What Is The November Criminals Book About?

'The November Criminals' is one of those books that feels like it’s whispering secrets just to you. Addison’s obsession with the murder isn’t about justice; it’s a distraction from his own fear of the future. His rants about D.C.’s hypocrisy or the absurdity of college applications are laugh-out-loud funny but also kinda tragic. Munson doesn’t romanticize adolescence—it’s awkward, exhausting, and occasionally profound. I dog-eared so many pages because the writing just hits. It’s a short read, but it lingers.

I stumbled upon 'The November Criminals' after watching the film adaptation (which… exists, I guess?). The book’s miles better. Addison’s voice is a chaotic mix of pretentious and endearing—he name-drops philosophers but can’t figure out his own feelings. The murder plot almost feels like a MacGuffin; what hooked me was how Munson uses it to explore friendship. Addison’s bond with his best friend, Digger, is hilariously dysfunctional but weirdly tender. They insult each other constantly, yet you never doubt they’d drop everything if the other needed help.

There’s a passage where Addison compares high school to gladiator combat, and it’s so over-the-top yet weirdly accurate. The book’s full of these grandiose metaphors that somehow work. It’s not a traditional thriller, but if you like character-driven stories with a side of existential dread, it’s a gem. The ending’s abrupt, but that’s the point—life doesn’t wrap up neatly.

Munson’s novel is like if Holden Caulfield decided to play amateur sleuth. Addison’s investigation into his classmate’s death is less about solving a crime and more about avoiding his own looming adulthood. The way he dissects his friendships, his strained relationship with his dad, and his semi-disastrous romance with Phoebe feels painfully real. There’s this scene where he tries to impress a girl by pretending to understand 'the iliad,' and it’s so cringey yet relatable—we’ve all faked depth to seem cooler.

The book’s dark humor and meandering tangents won’t be for everyone, but if you’ve ever felt like life’s a puzzle you’re solving without all the pieces, you’ll see yourself in Addison. It’s a messy, brilliant ode to teenage self-mythology.

The first time I picked up 'The November Criminals', I was struck by how raw and unapologetically teenage it felt. It follows Addison Schacht, a high school senior with a sharp wit and a penchant for overthinking everything. When his classmate gets murdered, he becomes oddly obsessed with uncovering the truth, even though it has nothing to do with him. The book’s genius lies in how it captures that restless, existential dread of adolescence—where everything feels simultaneously trivial and world-ending. Addison’s voice is hilariously cynical yet deeply vulnerable, making his rants about life, love, and Latin homework weirdly profound.

What stuck with me wasn’t just the mystery (which almost takes a backseat to Addison’s inner monologue) but how the author, Sam Munson, nails the way teens construct elaborate philosophies to make sense of their chaos. The title itself refers to Addison’s theory about people who betray their ideals—something he applies to everyone, including himself. It’s a coming-of-age story wrapped in a detective plot, but really, it’s about the stories we tell ourselves to survive growing up. I finished it in one sitting and immediately wanted to debate it with someone.