In disparate parts of London, two stories begin that, as Sarah Butler's debut novel progresses, become steadily intertwined. One is about 28-year-old Alice, who returns to Hampstead Heath from a trip to Mongolia just in time to see her father before he dies. Alice has never fit in with her hardheaded, practical family; now she has to find a way to navigate the complexities of dealing with her two sisters, Cee and Tilly, who will never understand her need to escape London.

Meanwhile, on the streets of the city, Daniel wanders aimlessly, homeless for years, haunted by memories of the woman who left him and the daughter he has never seen. Daniel's entire being is focused on someday finding his daughter, though he has nothing to go on except her name. It is only when he sees a funeral announcement in the newspaper that Daniel suddenly sees his chance and begins his trek to stately Hampstead Heath.

Perhaps the greatest strength in the novel is Butler's gift for detail, her depiction of the very different worlds of the two protagonists. With a sure hand, she guides the reader through days in the life of a homeless man--the places where he can take shelter, the people he meets, the way he is perceived. In Alice's world, Butler explores the intimate topography of grieving and loneliness; ironically, Alice is just as cut off from human companionship as Daniel. When Alice agrees to sell her father's home, clearing the house of its many memories, she creates a void that can be filled only with the promise of a future. What that future may hold, and whether Daniel can ever have a place in it, is the central question explored in this book. --Ilana Teitelbaum, book reviewer at the Huffington Post

Jessica Lott's The Rest of Us is the story of Terry, a photographer in New York whose life is jolted by seeing the obituary for Rhinehart, one of her college professors, a Pulitzer-winning poet with whom she had fallen in love. Then, just as suddenly, she runs into Rhinehart--still, in fact, very much alive--and the chance reunion after 15 years leads to a renewal of their relationship.

Rhinehart struggles with his history and protracted writer's block while Terry begins to realize her long-dormant artistic aspirations, guided by Rhinehart's estranged wife, Laura, an art collector who takes an interest in her work and introduces her to the New York art scene with its power brokers, celebrity and influence. In an ironic twist, it is in part Terry's neurotically self-involved friend Hallie who helps her negotiate the differences between love, purpose and seduction.

Terry is a reflective and observant narrator, tossing off literary references alongside vivid descriptions and critiques of the New York art scene and its poseurs as she recounts Rhinehart's story and her own. While the resulting inside peek at the rarified cultural scenes is appealing, it sometimes has the forced feel of namedropping. Yet the novel effectively conveys the enormous personal courage that true creative expression can require; its portrait of Terry's struggles are sensitive and believable. Lott's writing is lovely and lyrical, and her themes of the place of art, the changing ways we love and the people we hold close over time lend texture to an intelligent and ambitious literary debut. --Jeanette Zwart, freelance writer and reviewer

Love All, Callie Wright's debut novel, begins when Joanie Cole dies in her sleep. Bob, her husband of more than 40 years, moves in with his grown daughter, Anne, and her husband and two teenagers. Now three generations of one family are living together under one roof, and without the glue of Joanie's acceptance, patience and forgiveness to hold them together, the family begins to come apart at the seams.

Bob must fend for himself for the first time in his adult life, no longer able to rely on Joanie for company, conversation or even a late-night sandwich. Anne is forced to relive her father's multiple affairs and infidelities as she begins to question her own husband's mysterious late-night activities. Julia, Anne's 15-year-old daughter, is caught in a love triangle with her two best guy friends and finds inspiration for gossip-mongering in a battered old novel she finds among her grandmother's possessions.

At its heart, Love All is a novel about family, but it touches, too, on the challenges of marriage and loyalty and fidelity and the complexities of relationships at any age. With incredible skill, Wright's narration alternates between each member of the family to give readers a complete, if sometimes biased, view of events as they unfold. Though transitions from third to first person are not always seamless, Wright's ability to convey the thoughts and motivations of each of her characters, from widower to working mother to high schooler, is both compelling and impressive. --Kerry McHugh, blogger at Entomology of a Bookworm

After her hostile takeover of the family detective agency in 2012's Trail of the Spellmans, Izzy Spellman is now the boss in Lisa Lutz's The Last Word, dealing with all the responsibilities and frustration that come with the position. She's working with Edward Slayter (also introduced in the previous novel), to uncover who's trying to force him out of his own company before he's ready to retire. He may not be able to fight back, however, because he's trying to keep a secret that has the potential to destroy his professional reputation.

Meanwhile, Izzy's ex-boyfriend, Henry Stone, has distressing news for her, and Izzy fears her parents' marriage might be in trouble. She starts questioning whether it was a wise move to take over the agency--or if she even wants to stay in the PI business at all.

Lutz's Spellman novels contain mysteries, but they're more character studies of the eccentric clan. Through the six books in the series, the Spellmans have evolved and grown up--well, some of them have. In The Last Word, more than ever, Izzy struggles with the idea of being a "normal" adult when the things most people do--getting married, having kids, owning a home--seem so hard for her. It's an affecting conundrum, because Izzy is aware her behavior has cost her dearly. Along with its humor, this novel has its share of melancholy, with a surprising and bittersweet ending that nevertheless feels right. Izzy may find it hard to grow up, but Lutz's writing is maturing just fine. --Elyse Dinh-McCrilllis, freelance writer and editor, blogging at Pop Culture Nerd

The title of Stephen P. Kiernan's debut novel, The Curiosity, represents many things: the curiosity of scientists about the central "subject," the subject's view of his new world... and how that world perceives him.

After Dr. Kate Philo and a team of scientists discover a man encased in an iceberg in the Arctic, they bring him back to their lab in Boston and reanimate him. The man wakes and tells Dr. Philo his name is Jeremiah Rice; he was a judge with a wife and young daughter before he fell overboard from an exploration vessel in 1906.

Dr. Philo becomes Judge Rice's protector and tour guide, taking him around the city, slowly falling for him along the way. But a growing faction believes it's blasphemous for scientists to mess with life and death, and some want to shut down the project. They may not have to, however, because Judge Rice's resurrection has an expiration date.

The initial exposition takes almost 100 pages before Judge Rice wakes up, but once he does, the story kicks into gear. The novel's biggest appeal is the poignant relationship between Judge Rice and Dr. Philo, and his excursions around the city, especially at a Red Sox game, make witty fish-out-of-(ice)-water scenarios. The ending leaves some threads untied, but the story does ask provocative questions about whether science should explore altering life's natural order, and the judge and the scientist will make readers care about the debate. --Elyse Dinh-McCrilllis, freelance writer and editor, blogging at Pop Culture Nerd

Released as the "Freedom Summer" of 1964 began, "Dancing in the Street" by Martha and the Vandellas became the unlikely anthem of a generation. Written and recorded at Motown's Hitsville U.S.A., the record began as a party song but took on new layers of meaning as civil rights workers, Vietnam War protesters and other groups used it for their own purposes.

Mark Kurlansky's Ready for a Brand New Beat uses the song to explore the twin histories of the civil rights movement and popular music, which occasionally intersected but often ran on parallel tracks. He traces the history of pop music in mid-century America from jazz to blues to Elvis Presley and the rise of rock 'n' roll. He portrays Motown as a close-knit studio family (with all the infighting and tangled relationships of a blood family), centered on founder and chief producer Berry Gordy, Jr.

As the country's social and political scene spiraled into turmoil, Motown churned out romantic hits, purposefully keeping its songs separate from the country's racial upheaval. But "Dancing," with its driving beat and undertones of protest, escaped the studio's tight control. Kurlansky ably highlights the song's use by various groups agitating for change, though the book's final chapter (a laundry list of later covers of "Dancing") falls flat.

For readers interested in a new angle on the 1960s, Ready for a Brand New Beat provides both a slice of social history and a fascinating inside look at the Motown machine. --Katie Noah Gibson, blogger at Cakes, Tea and Dreams

Warning to the uninitiated: if your notion of cricket is titled English gentleman bedecked in pristine whites on immaculate country greens shouting "cheerio" and "well played," prepare for a shock. In The Great Tamasha, James Astill chronicles the simultaneous rise of Indian cricket and India's emergence as a political power, presenting through the lens of the sport the socioeconomic development of the modern state. From its aspirational if humble roots in the British rule to its most recent incarnation in the form of the Indian Premier League, Indian cricket has evolved from a pastime reserved for the privileged few to a tamasha (spectacle) enjoyed by millions.

Peppered with star-studded interviews and transcripts of historic matches, Astill's history is a boon for any fan of cricket or interested bystander. Combining supple narrative and hard-hitting journalistic styles, his prose is a pleasure to read, with frequent wry humor bringing tears to the eyes.

With a rich family heritage in the sport, as well as experience as a journalist stationed in India for many years, Astill is well suited to the subject, but it's his fandom that provides the passion for this book. Though somewhat repulsed by the "Bollywoodification" of the game and outraged at the rife corruption, ultimately The Great Tamasha offers a ray of hope for both the future of Indian cricket and its homeland. --Tom Lavoie, former publisher

"I have noticed that the intimacy we feel as readers [of fiction] is often generated far less by characters turning to one another and saying intimate things or doing intimate things," Stacey D'Erasmo writes, "than it is by a kind of textual atmosphere, or maybe one should say a biosphere, a gallery, a zone that both emanates from the characters and acts upon them very deeply and personally." The Art of Intimacy is a perceptive look at the spaces and relationships that bind fictional characters together, using a variety of text by such authors as Joseph Conrad, Toni Morrison and Virginia Woolf.

D'Erasmo digs deep into the nuances of literature in order to find the hidden glue that links lovers, family, friends and enemies to each other and to the reader. She poetically and eloquently explains literary devices such as "the subjunctive, shared perspective, image, off-the-page implications [and] the deployment of white space" in minute detail, building layers upon layers of understanding for the reader so that what is not readily visible takes shape and form, leaving the distinct impression that the white spaces in text, as in photography or art, are just as important as the visible black spaces.

Although The Art of Intimacy is not an instruction booklet on writing intimate scenes, readers and writers will gain a deeper appreciation for the lyric need for that which is left unsaid, like the pause in a piece of music which defines the notes around it. --Lee E. Cart, freelance writer and book reviewer

Our night skies are disappearing, due to the increasing brightness and volume of man-made light across the world, but there are pockets of darkness remaining. In The End of Night, Paul Bogard takes readers from the dazzling Las Vegas Strip to national parks such as Acadia in Maine and Death Valley in California, where thousands of stars are still visible to those who look.

Bogard numbers his chapters in reverse order (from 9 to 1), using astronomer John Bortle's dark-sky scale to trace his journey from bright city skies through the glow of suburbia, to remote places where true darkness still exists. Along the way, he explores the effects of light pollution on our public spaces, our energy resources, our health and our society. He interviews people acquainted with the night, from astronomers to night-shift workers to the man responsible for Paris's carefully calibrated nighttime glow. Although he focuses mainly on darkness and light pollution in the United States, he also visits Quebec, Italy and even the Canary Islands to meet with people concerned about the inexorable spread of light.

While Bogard admits that the spread of light pollution is unlikely to stop or reverse, he holds out hope for the preservation of certain dark places, particularly the northern Minnesota lake he loved as a boy. His accessible blend of personal narrative, scientific studies, history and folklore encourages readers to explore the night--and may inspire them to turn off a few lights and go in search of the stars. --Katie Noah Gibson, blogger at Cakes, Tea and Dreams

There are writers whose sarcasm and snarkiness are natural turn-offs. Then there are writers like Annie Choi, whose neurotic rants make us laugh in spite of ourselves. Shut Up, You're Welcome presents the Asian-American experience through the eyes of a sweet but keenly observant, potty-mouthed Valley Girl with a curmudgeonly air.

Each essay begins with a letter addressed to some large entity, such as the Department of Motor Vehicles or campers, before she turns her tirade to a specific event. Choi has an ax to grind with, among other things, musical theater, gardens, family road trips and backseat driving-mothers who pressure daughters into marriage and children. She dishes on the childhood horrors of Korean-made underwear ("like underwear made by David Lynch and Pee Wees Playhouse") and requisite holiday family get-togethers, despite the fact that her family celebrates neither Christmas or Thanksgiving, going so far as to "forget" her birth on Christmas Day.

Choi's dialogue recalls a youthful Sandra Tsing Loh, albeit with the conversational wit and wisdom of a Rory Gilmore. Her parents, speakers of broken English who confuse macaroons for the macarena, provide much of the inspiration behind her snarky discourse. These vivid recollections of a second-generation Southern California Asian adolescence heeding the perfectionist call of helicoptering parents are written with an exasperated and loving piquancy that entertains. --Nancy Powell, freelance writer and technical consultant

Mark Goldblatt's (Africa Speaks; Sloth) insightful, often funny first novel for young people unspools as entries in 12-year-old Julian Twerski's (aka "Twerp") notebook for his English teacher, Mr. Selkirk. The journal serves as atonement for "the thing that happened over winter recess."

Julian's father says that when his friend Lonnie tells him to jump, Julian asks, "How high?" The adventures Julian relates confirm his father's assertion, but they also betray a reluctance on Julian's part to go along with his friend's wishes, and an empathy that Lonnie lacks. When Lonnie asks Julian to throw a stone into a group of pigeons, Julian worries that he'll hit one, which he does. Julian responds by nursing the injured bird. Julian also agrees to write a love letter on Lonnie's behalf to Lonnie's crush--even though he fears an outcome like that of Cyrano de Bergerac. In other subthemes, a new student, Eduardo, threatens Julian's status as the fastest kid at P.S. 23 in Queens, N.Y.

Goldblatt gives readers complete access to Julian's thoughts, his friends and the vacant lot they frequent, and builds suspense about the winter recess incident with Danley Dimmel. Although the events take place in 1969, the only real difference readers will detect between Julian's world and their own is the lack of technology and a reference to the Beatles. Julian's reflections will give readers food for thought: If his instincts are usually right, why does Julian make choices that go against them? Bravo! --Jennifer M. Brown, children's editor, Shelf Awareness

Country music combines with complicated family dynamics in this latest novel from Jennifer Echols (Such a Rush).

Eighteen-year-old narrator Bailey Mayfield is a gifted fiddle player. She and her sister, Julie, used to tour together. Julie sang melody and strummed the guitar, while Bailey sang harmony and played the fiddle. When executives at a record label discover the sisters, they decide they want only Julie. The girls' parents, fearing Bailey will ruin her sister's career, ship her off to live with her grandfather in Nashville while Julie prepares her performances and songs with strict instructions not to do anything that could draw attention to her, lest the public find out the record label ditched one sister in favor of the other.

What her parents don't plan on is Bailey's grandfather finding her a gig playing backup for an Elvis impersonator in a shopping mall. There Bailey meets Sam Hardiman, who wants to take his high school band to the big time and thinks Bailey may be the missing piece. Soon she's playing with them and trying to figure out Sam's motives: Does he like Bailey for who she is, or is he using her to push his band to the top?

Echols once again mines the complex realm of family relationships and romance, against an irresistible Nashville backdrop. Bailey's scorn towards her situation will draw in readers as she begins to discover what she values about herself and what she means to others. --Shanyn Day, blogger at Chick Loves Lit

Newbery Medalist Richard Peck's (A Year Down Yonder) offers readers a mouse's eye–view into Queen Victoria's court with this entertaining novel set in the year 1897, during the run-up to the monarch's Diamond Jubilee.

Fleeing whiskered bullies Trevor and Fitzherbert at an elite academy, the mouse narrator finds himself in the midst of the royal children's riding lessons, and he causes Princess Ena of Battenberg to fall from her horse. Mouse Minor, as he's called at school, thus becomes a rodent on the run, taking refuge in horse stalls and other hideouts. Though his tail "fell naturally into the shape of a question mark," the true mystery that haunts Mouse Minor is his parentage. He believes that if he can just get to Queen Victoria, she will have his answer.

Peck exploits the era with passing Dickensian references (for example, the narrator says of his "ancient" headmaster, "For old Chiroptera, "history was always the worst of times, never the best of times"--a nod to A Tale of Two Cities). The mouse hero's many adventures (with a kindly cat, a horse named Pegasus and a fleet of bats, among others) finally lead him to the queen and a hilarious exchange, but not to the answer he expects ("[T]he name that matters is the name you make for yourself in a life of struggle and success!" she tells him). Peck keeps the pages turning with clever turns of phrase and a race to find out the solution to the mystery of the mouse in question. --Jennifer M. Brown, children's editor, Shelf Awareness