence.

I invented the term this morning, so demanding a treatment already seems rather unreasonable.

But I think I am beginning to recognise the way back.

Sometimes the answer may simply be to stop editing.

Close the comments.

Leave the troublesome sentence alone.

Walk away.

Then return when the committee has gone home.

Look past the words and find the character again.

What was he doing?

What did she want?

What was funny about this before I started explaining why it was funny?

What frightened me?

What delighted me?

What made me want to write this story in the first place?

The writer may feel absent.

But perhaps the writer never actually left.

Perhaps they are still sitting somewhere beneath the criticism, technique, expectations and noise, waiting for the room to become quiet enough to be heard again.

And somewhere in an intelligence briefing room of my own invention, Lord Giddings is still wearing his ridiculous Highland tweed, tapping his umbrella impatiently against the floor.

He has a mission to announce.

I should probably let him get on with it.

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The Mourning Ring — New Release

Iwan Ross — Tue, 14 Jul 2026 00:00:00 +0000

The Mourning Ring joins The Haunted Highlands Series on 28 July 2026.

Return to the Scottish Highlands for another mystery filled with haunted places, family secrets, and restless spirits. Whether you're continuing the journey with Coby McTavish or discovering the series for the first time, this latest mystery is almost here.

Available in eBook, Paperback and Hardcover.

If you're new to the series, begin with Elm Brook Manor.

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The Dogs That Never Left Me

Iwan Ross — Sat, 27 Jun 2026 00:00:00 +0000

This is the face. This is the whole reason.

So I found another way to carry them.

I built dogs. Dogs like Lovey, like Elfie, and I put them into my stories where nothing could take them away again. Here's a thing I believe: darkness can't survive the faintest glimmer of light. Anyone who knows my gothic fiction, and knows Coby McTavish, my protagonist, who loves dogs the way I do, understands why those animals are in there. In my first novel it was Pippa, helping unravel the haunted heart of the manor. And then the letters started coming. Real readers, real people, sending me photographs of their own dogs, adopted, rescued, bought for next to nothing. Because a dog lights up a story the same way it lights up a house. You either know that in your bones or you don't.

I'll be fair, there are other kinds of beings, animal and human both. Cat people, or perhaps I should say cat worshippers. I sat with that idea a long time before I found the right place for them: the dim corridors of Serpent's Manor, my second most popular tale. There I introduced Shadowmere, a raven-furred cat with luminous amber eyes. And the cat lovers wrote to me exactly the way the dog lovers had. Fair is fair.

It was only last night, reading about Jake by that fire, that the whole thing connected. Jake carried something of Lovey and Elfie in him, and it pulled me upright, leaning into the page, breath caught. I read the reviews while drafting my own, and I noticed how often other readers mentioned the dog, how it helped them through their own grief.

Just yesterday I told Captain, my writing confidant, the plain truth: I've never chased money. The books cover what they need to cover. What I'm really after is to give a reader something that stays, an escape from a hard day, a hard year, or the memory of a pet they had to let go.

And reading by the fire last night, I finally understood something about myself I'd never looked at directly.

Maybe I do all of this to buy more time with Benji.

Our cherished Jack Russell. So that whatever days he has left are full of comfort and good treats and the sound of me working beside him.

P.S. — To everyone following Benji's journey. His cancer and kidney disease are advancing daily. The vet first gave him a month. He's given us two. I think it's because he lies at my feet while I write, certain he still has more to say.

Stay strong, Benji. Please. Your character will appear in the final instalment of The McTavish Chronicles, and your legacy will outlast us both.

In loving memory of Lovey and Elfie. I miss you with tears in my eyes.

— Iwan, your temporary confidant.

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A Fast-Paced Horror Novella with an Intriguing Mystery

Iwan Ross — Fri, 26 Jun 2026 00:00:00 +0000

★★★★★

Second Hand Rose is a fast-paced horror novella that I read in a single sitting, finishing it in under an hour.

D.E. Fox creates an intriguing premise centred around a small town, mysterious disappearances, and an antique shop with secrets of its own. The story moves quickly, and there is never a point where it feels as though it loses momentum.

One of my favourite aspects was Jake, the loyal terrier. As a dog lover myself, I immediately connected with his role in the story, and it was easy to understand why so many other readers have mentioned him.

As both a reader and a fellow author, I also found the novella thought-provoking for another reason. Reading it reminded me how challenging it can be to balance pacing with character development, particularly in a shorter work. There were moments where I would have happily spent more time with the characters and the town before racing toward the next twist.

That said, the story succeeds in what it sets out to do: it delivers a quick, entertaining supernatural horror read with an engaging mystery at its heart.

If you're looking for a novella that you can comfortably finish in an evening, Second Hand Rose is well worth picking up.

Read the Goodreads review.

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My Most Personal Book Yet Is Finally Out in the World

Iwan Ross — Mon, 15 Jun 2026 00:00:00 +0000

My father died three times before I turned twelve.

At least, that's what my mother told me — three different deaths, three different lies, each one chosen to keep me from ever looking for him.

That's the first line of my new book, and it's the truest thing I've ever published. Today I'm thrilled — and more than a little nervous — to share that Growing Slowly Nowhere is now available in every format: ebook, paperback, and hardcover.

For years you've known me for The McTavish Chronicles — the gothic mysteries, the haunted manors, the restless spirits of Serenity Falls. This book is different. This one is true. It's the story underneath all those haunted houses: a childhood spent growing up in apartheid-era South Africa, in a home that was never built to be safe, and the long, slow, stubborn work of surviving it.

It's a memoir about a vanished father and a narcissistic mother. About a brother's cruelty and a boy who learned to disappear. About the South African Air Force, the minefields of the Mozambican border, a fire that nearly killed me, and a coma that nearly finished the job. It's about psychiatric clinics and hard-won recovery, and about the people — and one extraordinary woman — who finally taught me what home could mean.

It is not a story of easy triumph. It's an honest, unflinching, and (I promise) sometimes darkly funny account of carrying the lessons of survival — the harmful ones and the necessary ones — into a life that finally became worth living.

And it ends with something I never saw coming when I first set out to write it: I went looking for my father, and I found something else entirely.

★★★★★ "A riveting and unforgettable true story, told with urgency, honesty, and quiet determination."★★★★★ "Brutally honest, deeply moving, and impossible to put down."

If you've ever loved a memoir like Educated, The Glass Castle, or A Boy Called It — or if you've simply ever wondered what shapes a person who writes about hauntings for a living — I wrote this one for you.

👉 Get Growing Slowly Nowhere here — available now in ebook, paperback, and hardcover.

Thank you for being here, and for reading. It means more than you know to share this one with you.

— Iwan

P.S. If the book moves you, the single kindest thing you can do for an independent author is leave a short review. A line or two on Amazon or Goodreads helps other readers find their way to it — and I read every one.

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Finding Hope in the Darkness: A Review of Broken But Fixed by Diane Dalton

Iwan Ross — Sat, 6 Jun 2026 00:00:00 +0000

★★★★★ A Short Read That Leaves a Lasting Impression

There are some books you read and enjoy, and then there are books that quietly remind you that you are not alone.

Broken But Fixed: The Diane Dalton Story was one of those books for me.

At just under a hundred pages, this memoir is a relatively short read, but Diane Dalton packs an incredible amount of life, faith, hardship, and hope into those pages. She shares her journey with honesty and courage, inviting readers into some of the most difficult chapters of her life while never losing sight of the faith and determination that carried her through them.

What resonated most with me was how much of Diane's story felt familiar. While our lives have followed different paths, I could relate to many of the insecurities, fears, struggles, and feelings of rejection she describes. Reading her story was a reminder that others have faced similar challenges and found a way to overcome them.

One aspect I particularly appreciated was the inclusion of personal photographs throughout the book. Seeing the people, places, family members, and friends mentioned in the story added an extra layer of authenticity and helped bring Diane's experiences to life.

Despite the difficult subjects it touches on, this is ultimately a story about resilience, healing, faith, and finding purpose after hardship. Diane's willingness to share her experiences will undoubtedly encourage readers who may be facing their own struggles.

This is a sincere, heartfelt memoir that demonstrates how hope can survive even life's darkest seasons.

A well-deserved five-star read.

— Iwan Ross

Read the Goodreads review.

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The New Witch Hunt: AI Paranoia and the Loss of Human Error

Iwan Ross — Fri, 15 May 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Let’s talk about a recent Verified Purchase review left for my latest book, Serenity Falls. The reader pointed out two continuity errors across the series. First, they noticed that in Book 1, Coby’s female dog was named Pippa, but by Book 2, her name switched to Janie. Second, they caught that in Book 4, a baby's gender and name shifted from a boy named Struan to a girl named Isla.

Then came the kicker: "Never had this happen in a book series. Are these written by AI?"

Welcome to the era of AI Paranoia.

The Flawed Logic of Modern Reading

We have reached a bizarre cultural moment where honest human oversights are weaponized as proof of technological fraud. If a name slips, an assistant editor misses a detail, or a writer loses track of an internal timeline, it is no longer viewed as a mistake. It is viewed as an algorithm glitching.

But if changing a dog's name or shifting a baby's gender makes a book "AI-generated," then history’s greatest human authors must have been time-traveling computers.

Consider the evidence:

The Character Swap: In Stranger in a Strange Land, legendary sci-fi author Robert Heinlein completely lost track of a secondary character's identity, switching her name between Alice and Agnes throughout the novel.
The Resurrection: In Book V of The Iliad, Homer explicitly has the warrior Pylaimenes killed in battle. Yet, in Book XIII, Pylaimenes miraculously reappears alive and well to weep over his fallen son.
The Physical Mirage: In Robinson Crusoe, Daniel Defoe describes Crusoe stripping completely naked to swim out to a shipwreck. Two paragraphs later, Crusoe is actively filling his pockets with salvaged biscuits.

Humans have always been beautifully, consistently flawed storytellers.

Why Indie Authors are the Targets

As an independent author, budget constraints are a reality. When you cannot afford expensive development teams, keeping track of every thread across a sprawling five-book landscape like The McTavish Chronicles rests entirely on one pair of human eyes.

The irony is that modern generative models are actually better at maintaining strict data spreadsheets of character names than tired human brains working late into the night. It is the humans who forget, who mix up the details, and who accidentally rename a dog.

A Final Test

To prove exactly how easily the human mind overlooks details while focusing on the broader picture, I have included a deliberate, verifiable error in the famous literary examples listed earlier in this post. One of those literary blunders did not actually happen the way I described it, yet your brain likely glided right past it, accepting it as truth.

Which brings me to my final question.

Reader, please tell me this: Was this article written by an AI agent, or me?

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The Things That Chose Me — Part III: The Girl Who Rode Beside Me

Iwan Ross — Mon, 11 May 2026 00:00:00 +0000

After Twinkle, my beloved horse, passed away, life carried me back to the small city we had once called home. And this time, something unexpected happened—I fell completely in love again. With Copper.

I rode him through the streets like a king in a world too small to contain him. Children gathered wherever we went, calling his name—“Copper!”—their hands full of apples, bananas, even strawberries. I was the envy of the neighbourhood.

And I adored every moment of it.

Until the day something else found me.

I had taken a shortcut through the old diamond mine heaps—now carved into a BMX trail of ramps and dusty ridges. As I rode forward, she appeared.

She stopped her bicycle abruptly, as though she had just ridden into something unreal—a boy on horseback where no horse should be.

She wore tennis whites, her racket slung casually across her back, her tanned legs catching the afternoon light.

A goddess. No exaggeration.

“Hello,” she said, her voice as soft as honey.

Copper stopped too.

He lowered his head.

I knew what that meant.

“H… h… he…” I stammered.

“My name is Soekie,” she said, dismounting her bike and stepping closer.

“I… I…” I tried again, my voice refusing me.

Copper neighed.

Shut up, my mind pleaded. You’re going to ruin this.

He neighed again.

Soekie blinked up at me, her eyes searching, amused.

“What’s his name?” she asked, running her fingers through Copper’s mane.

“Copper,” I finally blurted.

He shook his head proudly.

“He’s beautiful,” she whispered.

My eyes shimmered too—but not for the same reason.

“Thank you,” I said, as if the compliment had been meant for me.

Then, without warning, Copper lifted his tail and dropped his offering onto the red soil.

He flattened his ears. Guilty.

Soekie covered her mouth, but her laughter escaped anyway—soft, musical, unforgettable.

And strangely… I envied her.

Anyone else would have been kicked or nipped for less.

Copper scraped his hoof against the ground.

A signal.

I knew it.

And so did she.

“Would you mind if I rode with you?” she asked. “I’m a bit scared…”

“Not at all,” I said quickly.

She climbed back onto her bicycle, and together we moved forward—a boy and his horse, with a goddess riding beside them.

A sight to behold.

We reached my house. Copper slowed, recognising the stop. But something in her eyes—and in mine—said not yet.

“Go on,” I whispered.

Copper obeyed.

We rode further.

Her gaze never left him.

“This is it,” she said at last, stopping in front of a beautiful home, its garden still glistening with dew.

Her parents rushed out.

“Wat die donner gaan hier aan?” her father demanded.

(“What on earth is this?”)

I swallowed hard.

Copper turned, presenting his rear to them.

I braced myself.

Dismounting, I stepped behind him—shielding them, just in case.

“Hi, I’m Iwan,” I said, extending my hand. “And this is Copper… my magnificent horse.”

“Daddy, Mommy,” Soekie said gently, “meet my new friends.”

They circled Copper in awe. Her younger brother looked as though he might faint from wonder.

I lifted him onto the saddle.

“Hold on tight,” I said, guiding Copper slowly down the street.

Doors opened. Neighbours emerged. Applause followed us like a parade.

When we returned, I helped him down.

Copper, entirely unbothered, wandered onto their lawn and began eating as if he owned it.

No one stopped him.

They invited me inside.

Fresh lemonade. Laughter. Questions.

And somewhere in that moment, I learned something impossible—

Soekie was ready to trade tennis for horses.

And I… was ready to teach her.

Or at least, I believed I was.

Because her dream was about to begin.

And I was about to…

—

That, my friends, is where this story ends.

But I would be lying if I didn’t add one more thing.

That day mattered.

Because behind Copper’s towering frame, hidden from the world—

I received my very first kiss.

Just a peck.

But one I have never forgotten.

To be continued.

This piece has been shaped for clarity and flow.

If you’d like to read it exactly as it was first written—raw and unfiltered—you can download the original version below.

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The Things That Chose Me — Part II

Iwan Ross — Sun, 10 May 2026 00:00:00 +0000

To truly understand my bond with Copper, I need to take you further back.

Before Copper… there was Twinkle.

I found myself on a farm, hundreds of miles from home, spending my holidays under the care of a man I came to know only as The Cheesemaker.

He was a Dutchman, married to a German woman. They had no children together, though he had three sons of his own. My mother—working as a social worker—had arranged for me to stay there.

At the time, I didn’t question why.

Looking back, I understand more than I did then.

The farm sat quietly on the edge of a small town. There was no electricity. Mornings came cold and early, and work began before the sun had properly risen.

I gathered wood.
Fed the donkey that heated our water.
Helped turn milk into something resembling cheese.

The Cheesemaker was known for many things.

The quality of his cheese was not one of them.

The days were long. Practical. Grounded.

Afternoons brought a different kind of freedom—wandering fields, moving through land that felt vast and untamed. It was during one of those returns, pheasants hanging loosely from our hands, that everything changed.

I saw her.

A pale mare, standing quietly behind a fence.

She stepped forward as I passed, lowering her head, her eyes fixed on mine.

I didn’t understand it then.

But something passed between us.

That night, I rushed through everything.

Dinner. Chores. Prayer.

And then I ran.

She was waiting.

I climbed the fence without thinking and found myself on her back moments later—no saddle, no reins, no understanding of what I was doing.

Only trust.

Or something like it.

She moved carefully at first.

Then with purpose.

Then with freedom.

We didn’t speak, not in words.

But I talked anyway.

I told her things I didn’t tell anyone else.

And she listened.

That was enough.

The Cheesemaker called out her name one evening as I rode past.

“Twinkle.”

I asked why.

He shouted something back, but I didn’t hear it.

Later, I learned.

When she disappeared into the fields, they would call for her:

“Twinkle, twinkle, little star… tell us where the hell you are.”

I never needed to call.

She always came.

Twinkle and I became inseparable.

I learned to ride.
To care for her.
To understand her moods, her strength, her quiet patience.

The Cheesemaker taught me how to show jump. He was proud—his sons had never taken to it.

And for the first time, I found something I was good at.

I started winning.

Gymkhanas. Small competitions.

I’d take the prize money home, hide it, spend it on riding gear and small things that felt like they belonged to me.

Twinkle wasn’t just a horse.

She was everything.

Then one day, the phone rang.

“Iwan, it’s for you.”

I already knew who it was.

I picked up the receiver, excitement rushing through me.

“Hello!”

There was no hesitation on the other end.

No softness.

“Twinkle died.”

Just like that.

I don’t remember falling.

But I remember the silence that followed.

I never went back.

Everything changed after that.

The competitions.
The wins.
The room filled with ribbons and photographs.

None of it meant anything anymore.

What had once felt like purpose…

became absence.

And that was the first time I understood something I wouldn’t have words for until much later:

Some things don’t leave you.

They’re taken.

To be continued.

This piece has been shaped for clarity and flow.

If you’d like to read it exactly as it was first written—raw and unfiltered—you can download the original version below.

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A Story of Secrets, Spirit, and Shared Threads

Iwan Ross — Sat, 9 May 2026 00:00:00 +0000

There are stories you read… and then there are stories that feel strangely familiar, as if they echo something deeper within you. Family Skeletons: The Secrets of Castlewood Manor is one of those.

Set against a backdrop of old-world charm, hidden histories, and the ever-present weight of legacy, this story draws you into a world where secrets are not buried—they are waiting. Waiting to be uncovered, confronted, and, in some cases, survived.

What struck me most was not only the mystery itself—cleverly layered with intrigue, tension, and moments of quiet revelation—but the spirit behind it. There is a certain rhythm here, a sense of lived experience woven between the lines, that made the story feel personal in a way I did not expect.

As someone who writes within similar spaces—old estates, lingering pasts, and the shadows of what once was—I found myself not just reading, but resonating. There is a shared love here for atmosphere, for history, and for the unseen threads that bind people, places, and time together.

The characters move through a world that is both elegant and unpredictable, where danger and discovery walk hand in hand. And yet, beneath it all, there is a sense of playfulness—an understanding that mystery can be both gripping and, at times, wonderfully entertaining.

Veronica Cline Barton has crafted a story that invites you in, keeps you guessing, and leaves you with the feeling that there is always more beneath the surface.

And perhaps that is what stayed with me most:

Not all secrets are meant to remain hidden.

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

Read my Goodreads review.

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The Things That Chose Me — Part I

Iwan Ross — Sat, 9 May 2026 00:00:00 +0000

As I sat at my writing desk, a sudden recollection of my teenage years washed over me.

I’m not entirely sure what sparked it. A trigger, perhaps. Or something quieter—something that had been waiting.

Then it struck me, sharply.

It had something to do with the film we watched last night—Remarkably Bright Creatures. A story about a stoic woman and a Giant Pacific octopus named Marcellus. The octopus narrates its life in captivity, counting its days inside a glass tank.

Captivity, they called it.

But as I watched, I couldn’t help thinking:

rehabilitation.

And that word stayed with me.

My eyes drifted from the page, and without warning, I saw myself again—not at a desk, but on horseback. Younger. Smaller. Free in a way I didn’t understand at the time.

Her name was Twinkle.

Our first meeting was nothing extraordinary—just chance, like most important things tend to be. I had won a junior gymkhana at the age of nine, and with it came prize money and something far more valuable: a horse.

That win transformed me overnight. From nobody to something like a hero.

But looking back, I know now:

It wasn’t me.

It was her.

There are things you can’t explain, no matter how many words you have.

Marcellus said something in that film that never left me:

“Humans cannot use the millions of words they know to tell each other what they need.”

And that was it.

That was Twinkle.

She understood me in ways no one else ever did.

There were no conversations, not in the way people think of them. But there was something deeper—something quieter.

The wind in my hair.

The rhythm of her hooves against the earth.

The warmth beneath my hand.

That was language.

That was trust.

That was home.

But like many things in my life, it didn’t last.

One Friday afternoon, I came home from school to find a moving truck in the driveway. Men were already carrying our belongings out of the house.

Another move.

Another disappearance.

Another ending without warning.

My teenage years arrived without guidance. Without structure. Without anything resembling stability.

I was wild.

No—that’s not the right word.

I was feral.

I ran.

In and out of places that were never meant to hold me.

And somewhere in that chaos, I found an old man.

A war veteran. A gambler. The closest thing I ever had to a grandfather.

“Oom Bakkies,” I called him.

We spent hours playing poker. Endless hands, endless silence, broken only by small pieces of wisdom he would drop like stones into still water.

One of them stayed with me.

“Don’t search too hard. The most important things in life will find you.”

I didn’t understand it then.

But life has a way of proving such things.

Not long after, I was given a horse.

No explanation. No story. Just… a horse.

And everything that came with it.

Saddle. Reins. Equipment.

A gift from someone who chose not to be known.

His name was Copper.

Every afternoon after school, I would rush home, eat whatever I could find, gather food for him, tie it down to my bicycle, and make the 11-kilometre journey to the stables.

I didn’t go there to ride.

I went there to sit.

To watch him eat.

To speak.

I told him everything.

And I mean everything.

And I swear—he understood.

You could see it.

The way his ears moved.

The way he paused.

The way he watched me.

He knew when I said something he didn’t like, too.

He’d flatten his ears, just slightly.

A warning.

Say that again.

Copper never kicked me.

Not once.

But others?

That was a different story.

He sent my mother to the hospital.

More than once.

My brother, too.

And to be clear—my brother deserved it.

Copper didn’t tolerate cruelty.

Not toward me.

Not toward himself.

And in a world where I had very little protection…

That mattered.

He became something of a legend.

People knew.

Don’t mess with the boy with the horse.

On weekends, I would ride him home.

Children would gather along the road, offering apples, bananas, whatever they had. They’d pat him, laugh, reach out.

And for a moment—

everything felt normal.

But life has a way of circling back.

And just as quickly as it gives…

it takes.

To be continued.

This piece has been shaped for clarity and flow.

If you’d like to read it exactly as it was first written—raw and unfiltered—you can download the original version below.

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When Trust Becomes a Weapon

Iwan Ross — Wed, 29 Apr 2026 00:00:00 +0000

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

There’s something quietly unsettling about a story that reminds you how easily trust can be manufactured—and how dangerous that can become.

Where There’s Doubt pulled me in far quicker than I expected. What begins as a seemingly familiar premise—online connection, emotional vulnerability, the search for companionship—quickly unravels into something far more layered and unsettling.

At the centre of it all is Nico, a character as fascinating as he is disturbing. His ability to construct identities, to read people, and to manipulate emotion is handled with a precision that makes the story feel uncomfortably real. But what struck me most is that his greatest strength—his control—is also where the cracks begin to form.

This isn’t just a story about deception. It’s about the consequences of it.

The tension builds steadily as relationships shift, loyalties blur, and the line between truth and performance becomes increasingly difficult to define. There’s a constant sense that something isn’t quite right—and when it begins to unravel, it does so with impact.

What I appreciated most is how the story explores not just the mechanics of deception, but the emotional cost of it. The characters feel human, flawed, and at times painfully vulnerable, which makes the unfolding events all the more compelling.

It’s intense, thought-provoking, and at times unsettling in the best possible way.

A gripping psychological read that lingers long after the final page.

Read the Goodreads review.

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No Podium, No Pressure What Running Taught Me About Writing, Freedom, and Mental Health

Iwan Ross — Fri, 24 Apr 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Something was nagging at the back of my mind yesterday during my run. Not an unpleasant feeling — more like an itch just out of reach, persistent and quietly insistent. This is not unusual for me. Running has always had a way of unlocking things. Once my body settles into its rhythm and takes over on autopilot, my mind begins to wander into territory it wouldn't otherwise visit. Runners will know this feeling well. I call it zoning out, though I suspect there are better words for it. If you have one, I'd genuinely love to hear it.

Yesterday was different, though. With race day approaching, I've been trying to stay present during my runs — tracking lap times, monitoring my pace, keeping myself honest. My target is six minutes per kilometre, which, at my age, is no small ask. The body has opinions of its own.

But somewhere on that run, I let go. And that's when it arrived — not a thought exactly, more like a recognition. A quiet, clarifying truth.

The scenery where we train is extraordinary. Ranches, vineyards, and wine farms stretch out in every direction. From the crest of the steep hill we climb, two neighbouring towns sit nestled in the mountains, forty minutes away by road. The mist begins to form mid-run, settling over everything like a slow, calm exhale. It is the kind of beauty that asks nothing of you. It simply is.

And standing in the middle of all of it, I realised: running, for me, is exactly like writing.

Both pursuits carry the same quiet burden of expectation. As writers, we pour ourselves into our work — the drafting, the cover design, the blurb, the publishing, the promoting, the refining, the starting again — all of it oriented, consciously or not, toward that elusive summit. The coveted number one. The bestseller. The podium. We picture it clearly: the crowd, the recognition, the arrival. And when it doesn't come — or when it comes and then slips away again — the silence that follows can be crushing.

For anyone who has lived with anxiety, perfectionism, or the particular weight of feeling like you are never quite enough, that silence is familiar territory. I know it well.

"It struck me, standing in the mist, that the most liberating thing I have ever done is stop performing — for publishers, for rankings, for an imaginary audience holding scorecards."

When I wrote Elm Brook Manor, I had no audience. My dog was waiting for his walk. My wife, who has always believed in me more steadily than I have believed in myself, encouraged me to stop hiding and start sharing. So I wrote — not for a market, not for a ranking, but because I loved it. I loved the characters I was building. Readers still mention those characters in their reviews today, which tells me something important: the work that comes from genuine joy tends to find its people.

That is the thing about letting go of the podium. It doesn't mean giving up. It means giving yourself permission to be present — in the writing, in the running, in the life happening around you. On a run, I can stop to photograph the mist settling over the valley. I can pause to tie a shoelace, strike up a conversation with a stranger, or fall back to encourage a newer runner toward the finish line. None of that is failure. All of it is freedom.

There is no pressure in what I do now, and the absence of that pressure has changed everything — not just how I write, but how I feel. Mental health, for many of us in the creative community, is quietly shaped by the stories we tell ourselves about success and worth. We measure ourselves against invisible standards, against other people's highlights, against a version of ourselves that exists only in our most anxious imagination. It is exhausting. And it is, I have come to understand, entirely optional.

My readers are not waiting for a bestseller. They are waiting for the next honest story. And I am free — truly free — to give them exactly that.

To anyone reading this who is carrying that same weight: you are allowed to put it down. The most radical thing a creative person can do, in a world obsessed with metrics and rankings and performance, is simply enjoy what they make.

I am free to write. I am free to run. And I would not trade that freedom for any podium in the world.

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An Enlightening Quiche is a Story That Lingers Long After the Last Bite

Iwan Ross — Tue, 21 Apr 2026 00:00:00 +0000

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

No—despite the inviting cover and its promise of something warm, comforting, and familiar, An Enlightening Quiche is not a gentle, easy read. It is something far richer. Something layered. Something that simmers beneath the surface until, before you know it, it begins to boil.

Eva Pasco has crafted a story that feels intimate and expansive all at once—a deeply human exploration of identity, grief, privilege, and the quiet, often unspoken tensions that exist between people who believe they understand one another.

At its heart, the novel brings together two women—Augusta Bergeron and Lindsay Metcalfe—whose lives, backgrounds, and moral compasses could not be more different. And yet, as their paths intertwine, what unfolds is not simply a clash of personalities, but a slow unraveling of assumptions, histories, and deeply rooted truths.

Pasco’s writing is elegant and deliberate. She does not rush her reader. Instead, she invites you in—guiding you gently through layered narratives, allowing each revelation to settle before the next begins to stir. There is a quiet confidence in her storytelling, one that trusts the reader to lean in, to listen, and to feel.

What struck me most was the atmosphere—the sense of place, of memory, of something almost nostalgic yet unsettled. There is a warmth here, yes… but it is the kind of warmth that sits beside tension, not in place of it. Like sitting at a kitchen table where conversation flows easily on the surface, while deeper truths linger just beneath every word.

And then, slowly, almost imperceptibly at first…

Everything shifts.

The story deepens. The emotional weight gathers. And what once felt familiar begins to reveal something far more complex and, at times, quietly devastating.

This is not a novel that relies on spectacle. It relies on people—on their flaws, their histories, their choices. And in doing so, it becomes something far more powerful: a reflection of the fragile, intricate ways in which lives intersect and unravel.

By the final pages, I found myself reluctant to leave. Not because the story demanded resolution—but because it had created a space that felt lived-in, real, and emotionally resonant.

An Enlightening Quiche is not just a story you read.

It is one you settle into.

And long after the final page, it lingers—like a conversation unfinished, or a memory that refuses to fade.

A beautifully written, deeply human novel that rewards patience and reflection.

Read the Goodreads review.

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Rejected, Then #1: My Honest Journey Through Indie Publishing as a Fiction Writer

Iwan Ross — Tue, 21 Apr 2026 00:00:00 +0000

There was never any doubt in my mind, or my heart, that I wanted to become a full-time writer. "One day, when I'm grown up," as they say. Of my few acquaintances, only one person has ever asked me why I waited so long — well into my fifties — before I truly began. The answer is simple: maturity. Had I faced rejection, critique, or outright mockery at a younger age, I would have either quit entirely or torched my own reputation by pushing back too hard, too soon. It takes a particular kind of self-control, a quiet inner steel, to survive this craft. And I was never simply waiting. I was nurturing something. Slowly, deliberately, I built a career where the work itself sharpened me. I read more than anyone I knew — far more. While friends found partners, married, had children, and watched the cycle repeat itself, I remained single, dedicated to the one thing I had always dreamed of becoming. The quiet one. The one spending his evenings alone with a book.

Now that I've finally arrived, I can only describe the journey as akin to chewing Chappies.

For those unfamiliar with this part of the world, allow me to elaborate. Chappies is a chewing gum beloved across generations here — a small, colourful, genuinely ingenious invention. When we were children, our parents would send us in little groups to the corner shop for bread and milk. In those days, half-cents were scarce. We'd gather our items, stretch onto our tiptoes to peer over the counter, and slide our coins across to the shopkeeper — almost invariably a man with a crooked nose and eyes sharp with greed. He'd slap the change down and hand over Chappies to cover whatever small amount he was short. Two pieces per cent. Our parents always knew, and we never dared shortchange them. We knew we'd be caught, and caned — perfectly legal in those days.

On the walk home, we'd unwrap our gum and guess at the flavour from the colour of the wrapper: mango, orange, apple. But the real prize was inside — the famous "Did You Know?" trivia printed on the foil. Marketers still use this trick today. The most celebrated example was the claim that the Mona Lisa has no eyebrows. We'd read them aloud as we walked, sharing facts, debating, marvelling at the world. Each trivia had a number — perhaps #5, or #147, or somewhere in the hundreds. The great mystery, the one no child ever solved, was what #1 said. We tried for years. We never found out.

Until today.

My novel, Elm Brook Manor, has reached the coveted #1 spot in four markets, across three genres, in the free category. After years of striving, it is finally there. The title has always had a strange trajectory — disappearing for months, then resurfacing as new readers discovered it, climbing before falling again. At one point it reached #4 in the United States, only to sink and rise once more. This morning, I checked the ranking and felt something I can only call immense, uncomplicated joy. Readers have found it. They've trusted it enough to give it a chance.

But this didn't come without its share of heartache. Negative reviews. Publishers and literary agents who dismissed the manuscript with barely concealed disdain. Rejection letters that would have ended most careers. In the end, I had no choice but to go rogue — to become an independent author and publisher. At the time, I dreaded the idea. Now, I understand what I've gained: flexibility, creative freedom, fairer royalty rates, and something I hold more dearly than any of it — I own my brand. I am the writer. Not just a name chosen by a marketing department and printed on a cover.

To any aspiring writer reading this: keep going. Be consistent — in your voice, in your marketing, in showing up for the work. Write every day. Three hundred and sixty-five days a year. Even when you're unwell. Even on holiday. The stories don't pause; neither should you.

And to those who leave harsh reviews: five hundred words can take an author an hour to write, and a reader five minutes to dismiss. Please carry that with you.

Finding that #1 today felt, in its own way, like finally knowing what was printed on trivia card number one. Not because the number itself matters — it doesn't, not really — but because of what it represents: that a story, offered honestly and with patience, will eventually find the readers it was always meant for. Like those little wrapped squares of gum we clutched on the walk home, the surprise was never the flavour. It was what was hidden inside, waiting to be discovered.

The work continues. It always does. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

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Bloodlines and Betrayals Review: A Gripping Mafia Romance of Love, Power, and Revenge

Iwan Ross — Mon, 13 Apr 2026 00:00:00 +0000

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Bloodlines and Betrayals: A Mafia Romance is a gripping, fast-paced read that pulled me in from the very first page and didn’t let go.

Despite the absence of a formal description, the story unfolds with intensity and confidence — delivering a compelling mix of suspense, danger, and emotion. From money laundering and car bombs to betrayal, revenge, and forbidden love, the stakes are constantly rising.

At the heart of the story is Elena, whose connection with Tony — the son of a powerful mafia boss — opens the door to a tangled web of secrets, lies, and long-standing family conflicts. Their relationship is both passionate and fraught with tension, raising difficult questions about loyalty, identity, and the cost of love.

What stood out most to me was how effortlessly the story balances action with emotional depth. The pacing keeps the pages turning, while the characters feel grounded enough to make their choices matter.

Lorraine Carey has crafted a story that is engaging, dramatic, and thoroughly entertaining. I read it in just two days and would highly recommend it to anyone who enjoys mafia romance with strong suspense elements.

A well-deserved five stars.

Read the Goodreads review.

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Between Life and Death: A Thoughtful Review of Belief

Iwan Ross — Fri, 27 Mar 2026 00:00:00 +0000

There’s something quietly compelling about Belief—the kind of story that doesn’t just lean into the supernatural, but uses it as a lens to explore identity, belonging, and the fragile line between life and death.

From its striking opening—waking in a mortuary on the brink of a post-mortem—the novel immediately establishes a tone that is both eerie and intimate. What follows is not simply a tale of the afterlife, but a layered journey through two worlds that feel equally vivid and emotionally grounded.

What stood out to me most is how the author balances the fantastical with the deeply human. Belief herself is a character caught between realities, yet her emotional experiences—confusion, longing, love—remain relatable throughout. The concept of walking between the world of the living and the “vale of Otherworld” is handled with imagination, but also with restraint, allowing the story to breathe rather than overwhelm.

There’s also an underlying warmth to the narrative. Despite its darker themes—death, fate, and hidden truths—it never feels cold. Instead, it carries a sense of curiosity and quiet resilience, particularly in how Belief navigates both her personal history and her unusual role.

The world-building is intriguing without being overly dense, and the premise itself—dreams that are more than dreams, a lineage tied to the Reaper world—offers plenty of room for expansion. It’s easy to see how this could grow into a series that deepens both its mythology and its characters.

If you enjoy supernatural fiction that blends mystery with emotional depth, Belief is well worth exploring. It’s a story that lingers not because of shock or spectacle, but because of the questions it quietly leaves behind.

A thoughtful and imaginative read that invites you to look just beyond the veil.

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

Read the Goodreads review.

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A Life of Service, Perseverance, and Quiet Dignity

Iwan Ross — Fri, 13 Mar 2026 00:00:00 +0000

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

I recently finished Bridging Two Worlds: The Life and Legacy of George Gaspar Aducayen, Jr., and I can honestly say it was a deeply inspiring and rewarding read.

What makes this memoir stand out is the sincerity of Ambassador Aducayen’s voice. Rather than presenting a simple catalogue of achievements, he invites readers into the personal journey behind his remarkable career. From his early life in the small village of Claveria in the Philippines to representing his country across the world, the story unfolds with humility, honesty, and reflection.

The book offers fascinating glimpses into the world of diplomacy and international relations, yet it never feels distant or overly formal. Instead, it remains grounded in the experiences that shaped the man behind the titles — the challenges of wartime hardship, the discipline of legal study, and the dedication required to serve one’s country abroad.

One of the most touching elements of the memoir is the enduring love story between George and his wife, Caridad. Their remarkable 75-year partnership adds a deeply human dimension to the narrative and reminds us that even the most distinguished careers are built upon the quiet strength of family and companionship.

What I appreciated most throughout the book was its tone of gratitude and perspective. Ambassador Aducayen reflects not only on success, but also on perseverance, cultural understanding, and the importance of integrity in public service.

Bridging Two Worlds is more than a memoir of diplomacy; it is a story about values, resilience, and the bridges that connect people across cultures and generations.

For readers who enjoy thoughtful memoirs that combine personal history with global perspective, this book is well worth the time. It left me with a renewed appreciation for the dedication of those who serve their countries and for the lasting legacy that a life of purpose can create.

Read the Goodreads review.

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