100 Books Like Open Season

As I indicated earlier, I am a Lee Child superfan. I’ve read all his original books. A thick (and expensive) biography. A long essay he wrote on heroism. All his short stories. You get the idea. So it was fun to re-read this book, his first.

It wasn’t what I remembered, that’s for sure! Yes, the action scenes are vivid and instructive (Child writes about the utility of a headbutt versus the risk of breaking your hand with a punch), and the action is what I remember most. But there’s more to this book than fights: there’s a major romance, which the author writes with gusto and in detail, heavy on feelings, not on private parts; the prose is better than solid, with imagery that really makes it come alive; and the story is plausible and tightly woven, with plenty of surprises. 

This book introduced me to the gritty world of Los Angeles police detective Harry Bosch. I love Bosch’s smarts and toughness, yet beneath his hard exterior lurks a sensitive heart. He is fond of saying, “Everybody counts, or nobody counts,” and he means it.

Whether the victim is a rich businessman or an impoverished drug addict, Bosch pursues justice with the tenacity of a bulldog. Not only that, he makes tough choices with an ironclad sense of right and wrong. After reading it, I devoured everything Michael Connelly has written. I’m that fan who pre-orders his next book as soon as the announcement hits my inbox.

I was living in Madrid, Spain, when one of my friends and fellow English-language teachers, Heather, nudged me and said, “James, you have to read this.”

I was in my “James only reads highbrow literature” era, so I told her that the cover looked too pulpy (yes, I was guilty of judging a book by its cover). Thankfully, my respect for Heather forced me to overlook my biases and give Pillars a shot. I’m so glad I did.

The prose style is simple and accessible (obeying Animal Farm author George Orwell’s advice to write prose as transparent as a “windowpane”). And that’s good, because the content draws you in completely.

A village in Medieval England decides to build a cathedral. The characters range from evil knights to noble monks to savvy businesswomen to scheming clerics. The world is rich with detail and the pages are addicting, almost turning themselves. It’s… show more.

In The Gray Man, a highly skilled, former CIA operative tries to rescue a colleague and his family while various teams of elite assassins try to stop him however they can.

The Gray Man – AKA Court Gentry or Sierra Six – doesn’t follow anybody’s orders, even those of the most powerful institutions on the planet. Though rebellious, he has morals and only applies his skillset for good.

My favorite part of this book were the action scenes. I liked how big they were, but also the variety of arenas, weapons, and opponents. Also, the Gray Man takes a serious beating through the chapters. Because he’s hurt, but still kicking, the fights progressively get more challenging for him, and more dramatic.

I love listening to Evanovich’s hilarious tales of Stephanie Plum’s misadventures as a wannabe bail/bondsman. These books are my wife’s and my favorite distraction on long road trips. While her mysteries may be thin, her characters are so real and her stories so crazy, I didn’t miss the whodunit. I included her in this August list because she captures the seedy side of Trenton, New Jersey, with amazing clarity, even while laughing at the place.

I picture myself riding in one of her cars—which she destroys regularly—along with her friend, the former ho, LuLu, hair flowing in the stinky wind blowing off deserted warehouses, sleezy girl joints and questionable car repair shops. This is the first in a series that is now at 31.

I have to confess I love both mysteries and historical fiction, and when I discovered Benn’s series, I fell in love. This is the twelveth entry in his “Billy Boyle” series. Like Follett, Benn has the ability to transport me to a different time and place, in this case, 1945 “neutral” Switzerland.

Billy is there to investigate—before the war, he was a detective from Boston—money laundering by the Swiss. Billy narrowly escapes death, his plane being shot down, and, through Benn’s skillful writing, I experienced it all. But when Billy Boyle stumbles upon a train carrying Jews to a concentration camp, Benn captured the poignant scene so vividly that I found myself weeping for the victims, screaming for help inside the cattle cars as they passed.

I admit—I like a strong, smart, male protagonist.

The 6:20 Man is reminiscent of Girl on a Train, only with far more likeable characters and a plot that involves the high-tech, high-risk finance world of investment banking. I didn’t have to suspend belief with the premise of this thriller. The crimes feel real, the investigation(s) make sense, and information is provided with great timing and clarity.

I kept flipping pages because I became invested in Travis Devine’s life. He’s incredibly likeable which is probably why this one is being made into a series.

I’ve always been drawn to writers who capture such a vivid setting I can actually picture myself right in the pages of the book. I think Kent Kreuger does this better than any author, and readers can select any entry in his Cork O’Connor series and find themselves transported into a mesmerizing scene, but this 21st entry in the series really grabbed me. His word paintings of a field, a blueberry patch and the ancient Indian, Henry Miloux’s cabin is so real I could almost feel, see and smell the scene.

Kreuger has the rare skill to use such colorful and powerful language in his prose; some passages border on the poetic. Not to mention, the story about two missing girls—one white, one Native— is truly gripping, too. 

What one expects to happen, in the context of a story, is a wholly unacceptable outcome… save one does not feel the story is obligated to resound with consciousness of mortality. Consciousness of mortality is not cruel in and of itself; the one who causes it to resound in the form of a story, however, might be. Cruel, that is.

This, I think, is a very cruel book. But its cruelty is the cruelty of an honest physician met with a diseased patient. His unflinching diagnosis of the disease and the difficult (painful) operations it necessitates… are simply what remaining alive calls for. The alternative, that is, is always the same thing: brief (however apparently eternal) dementia.   

This book includes one of the most famous portrayals of a sculpture on stage, and is one of my favorite Shakespeare plays. One of his later works, it combines a story very like the tragedy of Othello with a second half that has an entirely different mood of youth and hope, love, and redemption.

In the play’s final scene (spoiler alert!), a party including King Leontes and his newly-found daughter, Perdita, gathers to admire the work of a celebrity sculptor, Julio Romano. The statue perfectly depicts Leontes’ wronged wife, Hermione, whom he believed dead.

In this glorious moment, Hermione comes back to him in the form of a living statue stepping down from its pedestal. There’s a delightful ballet version of the play, too.