I wasn’t going to say good things about Where the Crawdads Sing, finding the narrative line contrived and sentimental. But that ending. Contrived but perfectly satisfying. I found myself fist pumping the air and saying, “yes.”

I did like the food porn. We never had grits, but I remember banana pudding and corn bread and the food the “lunch room ladies” served up when I was in grade school.

And I remember playing with bugs and feathers and digging in the mud. I grew up in a land-locked state. No shells to be found, but the occasional arrow head and a furry tarantula to put in a jar. The child-protagonist in the book was a tragic figure. My childhood was magical. At least, that’s what I choose to remember.

Best-sellers are rarely great literature, but are often good reads.