Perhaps my favorite book of all time. Largely, I’m sure, because of the nostalgia it holds for me, but also because of the way Green’s characters are such “life-like” teenagers. I love Young Adult fiction for the way (if done well) it captures such a cathartic time in life: the glimpses of “freedom” in a post-parent’s-house world, all the trouble one gets into, and the “firsts” — everything from first cigarettes to young love to heartbreak. Green’s is some of the best of it, I think.

It was his writing style—made of long run-on sentences and largely abandoning grammar altogether—that made me love this book. Lynch is / was another YA author I read often in high school. Freewill seems, to me, the most unique of his work. Trigger warning: this book deals with (and it many ways, revolves around a mystery related to) teen suicide in the town where its main character—Will, whose woodwork mysteriously appears beside each and ever victim—lives, and he fears that, perhaps, he just might be responsible.

Writing in one of the most unique ways that I've had the pleasure of experiencing, James Frey tells four simultaneous stories that somehow interconnect in the city of dreams: Los Angeles. His style is that of fragments and run on sentences, intentionally misplaced punctuation and almost-real factoids, and the novel opens with the disclaimer: "Nothing in this book should be considered accurate or reliable," followed by an entire book filled with facts that are[n't?]. You decide.

Part irreverent coming-of-age story, part post-adolescent art appreciation piece, and all of colors that pull you into the narrative between, The Goldfinch is one of my favorite novels. I have the book on my shelf, but used Audible to listen to it (the narrator is wonderful to listen to). When Stephen King praised this novel as "A Triumph," I was in. It reminded me of youth's chaos, and the strange attraction I continue to have for all of that Polluck splatter.

Simply put: no other book like this exists. It is a labyrinth within a labyrinth. A family moves into a house that is bigger on the inside than it is on the outside—and terrifyingly so, as discovered when two children wander off into the darkness down the hallway, and their voices return an unholy growl which consumes the parent’s world. This story, made of scraps of paper, footnotes that are not footnotes, and essential caveats that must be read to complete and understand the narrative by literally turning the pages in circles, upside down and held up to mirrors in order to finish the book.

You know these books. The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo, etc. Well, they’re great. Listen to the people. Read them. I’ve got the special edition prints on my shelf. The only disclaimer I have: Stieg Larsson died before he could finish the story, and his family has been arguing over the rights to completion since. Nevertheless, the three books that are out are worth reading. I did so while stuck inside my in-law’s house, post-tonsil-removal and full of liquid codeine. Which is pretty much what quarantine feels like, as I write this now.

Each January morning in Mill Valley, California began beside a fire, coffee on the mantel, with warm, dawn sunlight floating through the redwood trees outside the window, and Merton's wisdom in hand, followed by a Headspace session. I'd venture to call it magical. New Seeds... was a healing read for me, especially as contrasted against my experiences one year prior, when I was at a personal low of lows. The mystics have been particularly life-giving, and this was my first introduction to Merton's world.

"A memoir of my spiritual journey out of Americanized pop Christianity into a deeper, richer, more substantive Christian faith..."

Need I say more? Zahnd gave me a copy of his book following a conference we participated in together a few years back, during what may have been the height of my anxiety-laden deconstruction process. I've since given / recommended it to countless people, as I found myself in every page, and began to take comfort in what was an otherwise terrifying journey.

Ed Catmull's insight, direction and managerial wisdom as one of the founding members of Pixar are bar-none. His philosophy on art and creativity, and where it comes from, are fascinating. The lengths to which he and the animation-studios team go to in order to foster healthy, gracious working environments is a model all organizations – from corporations to churches – should consider when structuring their own. This is a book whose influence is ongoing.

"If it's not a 'hell yes' it's a 'no!'" That quote most accurately summarizes McKeown's premise for his book on productivity, choice, and "the disciplined pursuit of less." This book has helped me narrow down my choices and make a decision on them (something I am notoriously bad at). I want to be committed to the essentials more than I want to keep dancing with peripherals, and this book helps people figure out which is which in their own lives.

Many people have recommended this book to me throughout the years, but I avoided it for as long as possible – truth be told – because I thought the title was so stupid. It reminded me of phrases like "hedge of protection" and all things kitschy that annoyed me. But I'm glad I got past my own arrogance. Lamott's style reminds me of all that I loved in Donald Miller's writings, growing up. Her unabashed forwardness and socially liberal bent, coupled with a candid honor paid to the God who saved her from herself, is refreshing to read.

I bought Haig's memoir in December 2016, when I was struggling to find reasons, myself. Jamie Tworkowski and To Write Love On Her Arms worked in conjunction with the author to launch a successful suicide-awareness campaign for their organization, in which I participated it. It's a quick, candid read, and one worth taking a bit of time for. Whether or not you struggle with depression, this book will give helpful insight as to what it's like to live with – and through – it.

My mom wrote this book – "a personal testimony to the lavish love of God amidst our darkest hours..." – and my sister and I each contributed a chapter. This is the story of my parent's marriage, and our family, as plagued by the tentacles of my father's mental illness, depression and – ultimately – suicide. I'm always blown away by my mom's unwavering faith, and the hope that she's maintained throughout her life, and I'm proud of her for writing this memoir about our experience.

In short - "the essential elements of the best storytelling." For some reason, this book is only available on Audible, unless you want to pay a lot of money for an out-of-print version of this classic from Brian McDonald. My friend Dustin told me about this book the last time his band was in Albuquerque, and I bought it and listened to it the very next day. I think that Dustin is one of the best lyrical storytellers out there, and knew his word counted for something when it came to recommendations on tools for the craft. This book contrasts "visible ink" with "invisible ink" – that is, what is readily accessible to an audience according to their senses versus the storytelling structure that is invisible beneath what one hears or sees in the movie, play, or narrative.

My friend says that there are some words which find us like friends, and Brene Brown's are such that wrap arms around my body, and warm me, and speak as though they've known me since birth. It is the type of book that read me more than I read it. I learned more about who I am through this powerful vision on what it means to practice vulnerability, to allow oneself the freedom of emotional exposure, to be courageous and generous in a world of fear and scarcity, and to Dare Greatly.