Jan Notzon's Blog

Alaric Holleran: This novel stood out to me for its refusal to simplify complex issues. Juvenile reform, political corruption, and family conflict all get equal weight, and that balance made the story feel textured and real. Justin Kopechne is someone you want to root for, but his idealism is both his greatest strength and his biggest flaw. I often found myself frustrated with him, especially in how he treated his wife, but that frustration came from how authentic he felt.

The sheriff’s moral collapse provided a compelling counterbalance, showing how power and fear can erode even the strongest foundations. The writing style is plainspoken but effective, never distracting from the story. I also appreciated the way the Texas setting was woven into the atmosphere, it gave the whole novel a dusty, weighty realism. This isn’t a book that entertains in a lighthearted way; it’s one that makes you think, and I respect it for that.

Hannah Mitchell- The way these opening chapters are structured is brilliant, and The New Chapter noticed it right away. We start with humor and wry observation, then slowly descend into deeper emotional territory without ever losing the reader’s trust. Our discussion of Chapter 3’s character moments was one of the liveliest we’ve had all year. We debated whether Jacob is motivated by love, guilt, or both and the fact that we can’t answer definitively yet is a sign of great writing.

Grace’s portrayal is equally nuanced; she is vulnerable, but never reduced to a caricature. This book has already sparked emotional responses in our members, from quiet tears to knowing laughter. We can’t remember the last time a book club pick drew us in so quickly.

Ethan Fisher- Reading Chapters 1–5 felt to The New Chapter like being drawn into a photograph that slowly comes to life. Every scene felt tangible the way the air shifts at a funeral, the silence in a hospital room, the unspoken words between family members. Jan Notzon’s skill lies in capturing these quiet truths and making them resonate.

As a group, we were struck by how deeply we already care for Jacob and Grace. There’s a tenderness in their relationship, even when unspoken, that makes the stakes feel incredibly high. We’ve read plenty of books where it took half the story to get invested; here, it took five chapters. This is exactly the kind of read we crave one that makes us impatient to keep going.

Nerida Renshaw: To Sing Like a Mockingbird is one of those novels that feels deeply grounded in place and character. The dusty, isolated Texas backdrop seeps into every page, giving the story an atmosphere of grit and heaviness.

What fascinated me most was the clash between Justin’s stubborn integrity and the sheriff’s gradual compromises. They are two men facing similar pressures but reacting in opposite ways, and that contrast gave the novel a strong backbone.

Justin’s work with the reformatory boys struck me as noble, though I often felt a pang of frustration at his inability to see how much his rigid idealism was costing him at home. His strained marriage and constant sparring with his brother were some of the most human, relatable parts of the book. Meanwhile, the sheriff’s ties to the cartel unfolded with a chilling inevitability. The story doesn’t give us easy heroes or villains it gives us flawed people trying to survive in flawed systems. That honesty is what makes the book linger.

Lily Scott- These first chapters took The New Chapter on a journey that felt both intimate and universal. Jacob is such a well drawn character his mix of sarcasm, tenderness, and restraint makes him feel like someone we might know in real life. Grace, too, is already so vividly present that we care deeply about her well-being. The detail with which Jan Notzon paints their world the dusty roads, the quiet pauses in conversation, the weight of family history gave us so much to talk about. One of our favorite discussion moments came from Chapter 4, when Jacob’s reflections hinted at deeper emotional scars. It made us wonder just how much of the story is about healing versus simply enduring. We couldn’t help but recommend this to other clubs in our network.

Jovie Branning: I really admired the layered storytelling in To Sing Like a Mockingbird. At first, it seems like Justin’s story will center solely on his fight at the reformatory, but the book broadens into an exploration of politics, crime, and family.

What impressed me was that none of those layers felt unnecessary. The sheriff’s descent into compromise echoed Justin’s determination to resist, and the two arcs played off each other beautifully. The cartel’s presence was menacing, but it didn’t overshadow the real heart of the story: the human costs of conviction. Justin’s clashes with his wife and brother were as tense as any confrontation with the cartel, and they reminded me that personal relationships are often the hardest battles we face.

The Texas backdrop was described vividly enough that I felt its isolation and weight. This is a novel that doesn’t hand out happy endings but instead offers a raw, honest portrait of what it means to fight for something in an unforgiving world.

Merrick Fenlow: This book reminded me of classic American moral dramas. The conflict isn’t just external, it’s internal, grinding, and deeply personal. Justin’s attempts to rehabilitate young offenders were inspiring, but also heartbreaking in their futility against larger forces. What made the story resonate with me was the way the author balanced the big picture corruption with the smaller, more intimate family drama. The sheriff’s compromises felt inevitable, which made them all the more tragic. And Justin’s family tension particularly with his brother and wife hit hard because it showed how ideals don’t exist in a vacuum; they strain the very fabric of daily life. The prose is lean and unflinching, perfectly suited to the story. It’s not a book that tries to charm the reader. Instead, it challenges you, asking uncomfortable questions about justice, loyalty, and what it means to hold the line when everyone else is giving way. For me, that’s what made it unforgettable.

Mayas: I picked this book up thinking it was literary fiction. I wasn’t ready for it to read me back.
Jake’s struggle his guilt, his exhaustion, his yearning to do right it felt like my own. After my divorce, I thought I’d moved past regret, but reading this, I realized we never really do. We just learn to live with the ache.
Grace’s suffering cut deep. She reminded me of my daughter during her dark teenage years so fragile, yet so full of light. I had to stop more than once because it hit too close.
This story doesn’t preach, but it reaches right into your chest. It’s about how love costs us everything and why it’s still worth paying.
Jan Notzon wrote like he’s been in the desert of guilt and grace himself. I don’t think you can write this book unless you’ve walked through hell and found God waiting on the other side.

Paul Linda: I’ve held the hands of the dying and watched guilt eat people alive more than disease ever could. That’s what this book reminded me of how pain doesn’t vanish just because time marches on.
Jake’s story broke me open. The scene where he kills the sparrow as a child I had to close the book. It’s the smallest sin that sometimes stains the deepest. Watching him carry that weight, especially as he tried to protect his sister Grace, I saw every patient I couldn’t save.
Grace’s pain that kind of trauma doesn’t just scar the body, it scars the soul. Jan Notzon wrote her like someone who understands mental illness, not as a plot device but as a haunting.
This isn’t a “feel-good” story. It’s a spiritual autopsy. And maybe that’s why I loved it. Because life doesn’t heal neatly, and neither does this book. But it tells the truth that redemption is possible, even if it limps.

Greer Bellamys: To Sing Like a Mockingbird is one of those books that sneaks up on you. At first glance, it’s a story about juvenile reform and small town politics, but by the end, it becomes a meditation on integrity and the price of sticking to your beliefs. Justin Kopechne is written with refreshing honesty. He’s not a saint his rigidity often makes him difficult to support, but that’s exactly what makes him compelling. I admired his persistence with the boys at the reformatory, even as I cringed at the way his stubbornness pushed his wife away. The sheriff’s arc was equally strong, showing how ambition and compromise chip away at good intentions until there’s nothing left but survival. The writing itself is spare and direct, which worked beautifully with the subject matter. This isn’t a book that hands you hope on a silver platter, but it leaves you with respect for the messy fight between conviction and reality.