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Literary Titan Gold Book Award: Fiction
The Literary Titan Book Award honors books that exhibit exceptional storytelling and creativity. This award celebrates novelists who craft compelling narratives, create memorable characters, and weave stories that captivate readers. The recipients are writers who excel in their ability to blend imagination with literary skill, creating worlds that enchant and narratives that linger long after the final page is turned.
Award Recipients
Finding Manhood in Scotland by Victor Atyas
Viper Island by Cameron K. Moore
The Ballad of Midnight and McRae by Jess Lederman
Visit the Literary Titan Book Awards page to see award information.
Literary Titan Silver Book Award
Celebrating the brilliance of outstanding authors who have captivated us with their skillful prose, engaging narratives, and compelling real and imagined characters. We recognize books that stand out for their innovative storytelling and insightful exploration of truth and fiction. Join us in honoring the dedication and skill of these remarkable authors as we celebrate the diverse and rich worlds they’ve brought to life, whether through the realm of imagination or the lens of reality.
Award Recipients
Visit the Literary Titan Book Awards page to see award information.
Tapestry
Tapestry is a sprawling, deeply intimate chronicle that threads together the ancestral stories of women from the 1700s through the 1900s. Framed as a personal and spiritual uncovering of the author’s lineage, the book blends historical fiction with memoir, wrapping readers in vivid, often haunting vignettes of women’s lives shaped by hardship, resilience, and a relentless fight for identity and survival. From Aida’s brutal beginnings in the 1700s, to Petra’s ascent through the societal maze of nobility, to Rosalie’s journey from convict to colonial mother, Tapestry is less a straightforward narrative and more an emotional excavation of generational trauma, strength, and sacred womanhood.
What struck me first was the brutal honesty in the storytelling. Aida’s story, which opens the book, isn’t just gritty, it’s gut-wrenching. The scene where she urinates over the corpse of the man who abused her as a child was both shocking and cathartic. That moment wasn’t about revenge; it was raw defiance, a twisted reclaiming of dignity. I couldn’t stop thinking about how Kez pulls no punches when it comes to pain. She doesn’t just tell you about suffering; she drags you through it, lets you smell it, feel it. It’s not always easy to read, but it feels important and necessary.
The writing style possesses a poetic and lyrical quality, though it relies heavily on descriptive imagery. Depending on one’s disposition, this can either envelop the reader like a comforting shawl or resemble the experience of navigating through a dense, obscuring fog. Petra’s transition from convent-raised orphan to royal companion was especially layered with vivid detail. I felt for her, caught between privilege and powerlessness, her identity crafted by others’ needs. Her dismissal from nobility due to a misinformed explanation of childbirth was such a tragically human moment, equal parts ridiculous and heartbreaking. And yet, these characters are never just victims. There’s a fire in them, something fierce and enduring.
What I found most touching, though, were the undercurrents of inherited strength. By the time Rosalie is shackled on a convict ship, clutching a wooden bead passed down from Aida, the emotional weight of legacy is undeniable. The bead becomes this quiet symbol of survival, of story, of womanhood passed from mother to daughter. There’s something beautifully circular in how each story is stitched to the next, even if the women themselves never meet. The tragedy is generational, but so is the hope.
Tapestry is more than a book; it is an act of reclamation. It is crafted for readers who appreciate history rendered with both grit and grace, and who are willing to endure profound emotional depth in pursuit of a narrative that is unflinchingly honest and deeply human. It speaks to women seeking to understand the inherited wounds of their foremothers, and to anyone intrigued by the lingering presence of ancestral memory. For readers drawn to a raw, emotionally resonant journey through time, Tapestry is likely to leave a lasting impression well beyond its final page.
Pages: 353 | ASIN : B0DJKB717D
Explore Indigenous History
Diablo Canyon follows a burnt-out writer searching for inspiration in Diablo Canyon, who instead uncovers a dark history and an evil, ancient entity that is out for blood. What was the inspiration for the setup of your story?
The spark actually came from a dream—kind of a wild one. I go into the full story in the afterword of the book, but that dream stuck with me. I used to live in Elizabeth Lake, and it’s just one of those places that feels… different. Beautiful, but mysterious. Over time, I started hearing these strange, fascinating stories from locals. Then I found out the lake’s original name was La Laguna del Diablo, which translates to The Devil’s Lake. That was it—I started researching, and everything started clicking into place. With that foundation, the story practically wrote itself. Honestly, about 60% of it is rooted in real events and local legends.
All your characters felt real, giving the story an emotional pull that connects readers to them. What character did you enjoy writing for? Was there one that was more challenging to write for?
It was honestly a blast to write them all, but it was also a balancing act. I really wanted a diverse set of characters, each with their own voice and purpose. Writing for the Tataviam Tribe members meant doing a lot of thoughtful rewrites—I wanted to treat their story and culture with the respect it deserves, so that took time and care. As for the hardest character? Probably Jack. Capturing his inner conflict—the grief, the guilt, the tension with his daughter—that was tough, but also really fulfilling. He’s the emotional anchor of the book in a lot of ways.
What were some themes that were important for you to explore in this book?
A few things really drove this story. First, I wanted to shine a light on the beauty and history of the Elizabeth Lake area—especially the stories that often go untold. Through Tibu’s storyline, I was able to explore Indigenous history and voices that history tends to erase. I wanted to honor that.
There’s also a strong theme of grief and how it shapes us. Jack’s journey is wrapped in loss, and that grief fuels a lot of his choices—some good, some not so good. Trauma, if we don’t face it, can lead us down dangerous paths.
And of course, the danger of unchecked curiosity plays a big role. Whether it’s digging into the past or awakening something ancient, Diablo Canyon reminds us that some doors are closed for a reason. Once you open them, there’s no going back.
What is the next book that you are working on, and when can your fans expect it to be out?
Right now, I’ve got a few irons in the fire. I’m working on a four-book series called The Elementals, which dives into a supernatural mythology that I’m really excited about. I’m also building a paranormal detective series centered on a character named Smoke Ravenstein—the first book’s called The Demon on the Hill, and it’s halfway done.
And then there’s The Body Farm, which is a dark horror comedy we’re actually filming this summer. That one’s a wild ride with a twisted sense of humor. I’m not sure exactly when the next book will hit the shelves, but hopefully soon. Stay tuned! Stay Spooky!
Author Links: GoodReads | TikTok | X (Twitter) | Instagram | Website | Amazon
More than a century later, Jack Morrison, a burned-out novelist, arrives in the canyon looking for inspiration—but what he finds is far worse than writer’s block. As he digs into the dark history of the land, he uncovers chilling stories of vanished settlers, vengeful spirits, and men who disappeared only to return… changed. The deeper Jack goes, the more the lines blur between past and present, until the horrors that haunted Tibu’s time come clawing their way into his own.
This is not just a story about outlaws and gold—this is a story about the things that lurk beneath the earth, waiting. The kind of nightmares that do not just haunt the past, but infect the present, whispering promises of power in exchange for blood. Diablo Canyon is a tale of monstrous men, vengeful spirits, and the unrelenting grip of an ancient evil that does not forgive… and never forgets.
If you think evil stays buried, you’ve never been to Diablo Canyon.
Ciao, Amore, Ciao
Sandro Martini’s Ciao, Amore, Ciao is a soul-wrenching blend of memoir and historical fiction that begins with the quiet unraveling of a family and ends with the thunderous echoes of a nation’s buried past. Told through the eyes of a grieving son, the story moves between present-day Italy and fragments of a family’s long-buried secrets, tracing the last days of the narrator’s parents while peeling back layers of memory, guilt, and unresolved trauma. It’s a story of death and love, fathers and sons, and the way history bleeds into the present, whether we ask for it or not.
This book left me aching. Martini’s voice is raw and self-deprecating, not overly polished, which makes it feel incredibly relatable. I loved how he didn’t try to wrap up his grief in a neat little bow. Instead, he let it run wild through the streets of Piovene, scream through the halls of a hospital, and settle into the quiet spaces of a father’s old car. And the prose is beautiful. Sharp and vivid, like a Polaroid that won’t stop developing. There were passages where I had to stop and breathe, not because they were hard to understand, but because they were so true.
The ideas in this book haunted me. Martini doesn’t just write about family loss; he goes after the rot that lies underneath nations and legacies. There’s bitterness here—about fascism, about immigration, about how Italy remembers and forgets its sons. But there’s also a weird kind of love buried in all that anger. The kind of love that’s too painful to talk about directly, so it comes out sideways, in jokes and cigarette smoke and rusting old cars.
I’d recommend Ciao, Amore, Ciao to anyone who’s lost a parent, anyone who’s tried to understand their family too late, or anyone who thinks history lives only in textbooks. This book is messy, emotional, and full of ghosts. But it’s also deeply honest and strangely comforting, like a long night drive with someone who knows when not to talk. I wouldn’t say it’s easy reading, but if you let it, it’ll stay with you long after the last page.
Pages: 426 | ASIN : B0DXLC2LJC
Salamander Man
Salamander Man is the fictionalized life story of Mohamed Idris, a Malaysian boy stricken with polio during World War II who loses the use of his legs and is cruelly labeled “Salamander Man” by his peers. Set in a fishing village in Kuala Terengganu and inspired by a real encounter the author had in the 1960s, the novel follows Idris’s journey from ridicule and exclusion to intellectual triumph and emotional self-discovery. Through the unwavering love of his parents, the guidance of generous mentors, and his own unrelenting spirit, Idris carves out a path of meaning and dignity in a world that sees him as broken.
Reading Salamander Man was a deeply personal and unexpectedly emotional experience. James A. Wolter’s writing is simple yet sincere. He writes with the heart of a man who has truly listened to others and wants you to feel what they’ve felt. The first-person voice of Idris is raw and tender, sometimes painfully so. His longing to be loved, to belong, to not be laughed at—those aren’t just themes, they’re wounds the story never lets you forget. I found myself aching when Idris was denied entry to school, and swelling with pride when he devoured literature, math, and languages against all odds. It’s not just a story about disability—it’s a story about visibility. Idris is seen, fully and humanly, in a way few characters with disabilities are.
There’s a slow and careful rhythm to the story. The scenes unfold like memories being unpacked, not plot points hitting a beat. Sometimes that felt a bit heavy. But those quiet stretches also mirror the life Idris lived—patient, inward, waiting for change. What I appreciated most was the subtle shift from a story about a boy struggling to fit in to a man building a mind so rich that even a cruel world couldn’t diminish him. Wolter never overplays the drama. He just lays it bare, and that’s what makes it powerful.
Salamander Man isn’t just inspiring—it’s honest. It’s a book for readers who are drawn to quiet strength and real, lived emotion. I would recommend it to educators, to anyone who’s ever felt like an outsider, and especially to young adults who may need to know that brilliance can rise from even the loneliest places.
Pages: 199 | ASIN : B0F2NCRCDX
All Sorrows Can Be Born
Loren Stephens’ All Sorrows Can Be Borne is a poignant historical novel that threads love, grief, and cultural displacement into a deeply personal story. At the heart of the book is Noriko, a Hiroshima survivor, who must make the unimaginable decision to send her young son across the ocean to be raised by relatives in America. The story unfolds as both a tribute and an excavation of memory, of war, loss, and survival, told with a haunting, lyrical voice.
The opening chapter is profoundly affecting. The scene at the airport, in which Noriko and her husband Ichiro part ways with their young son Hisashi, is rendered with quiet intensity. It is not overwrought or sentimental; instead, it is measured and heartbreakingly restrained. The emotional impact lies in the understated details, Hisashi’s carefully chosen outfit, the heart-shaped box containing his umbilical cord, Noriko’s silent anguish as she tries to maintain composure. Stephens allows the emotion to unfold subtly, never forcing it, and this delicate control makes the moment all the more powerful.
One of the novel’s most compelling achievements is how it interweaves personal tragedy with the broader scope of historical trauma. Noriko’s recollections of surviving the Hiroshima bombing are not presented merely as historical context; they form the emotional core of her character. The stark imagery of black rain falling from the sky, scorched bodies in the streets, and a city in ruins conveys a haunting sense of devastation. Yet amid this bleakness, there are glimmers of resilience. Her father’s remark that her scarred forehead might one day be seen as a mark of uniqueness offers a moment of unexpected tenderness and wisdom.
Equally striking is the novel’s psychological complexity, particularly in the relationship between Noriko and Ichiro. Ichiro is a difficult figure, physically ailing, emotionally withdrawn, often sharp and unkind, yet Stephens renders him with empathy. His fear, frustration, and shame are palpable. A particularly heartbreaking moment occurs when he tells their son, Hisashi, that they will follow him to America on the next flight, a deliberate untruth meant to ease the child’s separation. It is a quiet betrayal, but one born of desperation. Later, Noriko’s acknowledgment of her own complicity, when she admits, “neither of us deserved him,” is devastating in its candor. It captures the depth of her remorse and the inescapable weight of their decision.
I’d recommend All Sorrows Can Be Borne to anyone who loves character-driven stories with emotional weight. It’s especially powerful if you’re drawn to historical fiction that isn’t about battles, but about what happens after. This book is for people who want to feel something real and lasting, something that lingers. It is not an emotionally light read, but it is unquestionably worthwhile.
Pages: 449 | ASIN : B0DV2X44K8
LITERARY TITAN 