There are two kinds of writing I enjoy. The first is evocative and beautiful, and you find yourself enjoying specific sentences or descriptions. Sometimes that beauty can be intrusive and your enjoyment of the craft can drag you from the story. The second disappears into the story, dragging you in, and by the end of the book you’ve completely forgotten that you’ve been reading because you were sucked in so completely. For the entire length of the novel you are unaware of words.

The Power Within is the second type. From the moment I picked up the book until I put it down I was Mik Murdoch. Mik’s irrepressible optimism was like a vacation from the crush of reality, a flashback to the boy I once was. And I can’t explain it, but there was something in here that took me back to the Hardy Boy novels I read as a kid. I want more.

Kids will love this series.