Hubris, coffee, and spreadsheets: All were in play during the six months I served as a juror for this year’s Kirkus Prize for Fiction. Honored to be invited and anxious to begin reading, I settled in for what I imagined would be an edifying and gratifying experience. (It was both, eventually.) But, at the outset of the project, as an unstoppable flood of books began to appear at my door daily, I identified more closely with the frantic Sorcerer’s Apprentice in the Disney classic Fantasia than with the serene and focused women readers painted by Fragonard, Renoir, or Picasso. Managing to organize my life around a deluge of books for several months might not have been a romantic process, but it did enable me to read and think about the wonderful titles under consideration for the prize without fear of drowning in a sea of words or, literally and figuratively, losing the plot.

Much as yoga, piano, and running (I hear) require consistent training to reach a goal, so does judging a literary prize. Designating time for evaluative reading became the cornerstone of my practice. Wake up and read, eat and read, STOP DOOMSCROLLING and read, skip other obligations for a few months (sorry, book groups!), and suddenly you have more time in your day for the task at hand. Read on the train, on a plane, on a boat, on vacation, and in waiting rooms. Not only do you carry yourself closer to the deadline, but you’re also modeling good behavior, fighting the forces of distraction, and inviting curious fellow passengers to chat about books. (That last serendipitous phenomenon has largely disappeared as we’ve all retreated behind our phones, tablets, and e-readers, but I’m happy to say that toting around physical books led to some impromptu outreach from strangers.)

Comfort is essential to almost any endeavor, and I realized quickly which areas of the house led to “better reading outcomes,” if I may employ some corporate-speak. The big chair by the fireplace, the porch table, and the den couch produced the most positive trends in this area. Each location was pleasant yet not sleep-inducing, and each also allowed for note-taking. A deeper dive into the data reveals the importance of bookmarks, new glasses, and a subscription service for a reliable, uninterrupted source of coffee beans.

Keeping track of what I had read, what remained to be read, and, most importantly, what I thought of what I’d read was another aspect of the process that I initially approached with optimistic nonchalance. Yet it soon became apparent that I was going to drown myself in a bottomless sea of words, many of them my own, if I kept recording my thoughts on the books the way I typically do, for example, when reviewing. I continued with my long-standing practice of making handwritten notes as I went, but I learned to distill my thoughts even further by creating documents with concise annotations for each title. (The novels had already been written; there was no need for me to write them again.) One juvenile admission I need to make here: I did rely heavily on attractive notebooks and fancy pens for my preliminary notes; they just made the process less daunting. Your stationery requirements may vary. The process of tracking my progress was facilitated greatly by updated spreadsheets provided by Kirkus fiction editor Laurie Muchnick, who kept the task from becoming overwhelming with frequent check-ins, conferencing, and encouragement. The feeling of camaraderie with fellow fiction juror Oscar Villalon helped here, too.

Being alone with your thoughts can be a scary place, and the fright factor increases dramatically when deadlines and decision-making responsibilities are added to the mix. Each book under consideration had already been reviewed and awarded a Kirkus star, a sign of exceptional merit. You might think that reading books previously designated as “exceptional” might have made the task of curating the longlist of titles for the prize easier. Not so. It was an opening for self-doubt and indecision. I found the best remedy for these feelings was the time-tested technique of stepping away. Removing yourself physically from a problem can mean taking a walk, making (another) cup of coffee, repainting an inherited bookcase to house the books piled all over your office, or apologizing to the UPS carrier for the dramatic uptick in traffic. The point? I needed to look up from the page and focus on something else for a while. My thoughts would settle and the good, well-informed instincts that had brought me that far could survive the short-circuiting of indecision. I kept going, sorting and re-sorting my choices as I continued. Maya Angelou famously advised: “Do the best you can until you know better. Then when you know better, do better.” I kept reading till I knew better.

We live in an attention-shattering world, and this chance to read a body of great fiction was a joyful exercise in close reading, careful thought, and spirited discussion. I’m grateful for the opportunity and even more grateful to the authors of the books under consideration, who, relying on their own caches of words, coffee, and notebooks, practice literary alchemy.

Thérèse Purcell Nielsen, a critic and former librarian in Huntington, New York, served as a fiction juror for the 2025 Kirkus Prize.