Damrosch is one of the preeminent literary biographers of our time, and this magnificent biography of Robert Louis Stevenson reveals much about a writer that we think we knew. Details of childhood reading, adult adventures, and professional ambition abound. Damrosch shows how important Stevenson’s marriage was to the creation of his fictions. Fanny Stevenson and her sister, Nellie, come alive here in rich quotations from biographies and letters. Nellie’s assessment of her sister and brother-in-law’s marriage is a fulcrum on which the book balances: “Her profound faith in his genius before the rest of the world had come to recognize it had a great deal to do with keeping up his faith in himself.” Theirs was a marriage of “anarchic excitement,” and Damrosch limns their life together with all the vividness of a 19th-century melodramatist. Family is one thing. Land is another: Scotland, California, Samoa. Damrosch makes the point that it was the physical environment that stimulated Stevenson—that his writing comes not simply from his own imagination, but from the interaction of that imagination with landscape. Stevenson’s best fictions, therefore, have all the realism and coherence of a great map. Treasure Island succeeds not so much on the depth of its characters but on the vigor of its realism. Damrosch quotes Stevenson: “The great creative writer shows us the realization and the apotheosis of the daydreams of common men. His stories may be nourished with the realities of life, but their true mark is to satisfy the nameless longings of the reader, and to obey the ideal laws of the daydream.” Stevenson’s life and work meet at the intersection of reality and daydream, longing and satisfaction. Damrosch makes the real seem dreamed and the dreamed real.

Ptashnik uses a question-and-answer structure to tell the story of an anxious baby chickadee who wonders, “What if I never learn how to fly?” An adult chickadee affirms: “You will learn when the time comes!” From there, the conversation turns to how other birds fly, with the baby assessing its own abilities. After discovering that hummingbirds flap their wings fast, the little one suspects that method might be too tiring. “Are there ways to fly without flapping my wings so much?” it asks. “Wandering albatrosses spend most of their lives soaring above the seas,” answers the adult. Baby worries about being able to catch the wind the way albatrosses do. From there, the two discuss birds who don’t fly at all, like penguins and ostriches; those that fly as a group, like starlings; and loners, like owls. Centered on the gentle rapport between baby and adult, Ptashnik’s sweet narrative is filled with facts, but her true gifts are as an illustrator rather than a storyteller. Her digitally created spreads depicting the variety of feathers used for flying, dreamy views of penguins knifing through the water, pelicans swooping into the water as people fish by the docks, and condors taking flight are knockouts full of watery-windy movement and reflective light and shadow.

At the heart of this book is the recovery framework of Alcoholics Anonymous, the Twelve Steps group members follow in their struggle to return to sobriety. The author, writing anonymously, attempts to map the Twelve Steps onto the outline of the hero’s journey as described by Joseph Campbell in his book The Hero with a Thousand Faces (1949), noting that Bill Wilson, the co-founder of AA and the creator of the Twelve Steps, “reached into the collective unconscious, drew out this archetypal pattern of transformation,” and created “the modern map of recovery.” The author goes through the Twelve Steps one by one, discussing each in detail and drawing comparisons with a roughly equivalent stage of the hero’s journey as described by Campbell. Step 5, for instance, requires an admission “to God, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs.” The author expertly elaborates: “The alcoholic ego wants to turn to what it believes is an easier way of dealing with these defects which doesn’t include self-disclosure,” adding, “These easier, softer ways didn’t work before, and they will certainly not work now.” The book’s organizing conceit is obvious but nonetheless effective. And although the author’s underlying assertion that the recovery process is itself heroic, which is certainly true, the book’s main attraction throughout is the wonderfully sharp and knowing reflections on the nature of addiction and recovery writ more broadly. The device of mapping this onto Campbell is thought-provoking, but it’s the author’s deeply felt plumbing of the “abyss of self” through which every addict must journey that makes the book so unexpectedly gripping. Recovering addicts and alcoholics in particular should read this book, not because they consider themselves heroes (far from it; humility is built into the Twelve Steps), but to find their struggles very eloquently described.

“Reason #1: Because of me, you will never date the hottest guy in school,” begins Jess Lanza’s second blog entry addressed to the three classmates who’ve targeted her. Their persecution began in the aftermath of Jess’ kissing Noah, a fellow theater kid who’s dating her former best friend, Chloe, a Black-presenting girl who’s also autistic. Each blog post lists another reason for these bullies to hate Jess, who’s cued white, many of which are tongue-in-cheek (“I assault innocent people with baked goods, and I am reluctant to apologize for it”). In reality, Jess is desperate to make amends with Chloe. As Jess grows closer to athletic Cam, an attractive boy who has floppy blond hair, their friendship complicates her exploration into whether she’s asexual. Jess, who nurses a great love for Shakespeare and a longtime desire to attend the ultra-competitive dramatic writing program at Tisch, sometimes includes in her posts snippets of dialogue in a screenplay format to process the hypothetical scenarios she’s imagining. Unfortunately, meandering and unclear storytelling lessens the impact of the central conflict by muddying the stakes and undermining readers’ understanding of the characters’ motivations.

Ronak’s big sister, Dida, will be visiting for the holiday, and Ronak’s thrilled. But small worries interrupt his happiness: A breeze smudges the floral rangoli pattern he makes; he spills mango juice on his new kurta. And though the day is filled with happy moments, Ronak’s constantly reminded that Dida still hasn’t arrived. Chatting with far-off relatives via video, the boy wishes them a happy Diwali, but they sign off quickly. “Dida didn’t get to say hello to them,” laments the youngster. And when Ronak and his best friend enjoy a delicious spread of sweets, he notices that there are no jalebis, Dida’s favorite. Soon everyone gathers in the garden for fireworks. Despite the beauty of the display, Ronak is upset that Dida has missed it. When the family says a prayer in thankfulness, the lights go out, and Ronak feels free to release the tears he’s been holding back. Just then he hears a familiar voice telling him to open his eyes—Dida! Anand’s mixed-media illustrations, which blend eye-popping colors and textures with visible lines, create a homey, cheery backdrop. Kothari’s sensitively written text—anchored with a refrain of “Arré, arré! No, No! Now what will I do?”—highlights the big and little rituals of Diwali while speaking to Ronak’s joys and uncertainties.