in my audiobook era?

Fun bookish development from February: I finally found a space in my life to fill with audiobooks! I’ve never had anything against them, they just didn’t seem to fit into my routine; BUT now that I’ve found my in and taken the steps to get started, I have been able to keep picking up audiobooks even in smaller moments that I thought wouldn’t be worth it on their own, and managed to read three extra books on top of my physical reading for Feb without feeling like it took extra effort to do so! I know I’ve just barely scratched the surface so far and am still experimenting with what works for me or not, but I wanted to share a bit about the audiobooks I’ve read so far and some thoughts on my reading journey.

First off… are audiobooks reading?

For me: YES. And no. Audiobooks are definitely books! I do think audiobooks are a valid way of experiencing a story and as such I’m marking them in my “completed reads” lists for the year. But to me listening is also a very different act than picking the words off the page (or screen) with my eyeballs and having to put all the interpretation and inflection into the text myself inside my own mind and at my own pace. I’m not getting as close of a look at the language or making note of as many direct quotes when listening, usually very important and active parts of “eyeball reading” for me. And my mind just doesn’t take in information that I hear in the same way that it processes information that I look at; I think about these books differently, spend more effort just following what’s going on and less on technical aspects of the book. So yes, I’m marking audiobooks as “read,” but I’m also marking them specifically as audio reads, because to me they count but they are different. (If you don’t note a difference that’s also perfectly valid! This is just where I’ve landed based on my limited experience.)

In some ways, I really appreciate the differences. I think audiobooks are unlocking for me some reading experiences that I might have missed out on or appreciated less my eyeballs; case in point, the first book I reached for on audio is a contemporary fiction story that leans more general/Women’s fiction than the sort of genre or literary fare that I usually reach for. Because the narration was excellent, and because I went in with different expectations for the experience than I would have when reading it physically, I am confident that listening is the factor that made this a truly fabulous read. The book:

Maame by Jessica George, read by Heather Agyepong.

My rating: 5 out of 5 stars.

I chose this novel through BOTM because it was an app I already had and knew my way around, and with a yearly subscription the monthly credits end up feeling free (girl/book math for the win!). I listened to over a dozen samples from available books I was already interested in reading, and this was the ONLY narrator I was confident wouldn’t be getting on my nerves in any way during the length of a full novel (about 10 hours).

This is the story of Maddie (called Maame by her mother) as she deals with caring for her father through advanced Parkinson’s disease and navigates changes in her personal life- from moving out of home for the first time, changing jobs, and trying out some new relationships (platonic and romantic) that do and don’t work out. As her family comes together as a result of her dad’s health struggles, cultural differences also become a point of contention as English-raised Maddie struggles to voice what she needs and isn’t getting from her Ghanaian family while also trying to honor her parents’ traditions and past. She’s lauded as a responsible and capable woman, but that label has also meant missing out on the support that she’s needed, the conflict at the heart of this novel.

It’s a fairly straightforward story dealing with grief, family strife, and cultural reckoning (including language barriers and racism), as a twenty-something woman comes of age and finds her way. It took me nearly a year to pick this book up because it delivers what’s expected of it; when I’m reading with my eyeballs I have less patience (perhaps because that method feels like more effort? It does take me more time), and I often need something unexpected to really hook me. But with my ears, this book felt pleasantly conversational, like Maddie was just a friend sharing her thoughts in real time as I dipped in and out of her life over the course of several days.

I found myself making excuses to be doing things that would enable me to keep listening. I felt Maddie’s joys and sorrows. Obvious “learning experiences” for the sake of character development and plot movement (doomed relationships, incidents at work, careless comments from family members) that would have frustrated me in a physical copy of the book (despite looking for it, I am always less impressed when I am able to spot the author’s hand) instead kept me riveted when listening; maybe it felt more personal and realistic hearing these moments voiced? As someone who’s spent years learning about craft and focusing on technical aspects when I’m reading, this audio let me go along for the ride in a way that I’ve missed for a long time with physical books. Perhaps this bodes well for my relationship with general contemporary fiction and other genres that I rarely reach for anymore, going forward.

With this in mind, I set up Libby so that I could use my library for further audio reads post-Maame; since I was still in audio trial mode, I surfed the “available now” samples for more books on my TBR list that I’d been intrigued by but had put off reading physically. After a lot more samples that were definitely not working for me (I think it’s less about the author’s voice and more about the level of energy and interpretation they bring to the read), I finally landed on:

Long Way Down by Jason Reynolds, read by the author. My rating: 4 out of 5 stars. This is a YA novel I’d been putting off because as the years pass that age range just challenges and resonates with me less. Still, sometimes I appreciate picking up a powerful or gripping YA novel that I know I would’ve loved if it had been available when I was younger.

This is the story of a Black teen who’s just witnessed the death of his older brother in a bout of street violence, and in accordance with “the rules” (of the streets), he seeks revenge. As he descends in his building’s elevator with his brother’s gun, intent of using it against the man he’s convinced was responsible, the elevator stops on every floor; each time the doors open he meets a dead person from his past with a bit of wisdom to impart.

In the years it’s taken me to actually read this book, I’d forgotten that the people our MC meets along this journey are dead (it’s in the synopsis, not a spoiler); ghosts don’t always work for me, especially when they conveniently arrive to tell someone something they need to know. For this reason I’m glad to have listened to this one rather than eyeball reading it, because in my own head the ghosts would’ve frustrated me more but in the author’s voice I found it easier to roll with the situation. It also packs a punch that a teen personally knows so many people who’ve died as a result of gun violence, a fact that speaks to the larger social issue at play here.

A major downside to this audio though is that this is apparently a novel in verse; I wouldn’t have known that from the audio if it hadn’t included a brief interview with the author at the end where this is mentioned. It was an impactful listen regardless, but verse also tends to be impressive visually and I’m sad I missed that.

This was a short read at just 2 hours of audio (including the interview), so I soon found myself searching for another book, which led me to:

You Made a Fool of Death With Your Beauty by Akwaeke Emezi, narrated by Bahni Turpin. My reaction: 5 out of 5 stars. One scene toward the end of Maame left me pretty convinced that listening to romance was not going to work for me, but I’d seen a lot of reviews claiming that this one didn’t really fit the romance category. Furthermore, Emezi has been a consistent 5-star author for me in the past with their novels Freshwater and Pet, and even The Death of Viviek Oji landed at a 4 for me so I decided to give this one a go. And honestly, this might actually turn out to be one of my top reads of the year!

I’d call this perhaps a literary romance; for me it does still hit a lot of the main beats I expect in a romance novel- a meeting of the love interest, some steam, some fluctuation of whether or not the pair want to be together, whether or not they can make it work even if they do want it. But the biggest reasons I often dislike romance novels- overabundance of tropes, predictability, lack of realism, the ups and downs of the relationship feeling like deliberate plot devices- were nowhere to be found here. This plot was a total surprise- our MC meets three men she’s sexually interested in and it’s not until at least halfway through the book that we begin to see which one is endgame in this romance. Even then, it’s such an unconventional relationship that the doubt over whether it will actually happen and the obstacles in the way feel very real, the stakes genuinely high rather than manufactured for angst.

This is also very much a book about grief and dealing with trauma, as the MC’s husband previously died in a tragic accident, and five years later (at the start of this book) she is just beginning to wonder whether life holds more love for her at all. The love interest also has a tragedy in his past, and much of their relationship revolves around just being present and supportive for each other in a way that I appreciate perhaps even more than the steam. Which isn’t to say the sexual tension is lacking or that there’s no physical relationship being explored here, just that those elements are small pieces of this larger relationship. I loved the balance.

Even beyond the main couple, our MC’s experiences with the other men of this story have some important things to say about dating and relationships; it felt so empowering to see her hold her men to their “just as friends” claims by taking them up on offers extended without feeling pressured to bestow the “more” they clearly expect in return- she’s open and honest about where she stands and makes her own choices without perpetuating the myth that women owe men for any kindness shown. The dynamics are challenging and raw, the themes heavy, and the content managed to challenge some of my own preconceptions (age-gap relationships, for one) in ways I’ll not soon be forgetting. Managing to do that while also giving some warm and fuzzy feelings that didn’t make me cringe on audio? Truly iconic.

The narration itself felt very good here; Turpin does a bit of voicework to help differentiate the characters, which was subtle enough to enhance the dialogue without ever becoming annoying. In fact, while I do think I want to acquire a physical copy and read this one again at some point, I know some of these characters just won’t be the same without Turpin’s voice to guide them.

By the end of my third audiobook, I think I’ve settled on 1.5x being a pretty comfortable average listening speed for me. I started Maame at 1x but that didn’t last long; I listened to Long Way Down at 2x, perhaps because it felt easier to catch everything in a YA book, but with room for adjustment either way 1.5x seems like it will be a good starting point for me going forward.

Final thoughts: the worst part of this all so far has just been combing through audio samples to find narrators I really like listening to; seasoned audio readers, is this a me problem, do I need to just turn off the pickiness and adapt, or does it get better with time?? And do you have particular content/genres that you gravitate toward or avoid with audio vs. physical reading? I think I might but am still exploring! I’d love to hear how y’all decide what to listen to.

Aside from navigating some of these new (to me) issues, I’ve loved my audio experience so far! I find it easier to dip in and out of the reads than I expected to, and the narrators that I’ve chosen so far have really brought something extra to each experience. As I think every audio reader has ever said, audiobooks are a game-changer for fitting more reading in without really sacrificing time needed for anything else. There are still moments I find myself with busy hands and idle mind when I choose not to turn on an audiobook, because sometimes (especially outdoor walks for me) I find such tasks a good opportunity to brainstorm and troubleshoot for my own WIPs. This probably won’t change, but even if audios only increase my reading by 3 books per month, that can make a huge difference over the span of a year!

Currently (audio) reading: Pageboy by Elliot Page, read by the author.

What are you listening to?

belated reviews – dark and tempestuous

For my next color tbr set (I’m catching up from 2023; previous sets featured icy blues, sweet purples, and Women’s Prize contenders). With this batch I wanted to add some horror and thrills to my summer reading and went with a dark blue stormy cover vibe. The books:

Vampires of El Norte by Isabel Cañas is the latest offering from the author of The Hacienda, which ranked among my favorite reads of 2022. Although neither have quite landed in the 5-star range for me, and even though this sophomore title didn’t impress me quite as much as Cañas’ debut, I adore this author’s work and always have a great time reading her stories.

In this book we follow two primary characters, reading from both of their POV’s; the book opens with these young (and infatuated) friends out late in northern Mexico 1840s, when they come across their first vampire in the dark of the evening. The girl is injured during this encounter, and the young man carries her home, believing her dead. Heartbroken and blaming himself, he leaves. Several years later, as a local militia force is being assembled by the area’s rancheros to deal with the threat of encroaching American soldiers, the young man returns to lend his support for family and friends left behind and the couple meet again, brushing once more with vampires as they rediscover each other.

There’s a lot to love here between the appreciation for Mexican culture, the historical record of conflict at the US/Mexico border, the vampirical horror element which appeals both as literal creature horror and also plays into a larger theme of American nefariousness against their southern neighbor. The only thing that didn’t work for me was the level of romance involved and the structuring of the story around that relationship. Tbf, a romance horror novel sounds fabulous to me, and I love this one in concept; and yet as much as I enjoyed these characters I needed way less explanation of their very obvious feelings for each other and at the same time wanted way more of the very intriguing vampires. A single POV might have helped the balance, eliminating repetition while still conveying all of the pertinent information through the characters’ interactions and dialogue. Even so, the dual perspectives only slowed the read a bit for me rather than detracting from any of the other elements the book does handle well. I wish I could say more about the excellent commentary around the vampires, but don’t want to give away too much about how they fit into this tale. You’ll have to read for yourself to see!

“They were not a mirage, not a shard of terror that slipped from unconscious memory into daylight among the horror of the battlefield. / They were real.”

My reaction: 3 out of 5 stars. I will continue to pick up anything Cañas publishes, her ideas are fantastic and the writing skill is definitely there. I think the main reason The Hacienda worked better for me is that the romance is still there, but one of that pair is a kindly priest and so the relationship is forbidden; more understated angst, less in-your-face wish-fulfilment is a better vibe for me, though I think readers more into traditional romance will like Vampires better!

The Woman in the Window by A. J. Finn is old news at this point; I borrowed it years ago in an effort to resist buying a copy out of morbid curiosity, and the news of a new A.J. Finn novel on the horizon *finally* led me to pick this one up. Though sadly, it didn’t help me determine whether to read more from the author!

This is the tale of an agoraphobic woman who, due to a trauma in her past, no longer feels safe leaving her house. She begins spying on her neighbors out of a sort of social curiosity, and in this way witnesses what appears to be the murder of a woman who’s just moved onto the street with her family. Our MC’s drinking and medicating habits, along with the fact that no evidence of a crime can be found, mean that her police report of the murder is not believed. She begins to seek answers of her own, while also doubting whether she can trust her own memories and inferences.

In all fairness, I’m not sure the unreliable woman mixing copious amounts of drugs and alcohol was ever going to work for me again after The Girl on the Train, and I did take a long time getting around to The Woman in the Window, neither of which factors are the fault of this book. Beyond that, the The Woman in the Window just felt a bit long and tame; I thought it did a decent job of handling the MC’s trauma and response, though those feel like little more than plot devices here. I was also a bit disappointed to have expected a thriller and found more of a mystery. An adequate mystery, but very low in tension until the final confrontation scene. Ultimately I think the hype around this one was The Woman in the Window’s worst enemy; it may not be the pinnacle of suspense, but is reasonably entertaining if you’re drawn to the premise. If it’s a jaw-dropping read you’re looking for though, check out the New Yorker article on A.J. Finn that came out around the time of this novel, that still has me shook.

“I move forward, just a small step, but everyone else retreats, as though I’m an approaching storm, as though I’m a predator. Good.”

My reaction: 3 out of 5 stars. I also watched the film adaptation and the parody mini-series with my mom after reading this book (I borrowed it from her) and we were not particularly impressed by any of them but enjoyed the experience overall. A reasonably fun, silly little adventure, and to Finn’s credit the story was very readable and easy to follow even without feeling particularly invested.

Daisy Darker by Alice Feeney was my first time trying this author’s work and most likely my last. I always want to love closed-room mysteries, and popular authors seem like a safe bet, but this one grated. I was lucky to have borrowed this one from a friend, though sad I didn’t get on with it as well as she did.

In this story, a family matriarch who owns a grand seaside house invites her children and grandchildren to a will-reading dinner, as she expects to die within the year. In fact she dies sooner than expected, and the family realizes as a storm rolls in and they’re unable to leave the property until the tide changes in the morning that there’s a murderer in their midst. As they gather to keep track of each other through the night, family members continue to die off one per hour. The killer is also leaving old family VHS tapes for the survivors to watch and remember their troubled history together which, along with the dwindling suspect pool, eventually points to the truth.

It’s possible that the aggravating writing here is intentional, as the main character is an antagonistic, self-absorbed young person and it would make sense for the writing to reflect that. However, young and unlikeable characters can be written in ways that keep the read engaging and fun, rather than overly simplistic. Characterization is done through broad generalizations and assumptions of what people are like (or should be like) rather than through plot or actions or dialogue; the setup and execution are timed and theatrical in ways that defy belief; everyone is toxic and unpleasant and caricature-like to the point where it’s hard to care who’s dying or why. If it’s ever hard to guess what’s going on, it’s because the answers are so obvious that the clues seem like red herrings. It feels lazy. It feels, unfortunately, like a decent story idea that just hasn’t been honed to the level of sharpness needed to land effectively.

“The unexplored oceans of our hearts and minds are normally the result of a lack of time and trust in the dreams we dreamed as children. But adults forget how to believe that their dreams might still come true.”

My reaction: 2 out of 5 stars. For me, a two-star generally means I was able to finish but really did not enjoy myself or feel I was getting much of anything worthwhile out of the read. And yet, there’s nothing egregiously wrong with the book despite it not being to my taste; while a 1-star is something I feel is actively harmful and I would advise readers away from, a two-star read, however much I might dislike it personally, I can still see other readers with different tastes being able to enjoy, and I hope those readers will find this book. My best guess for Daisy Darker would be maybe young readers looking to branch out of YA into more adult themes with easy-to-understand writing, the sorts of young readers who reach for Stephen King perhaps?

Revival by Stephen King was the next step on my journey toward reading all of King’s work (I will explain this in more depth and do something fun with it someday, but for now I’m just trudging on when the mood strikes).

This is the story of a man’s life, from his early 1960s childhood through the 2010s. Throughout this period, his path crosses thrice with that of a young reverend who arrives in town in the 60s, meets with tragedy, and follows a passion for electricity down an unexpected and dangerous path as a sort of alternative career.

There are three key elements to this book that work in concert to make it what it is; two I enjoyed, and one I did not. The element I didn’t enjoy was the MC’s career as a musician; he begins as a rhythm guitarist in the 70s, plays for several bands over the years and achieves reasonable fame, falls victim to the alcohol/drug/party scene and eventually goes on to work at a recording studio when he feels his rockstar youth is behind him. It’s a tired trajectory that glorifies this sort of toxic fame rather than digging into any of the negatives as other modern works manage better (Daisy Jones being the most obvious, though The Dirt covering Motley Crue is an especially ingenious member of this category imo, as it manages both to feel like it caters to the band members’ biased perspectives while also conveying a distinctly critical tone to the discerning reader). I was disappointed but willing to follow along without complaint until a line where the aging musician thinks about a much younger woman he’s sleeping with and says, “If it’s ridiculous for a man in his fifties to be playing bedroom games with a woman young enough to be his daughter, it’s just as ridiculous for him to be playing a Strat and high-stepping to ‘Dirty Water.'” I’m sorry, but there is nothing sensical about the implications that those two behaviors should have anything at all to do with each other, and if for any reason age should apply there, I’d be much less concerned about an older man performing on stage than sleeping around with someone he’s thinking about that way.

But there were two elements I got on with a lot better, equally entwined in Revival‘s plot: religion, and electricity. This is where the horror comes in. The main conflict arrives early in the book, as the young reverend experiences a devastating tragedy and can’t cope. His faith in God is replaced by a passion for electricity and a belief that there is a “secret electricity” that he can learn to tap into, a current which holds the keys to unlocking the barrier between life and death; after losing his job the reverend takes his preaching to the road, making a quick buck off of religious-revival-style magical electrical shows the same way he used to sell God to believers in his sermons. “I shook my head, smiling. ‘You went from preaching to huckstering.'” Even the reverend has to acknowledge that maybe there isn’t much of a difference between the two. There’s some real criticism of organized religion in this book that I highly enjoyed and appreciated, and it’s handled in a skillful way in which believers can read it as blasphemy coming from an evil character, or nonbelievers can read as reason to trust the villain’s intelligence, both options potentially adding to the horror of the situation for their respective audiences. The horror itself is on-brand for King, though ultimately there are other books from his oeuvre I’d recommend above this one.

“Some of these various sects and denominations are peaceful, but the largest of them- the most successful of them- have been built on the blood, bones, and screams of those who have the effrontery now to bow to their idea of God. The Romans fed Christians to the lions; the Christians dismembered those they deemed to be heretics or sorcerers or witches; Hitler sacrificed the Jews in their millions to the false god of racial purity. Millions have been burned, shot, hung, racked, poisoned, electrocuted, and torn to pieces by dogs… all in God’s name.”

My reaction: 3 out of 5 stars. This was pretty middle-of-the-road King fare for me that I probably wouldn’t recommend beyond established King fans who are looking for decent offerings after exhausting his popular classics, with the exception perhaps of anyone drawn to the musical/70s nostalgia portion of the premise.

The Trial of Lizzie Borden by Cara Robertson is a non-fiction journalistic history book following, as suggested, the trial of Lizzie Borden. In 1890s Fall River, Massachusetts, Borden was accused and tried for the horrific murder (by axe) of her parents.

This is a great informative book for someone like me who’s heard references to Borden and her potential criminality for years but missed some of the context. It’s a thorough assembly of details from the trial, including evidence considered, arguments made, notes on everyone in attendance, and some background information on Borden, her family, their standing in town, and the aftermath. Robertson does not attempt to “get inside” of Borden’s head or try to convince the reader of anything beyond the collected facts; she simply lays out the evidence without passing on any assumptions and does not try to sway the reader’s verdict. Borden’s guilt/innocence is a topic most who’ve heard the story have some sort of personal opinion on; despite a verdict being given at the end of her trial it remains (as it was at the time), a popular and divisive case.

“Joe Howard was harsher in his assessment of the police: ‘Of course he was certain about it; they all are. There hasn’t been an officer on the stand who has not been absolutely confident, nor has there been one who has not been flatly contradicted by one of his associates.'”

Perhaps what’s most interesting here is the fact that there hasn’t been concrete evidence of Borden’s guilt or innocence, then or now. Murder weapons were hypothesized but never entirely confirmed or ruled out, no one saw Borden commit the crimes nor did anyone see another person enter the house. The case against her largely boils down to the fact that no other suspect can be produced, while the case for her boils down to the lack of evidence on her person or in the house of having committed multiple murders. There are a few interesting “gotcha” reveals during the trial, and it’s also interesting to see what a US trial looked like during this time period, so I found it an engaging read all the way through, if a bit dry.

My reaction: 3 out of 5 stars. A murder mystery for the ages. Glad I picked this one up, and I would recommend Agatha Christie fans look into this one, if you don’t mind having to fill in the blanks to reach your own conclusions!

The Waste Lands by Stephen King is the third book in King’s Dark Tower fantasy series, which I am slowly buddy reading with a friend. Fortunately, each volume has worked a little better for me than the last.

In this book, our MC (Roland) and crew have left the beach where they met in the previous volume and begin here by spending some time recuperating at their leisure in a pleasant valley. Of course that doesn’t last; a new monster (surprisingly mechanical in nature this time) appears, and their route forward is found; they will follow the Beam toward the Tower. Along this journey they encounter some dying relics from Roland’s world, including a small, suspicious township and a large, warring city in its final stages of decay. In order to escape certain doom as the city destructs, they must befriend a sentient, diabolical train who enjoys riddles.

This series is still a little too episodic for my taste, though the episodes themselves are becoming somewhat more interesting. The dregs of civilization left in the dying town and city here are particularly helpful in gaining some much-needed context for this world at last, though we’re still left with many questions, which is becoming a point of frustration for me this far into the series despite my quest for answers also being the key driving force in continuing the read, so- I have mixed feelings. I found the plethora of riddles a bit tiresome in this volume, and the increasing level of coincidence in how our heroes discover things and escape certain death are starting to strain my ability to suspend disbelief. I don’t like seeing the author’s hand when reading. But overall I had a lot less to complain about this time around than with the previous books, so there’s that.

“He knew instinctively, without even thinking about it, that this tunnel (which had to be at least seventy feet under Lud) also followed the path of the Beam. And somewhere up ahead- Jake was sure of this, although he couldn’t have said why- the train they had come looking for lay directly above it.”

My reaction: 3 out of 5 stars. Don’t be fooled by the middling review, this has been my best time with a Dark Tower novel yet lol! Luckily I’m a patient reader and having a fun time dissecting these books with my buddy reader because it’s been a slow journey toward actual enjoyment here. But I’ve also started the fourth volume by now as well (just waiting on my buddy to find time for a 900+ page novel) and it seems the upward trend has a strong chance of continuing. Hopefully in the end it’ll pay off, we’ll see.

Final thoughts: I went in looking for storms, and these books DELIVERED. Every single one of these books featured a storm, often as crucial parts of the narrative. This was the clearest through-line I found with my color tbrs, something every single book of the set had in common without my explicitly seeking that content; some of these covers definitely suggested storms, but The Woman in the Window and The Trial of Lizzie Borden especially surprised me by sticking to that trend even with rather plain-looking covers, no storm clouds in sight. And of course, literal storms are a popular way for fiction writers to convey tension hanging over their characters without specifically stating those factors, so beneath the literal storms ran plenty of emotional turbulence for all of these characters as well. I had a pretty low average rating with this set, but the overall vibe really pulled it all together and kept the experience fun even as individual titles missed the mark. The vibe:

“The clouds beat a steady march west across the sky, their color shifting deeper and deeper as thunder rumbled its threats in the distance. The smell of the storm nipped at their heels; humidity built until it was close to breaking, heavy and rank on their skin as the breath of a predator.” –Vampires of El Norte

Have you read any of these? Any dark and tempestuous books you’d add to the ranks?

belated reviews – women’s prize 2023

With the inaugural Women’s Prize for Nonfiction longlist imminent on February 15th, and the 2024 Women’s Prize for Fiction longlist coming up on March 5th, what better time to catch up on last year’s women’s prize reviews?! Promptly would’ve been ideal, but hey, better late than never? The beauty of a book prize (imo) is that these are the books of our time, the timeless reads, the ones worth picking up even long after their season.

For this set, I took a pause from color tbrs to read instead 6 books from the 2023 Women’s Prize longlist; in fact I’ve now read 8 from that longlist. My thoughts on Trespasses by Louise Kennedy can be found in this post, where I read and reviewed it for its cover color, and my review for The Bandit Queens by Parini Shroff will be upcoming as part of a later color tbr set. For the purpose of this post, my “main” bulk set of 6 Women’s Prize reads:

I’m a Fan by Sheena Patel is a short, smart book that I was drawn to for its look at relationships in the era of social media, including some of the repercussions of this internet age on the individual psyche. Perhaps I am not Online Enough to be the target audience here though, because while I found it an astute book full of very sharp and resonant observations about the ways we interact with others online and how those perceived links also affect “real life” encounters, I didn’t find much of the story personally relatable to give it that particular power to haunt me, nor, at the other end of the spectrum, shocking/unexpected enough to grip me by way of surprise and suspense.

Plotwise, this is the tale of a millennial messy woman in an affair with an unavailable man (“the man I want to be with”), whose publicly acknowledged girlfriend (“the woman I am obsessed with”) she stalks on social media (and sometimes beyond). Our MC quickly realizes that this man is using her and will never be an appropriate partner for her, though these facts fail to temper her increasingly unhinged obsession and behavior, perhaps even increasing the fuel of her desperation and inability to disconnect from the situation.

It’s a slim, punchy story whose succinct but evocative headers and brief chapters are aptly reminiscent of character-limited social media posts, perfect for today’s short attention spans. It’s full of quotable moments and quietly horrifying scenes that feel very real and current. It begs readers to confront what the internet and its social media platforms are doing to our online activity, to our brains even in our time offline, to our real and virtual interactions, and the many ways that seemingly beneficial changes (endless possibilities for connection!) may be negatively shaping us and our society.

“what’s it called / The thing is I don’t even hate-follow the woman I am obsessed with, I don’t follow her at all. I don’t follow her and I hate her- what’s that called?”

My reaction: 3 out of 5 stars. This is one of those ratings/reviews where I feel the need to emphasize that I rate based on my personal experience with a book, not as any attempt at stating its objective merit- I think this is objectively one of those great books that pinpoints something vital about our moment in time, I just knew enough about it going in to put the story at a disadvantage for me. Still very happy to have read it though and will be keeping an eye out for future work from Patel!

Cursed Bread by Sophie Mackintosh found its way to my TBR based upon my previous enjoyment of the author’s The Water Cure. This latest offering from Mackintosh is a story I enjoyed both more and less for the surprise of its ending, at which point the underlying purpose of the story is revealed.

For most of the read, this is a novel softly building in personal tension as the baker’s wife of this small, historical post-war French village becomes fascinated (along with many of the townsfolk, in their own particular ways) with a strange new couple who’ve taken up local residence. As she steps farther beyond her contained life at the bakery to explore new desires with this mysterious pair, foreshadowing lets us know something is amiss, but we don’t know what sort of story this going to be until the curtain lifts upon the dramatic ending, when our MC realizes her preoccupations are actually part of a scheme much larger in scope.

I liked the ending, if not level of surprise involved in the reveal. I would’ve simply preferred that piece to have been a larger story element taking up a greater percentage of the book, rather than a hidden hook. The fact that it is a hidden hook also makes it challenging to recommend or discuss the crux of the novel, as the author seems to intend for the book’s true nature to be surprisingly revealed in this matter and I don’t want to ruin the experience for readers whom this might actually work for. Unfortunately, I suspect readers who enjoy the close narration of the angsty affair and self-discovery at the beginning may be off-put when the ending veers into very different territory, and readers (like me) who prefer the ending section will be more likely to find the lead-up tedious. For me, this book would’ve worked better with a much more compact first segment, and perhaps a more expansive second segment that took more risks with the book’s inspiration by digging into motives, particulars, and a more comprehensive view of the townspeople involved. Nevertheless, because this was a quick read clearly hinting throughout that a disastrous secret *would* be devastatingly revealed, and because the concept felt unique and intriguing, I did enjoy the book.

“Maybe I will forget this on purpose, or maybe I will remember it for the rest of my days. It’s hard to tell what an image will come to mean, what a person will mean, when you are still seeing it for the first time, and some things you always see as if for the first time.”

My reaction: 4 out of 5 stars. Though the format felt a little off for me, I enjoyed the writing and felt so much promise in the concept, as well as perhaps some admiration for the bold attempt with the surprise (loosely based on a real mystery event! Cursed Bread left me curious enough to look it up for myself). If occasionally frustrated I was at least never bored and remain excited to see what Mackintosh will do next.

Children of Paradise by Camilla Grudova was a cover buy for me! I’m a sucker for minimalist covers with fun colors, lines, and angles. And that’s how I ended up reading a book about a grand old theater even while I wouldn’t particularly say I’m a movie or theater person myself.

In Children of Paradise, our narrator sets up in a new town and needs a job to sustain herself; she inquires at a theater with a hiring sign posted, and after a difficult-to-crack initiation phase she quickly becomes enmeshed in its insular environment. The employees are an eclectic cast of movie-lover types, some of whom have been employed at the Paradise long enough to be fixtures. The Paradise itself is a charming old building, a relic from another time, that fails to thrive in modern society but also resists updating. The job is no longer glamorous- in fact often grotesque- and yet the employees are a tight-knit family who both believe in the magic of the Paradise and are themselves the breath of air keeping it alive.

You’d expect a book about a fancy old place on the cusp of ruin to have some grandeur, to be sad or melancholy, and Children of Paradise does deliver all of that. But what really sells it is the book’s willingness to celebrate not only the obvious attractions but the grimy underbelly of the theater as well. Of course there’s value in the gilded trim, the velvet seats, the antique equipment, the lifelong patrons; but what frequently drew me in were the cringe-worthy but highly expressive scenes of cleaning and maintenance, of hiding from unpleasant benefactors, of a dedication level so extreme that our narrator increasingly finds herself spending her free time in the theatre or in the company of her colleagues until it’s time to return to the job unwashed, unslept, unsober, and still loving the place so deeply that it’s unfathomable that it should ever fall apart. But when money and death weigh heavily, there’s no putting things back the way they were. This story carries a behind-the-scenes intimacy that is utterly captivating. This is how you honor something: to obsess, to revel, to examine its flaws in all their gag-inducing details and still refuse to let it go. Grudova knows.

“More than half the toilets were never flushed, clogged with toilet paper, shit, tampons, even clumps of human hair. I didn’t know if it was because the pipes were bad, or if people were closer to their animal selves in the Paradise, if a cinema was nothing more than a zoo. The urinals too were full of pubic hair and cloudy or crystallized piss. I had to pour hot kettles of water down them until they cleared.”

My reaction: 3 out of 5 stars. This book is a vibe. Though at the time of reading I wished there had been a bit more plot and character development, I don’t think I’ve ever read another book where a building is such a central force in the narrative, and I continue to find myself thinking about it often.

Pod by Laline Paull is the book from this list that caught me most off-guard. I don’t often like animal stories! I’d heard this one follows a dolphin POV and thus I was nearly put off, but liked the electric cover and was intrigued by the fact this one advanced to the WP shortlist, and in the end I’m so glad I checked it out!

Yes, you read that right, this story features a dolphin POV, along with some additional marine life perspectives both large and small. It’s a climate/nature fiction that dives deep into the impact humans have on our natural planet, showcasing problems large and small that aquatic creatures are facing as a result of human activity. But it also highlights some of the natural ups and downs of (sea) animal life; the recognition of changing seasons, competition for territory, mating rituals, sleep cycles, community bonding, long-distance travel, etc. It’s a fascinating glimpse into life below the ocean’s surface that had me constantly Googling for more information on particular species and oceanic events (dolphins used in military maneuvers! hallucinogenic fish! dead zones!)- always a huge win for me when a book inspires a healthy dose of further investigation.

If, like me, you’re not initially sold on reading a full novel about the lives of animals, let me assure you there’s plenty of food for thought regarding human nature here as well. Both literally, in the sense that humans are somewhat present in the story (mainly as a threatening element that our main characters must evade or cope with) but also tangentially, as the sea creatures’ experiences lead us to think about our own social hierarchies, our responses to trauma and rape, our attitudes toward fluidity of gender and the role of sex. It’s a harrowing but beautiful read that inspires the reader to consider what is natural and what is not, what sets humans apart or not, what our uses and abuses of power as the top of the food chain have been and their ultimate impact. It’s both immediately engaging in plot- as two rival dolphin clans clash but must come together against a common enemy- and extremely thought-provoking in its themes and details.

“Don’t stare at my friend like that, she called down to her swains, a lot of people are sexually confused these days. It’s happening everywhere.”

My reaction: 4 out of 5 stars. I was a little overwhelmed by how much sexual content there was here, though ultimately I understood the inclusions and felt they had value; it just wasn’t a selling point for me that mating (or abuse) took up quite so much page space, and imo makes the book a little harder to recommend (it’s a heavy read). Even so, I haven’t been able to forget about this story and am keen to read Paull’s The Bees as a backlist follow-up.

Wandering Souls by Cecile Pin sounded absolutely heartbreaking which… I couldn’t resist. I like having my world turned upside down by sharp literature and this one does hit where it hurts.

This is the story of a Vietnamese refugee family fleeing their vulnerable home in hopes of landing in America near relatives. Told through the eldest daughter’s perspective as the family splits and she endeavors to look after the two brothers in her care, much of their plan goes devastatingly awry, eventually landing the young trio in London where they continue to struggle alone while trying to cope with what they’ve lost and find a new sense of home.

If you know anything about realistic refugee experiences it should be no surprise how perilous and tragic this process turns out to be for the siblings of this story; very little is positive or uplifting about their journey. The revelations and themes here are harrowing, educational, and absolutely necessary to understand in an era of displacement. My only criticism relates to a lack of characterization and the limiting of the plot to hardships faced; some combination of these two elements led this to feel like a book aspiring to be “The” refugee story, in which we see the trials and tribulations faced by many in these circumstances but never quite get close enough to our main characters to set their story apart from so many like it. The fact that such similarity can exist at a scale of magnitude when covering such a range of horrors is of course impactful in itself, but while reading I felt the lack of individual personalities of these siblings as a barrier to truly feeling emotionally invested in them (as opposed to reading to educate myself more generally; I was hoping Wandering Souls might check both boxes for me). Of course these children are worn down by their experiences, of course they miss the rest of their family members and make choices most likely to keep the three of them together and safe and prosperous, but beyond their identity as refugees who are they? What are their interests, their passions? What lives would they have led if not derailed by the need to leave their home country? Did they have any dreams for the life they were reaching toward in America? I wished I could’ve answered any of these questions and known these characters more personally, rather than only for what happens *to* them. Nonetheless, it’s an incredibly poignant and moving story full of wisdom and perspective.

“She didn’t know how to answer, how to explain that his London wasn’t the same as hers, that she was a guest here, grudgingly accepted by the government and its citizens. She didn’t belong in Green Park or Buckingham Palace. She thought she needed to be accompanied by someone like him, her living visa, a stamp in her passport that justified her presence.”

My reaction: 3 out of 5 stars. Based on content and theme this would have been a 5 star read; though the characters and structure didn’t totally work for me, I would not hesitate to recommend this book to anyone who doesn’t mind crying while reading and/or would like to learn more about the realities faced by many refugees.

I picked up Homesick by Jennifer Croft as a fraught sibling story- as I myself have less-than-straightforward relationships with my siblings I thought there might be something to learn from or relate to here, and that guess proved half correct.

This is the tale of two sisters, in which the narration follows the older girl, through years of close sibling bonding and the challenges of the younger girl’s chronic illness. The story culminates in our MC going off to college, where (whether she likes it or not) she needs to find her own identity separate from her existence as one of a pair for the first time.

Though I couldn’t relate to the specific struggles this family toils through in particular, there’s much about growing up as the oldest sibling in a family with very hands-off parents that I found relatable, and I suspect many other oldest girls will feel similarly. That ability to personally connect may have sharpened my experience with the rest of the novel, painting a clear view of the complexities of sisterhood, the love/hate relationship of having a constant companion but also a hanger-on, of competing within shared interests, of being so very seen in all of one’s successes and mistakes, of sharing everything even while wanting something for oneself, of being so wholly accepted but also always having someone who knows exactly how to hurt you. The fact that this is a coming-of-age story is another draw in its favor, as a universal experience that all readers can weigh against their own awakenings and awarenesses. As a translator, Croft also has a particular way with language in which nothing is out of place, and every sentence feels considered and magnetic, pulling the reader in from the go and holding on until the last page is turned.

“It is exhausting taking care of young children. Usually their mom and dad are too distracted so Amy does it, even though it leaves her barely any time.”

My reaction: 3 out of 5 stars. I really liked feeling seen in the “older sibling burden” here, especially in a way that reminds one that while it’s not all fair or right it’s not all bad, either. It’s a read that helped put some of my own experience into perspective without minimizing it. But it didn’t change my life, and I find myself letting go of plot specifics easily even while continuing to appreciate the book’s underlying themes. I would recommend this particularly to fans of sibling or bildungsroman stories.

Final Reflections: As this was my first deviation from color palette reading for 2023 I tried to lean into some other sort of theme to bring these together, landing on “bright and colorful” as a general vibe for the photos and centering them around the spring and summer travels upon which many of these books accompanied me. Along with each Instagram review I included a carousel of travel highlights from Iowa, Mexico, and California.

My row of covers on Goodreads for this set turned out a bit less satisfying, but I liked that there were some unintentional color echoes even if the entire batch didn’t perfectly match:

As a whole, I think because I used these as vacation books and tied them to my travels, I noticed a lot more differences than similarities across the board. Every one of these stories had a different setting and featured different themes, some foreboding the future, some honoring the past, some spotlighting a current issue. That’s something I tend to like about the Women’s Prize- while there’s occasionally some conversation to be had amongst the longlist and across the years’ selections, the overall experience each year is usually one of such wide variety that it never fails to surprise. Not all of the books are for me, but there’s always *something.* It was fun to dip a toe back into this prize by picking and choosing from what was available to me at the time, and as a result I’m very much looking forward to the upcoming WP fiction longlist- I haven’t fully decided yet but may try to read the entire list if that looks possible! Rest assured my posts on it either way will be more timely and less lengthy than this one lol.

I didn’t dislike anything from this set, though was sad not to come up with any no-holds-barred 5 star favorites. Pod did land near the top of my 2023 favorite books though! Favorites for me usually have more to do with impact and memorability than whether I had any particular criticisms while reading; some technically flawless 5-star books don’t make the favorites cut for me while some 4-stars with caveats prove unshakeable and do. This was also the case with Trespasses from earlier reading and also The Bandit Queens, review to come! Until then,

Happy Valentine’s!

belated reviews- sweet and stormy

I managed to complete 7 color/prize list tbr sets in 2023, but reviewed only one of them promptly (snowy blues, part 1 and part 2). I did, however, take notes for reviews through alllll of those reads and do mean to catch up. This batch covers my second set of color reads, the “pinky purples.” Since they’re belated I’m packing more into this post than usual; feel free to skip around to any sections you’re more interested in than others, I know it’s a bit long as a whole.

These pastel-y covers gave such candy-coated vibes to look at, but my reads from this color group turned out to be surprisingly turbulent, with darker centers than the happy coloring suggested- thus, sweet on the outside, stormy on the inside. I absolutely loved that about this set, even if these reads weren’t all wins.

The Drawing of the Three by Stephen King is the second book in King’s Dark Tower fantasy series, which I am buddy reading with a friend; between her new job and my year-long color reading scheme it’s been a slow project. Luckily, the 2016 Scribner paperback editions each begin with a helpful, thorough recap, which makes this an easy series to read piecemeal.

The Gunslinger (book 1 in this series) scraped through for me with just 2 stars, but it’s widely regarded as the worst book in the set so I had higher hopes here. In this volume, we meet our MC (Roland) just a few hours after we left him at the end of the previous book; he’s in bad shape, facing new monsters, and working off only a vague sense of which way he should be going. An odd tarot reading at the end of The Gunslinger has prophesied something nebulous for Roland’s future, which we discover in this novel to mean a series of magical doors along the beach he’s walking, each of which leads him between worlds to meet another character he supposedly needs for his journey to the Tower.

Unfortunately very little happens in this book that feels- even in the moment, but also in context of having read a bit further by the time I’m completing this review- like it will matter to the overall series; Roland makes little progress toward the tower, and we spend this entire novel (aside from a few superfluous but expected shoot-outs and bouts of violence) just becoming acquainted with new characters and their very thorough backstories. At this point we are still being held in the dark on most of the particulars of Roland’s quest, and even Roland seems to be making many decisions on instinct alone. One of the driving points of the series at this point is still the simple mystery of what this series even is– what is the Dark Tower? Why is Roland seeking it? Why does Roland’s fantasy world echo but differ from our own? How are the worlds connected? And why should any of this matter at all to these new characters being plucked from their established lives? Much of the characterization here feels stereotypical, the world building feels lazy (I cannot overemphasize how hard my eyes rolled every time I read “lobstrosities:” lobster monstrosities, to say nothing of the literal doors that magically appear to take Roland exactly where he needs to go). It continues to feel very Male Fantasy, with Roland presenting as a vulnerable but godlike ultimate authority, a hero who cannot be felled even on the brink of death because he is crucial to some Grand Destiny in which everyone else is a replaceable cog just there to keep him going at all costs.

This is a book that’s a bit too full of itself without the strength of the series having been proven yet. Will it prove itself in the end? We shall see.

“What we like to think of ourselves and what we really are rarely have much in common.“

My reaction: 2 out of 5 stars. Slightly more enjoyable than The Gunslinger, but not enough to reach that 3-star level. I’m still hoping the series will improve, but I know it’ll be a good time dissecting it with my buddy reader (who, to be fair, is enjoying the series more than I am) either way.

Imposter Syndrome by Kathy Wang was a BOTM title I picked up a couple years ago and finally got around to reading for this color set, featuring a Russian spy in a huge Silicon Valley tech company, whose misdeeds with company technology are stumbled upon by a Chinese American woman on the lower end of the corporate pay roll.

On its surface, I’d call this a spy/crime novel, and we do see a bit of Russian secret intelligence and the (sometimes deadly) underground dealings that maneuver key players into and out of national and international spheres. Though not the only perspective offered here, our main characters is a planted agent, complete with handler, who takes advantage of the technology her job gives her access to in order to help Russia keep tabs on persons of interest.

But beneath the espionage, the heart of this novel really lies with the two women caught up in sticky situations at their huge Twitter/Facebook-like tech company. Ultimately it’s the feminist story of these two lonely women, pitted against each other despite all they have in common. Both are grappling with decisions about whether to do what’s expected of them, and whether that path leads toward their own dreams or someone else’s. They navigate racism and misogyny in their workplace, and struggle with familial and societal opinions. In entirely different circumstances, they might have been friends, or at least been sympathetic to each other. But as it stands, only one of them can succeed in Silicon Valley, seemingly at the other’s expense. And yet, despite the cutthroat environment and high stakes for each character, the reader never quite gets that thrilling brush with danger one might expect from a spy novel. The focus on morals and individuality means the threat never feels immediate or insurmountable. Even as our characters become anxious and desperate, even as the consequences begin to unfold, the book never had me at the edge of my seat. It’s all bark, with so many sharp statements, but entirely lacking any fast-paced plotty action to fit the drama- no bite.

“And in fact she appeared sincere, as if she truly meant what she said- the opposite of most interactions he had with Americans, who liked to pretend a conversation was a relationship when really it was only a mirror, one in which to admire their own labored self-reflections.”

My reaction: 3 out of 5 stars. I enjoyed both of the main characters’ perspectives and the scenario that brought them together, but I kept waiting for more excitement on page (Russian spy!) that never really came. It’s just a quieter novel than I was expecting. I’d still readily recommend this one to anyone looking for a contemporary feminist read that’s a little out of the box.

Trespasses by Louise Kennedy was longlisted for the Women’s Prize for 2023. This is an Irish novel set near Belfast during the Troubles; on its face it’s the story of a young Catholic school teacher having an affair with a man who frequents her family’s bar, but the theme of trespassing goes much deeper as small violences follow her through the tale, highlighting just how pervasive the Troubles were in everyday Irish life- dividing friends, family, and neighbors. Kennedy masterfully weaves everything together, from horrors in the daily news, to drama with the students, to a local family in need, to Cushla’s dalliance, and beyond.

“There’s nothing you can do about any of it. But you can’t take to the bed for the rest of your life.”

There’s something a bit darkly thrilling about extramarital affairs (in fiction!), with their all-consuming sense of indulgence and impending disaster. It’s always fascinating characterization when someone does something they know is wrong, just because they want to. Or in a case like this, two someones. And yet despite the looming dread of knowing things would end badly for Cushla (our MC) and her man after all the attempts at secrecy and subterfuge, Kennedy still pulls it together in a way that feels explosive, surprising, and utterly heart wrenching.

The man Cushla is involved with walks a fine line between the two sides of the conflict in Ireland, as a Protestant lawyer who takes on cases of a political nature that others wouldn’t touch. The depth of the gulf between parties becomes clear when Cushla is regarded as an outsider in Michael’s circle (a byproduct of politics more so than relationship morals), and all the meanwhile she hides any connection with him from her own family, who allow Michael to spend his money at their bar but draw the line there. At the same time as Cushla is enmeshing herself in this forbidden romance, she is also trying to aid a local family whose child is bullied at school and whose father is out of work due to injuries from a political-based attack. Each spoke in this wheel of intercommunity division is fascinating in its own right, but the beauty is in the way Kennedy links them together, bringing the reader to question- though most of the characters fail to- the weight of personal vs community loyalties, the crimes that become acceptable vs the slights that become ruinous, and the barely logical chaos that reigns when a city must adapt to tension and even violence that has become all too commonplace. It’s a true casualty of war that how one is perceived can become so much more important than one’s morality and humanity. And this quandry is precisely where Trespasses shines.

My reaction: 4 out of 5 stars. This was nearly a perfect read for me, but I can see it being somewhat niche and have seen a wide variety of responses to it. I think it’s one of those books that has low plot but a lot to say in what isn’t said, which of course isn’t everyone’s cup of tea and that’s fair. Personally I had a great time with it and am looking forward to reading more from Kennedy.

True Love by Sarah Gerard is a slim literary fiction title about aspiring artists in the modern dating scene that I picked up (almost) solely based on its striking cover.

If you’re put off by unlikable characters or toxic relationships, run far away from this one immediately. Everyone here is a disaster, together and individually, floundering through the motions of living the suffering artist life and falling in love. Our MC is a writer desperate for the affection she never received from her own mother, seeking it from anyone who will give her any time of day, including friends who make even worse choices and men who are just as intent on using her for their own purposes as she is for them. If love comes too easy, she doesn’t trust it at all, looking always for the possibility of something greater. Her life is populated with those whose dreams of success in the art world (and beyond) are often far larger than their talent or even willingness to carry out a plan.

“A partner is a conduit for conducting a certain dimension of one’s experience, a way to collage and create oneself, like a walking, breathing search engine: it’s expedient to have one, affords one’s life content and depth and authority and direction. Plus I have no idea how to do it alone.”

I don’t always enjoy reading about art or the process of art, which is part of the reason this book didn’t entirely work for me. The other downfall for me was the insufferableness of these characters and their total lack of growth or introspection. While I appreciated the sense of contemporary malaise, the realistic difficulty of forging a financially secure life in modern society, and the desperate longing for authentic human connection, I just could not find anyone to really root for or invest in here, and the fact that they all seemed more or less content to bounce off of each other with little regard, behaving however they chose at any given moment, made it harder for me to care about their heartbreaks. It felt like these characters perpetually needed to have some conflict and emotional strife to give them direction in life, which is fair and a fine concept, but rather frustrating as a plot. Sure, things going too right is a source of boredom, the death of art. And maybe it is human nature to be drawn to what hurts us, at least a little. But at what cost?

“I’m not a sociopath. I’m in pain. We all are.”

My reaction: 3 out of 5 stars. Still love the cover, enjoyed how believable and modern this felt, and the sense of despair over the direction in which capitalism is driving our society, but ultimately I just did not enjoy the experience of reading about these characters. I would’ve rather read an essay or short story with the same themes than a full novel that never felt like it was working toward any sort of resolution or statement.

Valentine by Elizabeth Wetmore was another previous BOTM selection for me, and recommended by a friend as well.

This is the story of a small 1970’s Texan town impacted by an oil boom; with workers coming in to manage the oil fields, local tensions rise and trouble spikes. A Mexican American teen is brutally raped and narrowly escapes death at the hands of an opportunistic man looking to make some quick cash from the oil gig; but despite a kindly rural woman offering immediate assistance and reporting the crime, it’s the 1970’s and public opinion turns against the teen, who looks foreign and did climb into the man’s truck of her own accord, dressed to show off her assets. The woman championing the teen’s case is also criticized, the target of much hate even from former friends, and no longer feels safe in her home. Meanwhile, a motherless child runs wild and makes a questionable (adult male) friend of her own; her neighbor, a grieving widow, tries and ultimately fails, to avoid becoming a much-needed parental figure for the young girl before she stumbles into similar trouble.

There’s a lot happening here, and knowing the gist of the story some of the commentary is to be expected: racism, xenophobia, and misogyny of the setting and era, victim-blaming and the intense pursuit of faultless “normalcy” so common in conservative areas of America. But Wetmore pulls out all the stops, and pushes this story a level deeper by turning it into a dark story of community. It’s not all dark, of course, community is something that these main characters desperately need and sometimes find in each other: physical help, emotional support, guidance, and connection to the world beyond themselves. Without these things all of our cast of shifting narrators would be lost, unable to stand against the greater force of community cultivated by the townsfolk. The township community is also maintained out of necessity, to stand against the influx of unknown, transitory oil workers whose pursuit of profit trumps any respect for the established lives of permanent citizens, though their presence should ultimately give the economy of the little town a much-needed boost that’ll help them all prosper for years to come. In this way the story becomes a complex tapestry of good for one vs good for many, an investigation of crime too easily dismissed when those who don’t pay the cost decide the price is acceptable.

I appreciated the read more than I expected to; I had been a little nervous that the synopsis and early chapters gave so many of the book’s main events away that there wouldn’t be enough in the action and commentary that followed to truly surprise and impress- an incorrect assumption. While it’s true that the most significant “action” in the tale occurs early, this novel is nevertheless packed with simmering tensions and genuine danger, a depth of varied emotions and themes, and a culmination of events that did find me holding my breath in suspense. It’s not an easy read, but I would recommend it to anyone interested in the premise.

“The cops and lawyers and teachers and churches, the judge and jury, the people who raised that boy and then sent him out into the world, to this town- every one of them is guilty.”

My reaction: 4 out of 5 stars. While it lacked that “wow” factor I would’ve needed for a 5 star rating, there’s nothing particular here I feel any need to criticize; this is a book that does a great job of capturing a moment and has a lot to say, and I wish I saw more people picking it up.

I had high hopes for Leone Ross’s Popisho, with its artful cover, its 2022 Women’s Prize longlisting, and some great reviews for this magical realism tale set on a Jamaican-inspired island where the characters each have a particular enhancement or gift. The main storyline follows a chef who can season food with his bare hands and knows the exact meal each person needs in their life at the time that he feeds them. This chef has been requested to serve the wedding dinner for the governor’s daughter, but over the course of one day, partially due to the pressure of preparing this meal he doesn’t want to serve, some particular events on the island turn everyone’s lives and the entire social order upside down.

While I would say the chef is the main character here, there are several other perspectives in the rotation as well, and some other local problems including corruption, prejudice, entitlement, addiction, and more that are explored and which feed into one another.

Unfortunately, it just didn’t live up to expectations for me. Despite the fact that the entire story takes place in one single, full day, a framework that appeals to me, the tale is somewhat light on plot and very episodic, a structure that rarely holds my attention well. I did enjoy the wackiness of some of the details and events, loved the concept of each character possessing a magical ability or calling, and appreciated that these elements converged in satirical reflections on real societal issues both Jamaican (I presume, based upon the setting) and surely beyond; but I wasn’t always able to suspend my disbelief and the silliness sometimes held me at arm’s length from the story, taking away from the greater themes. For example, at one point every woman’s “pum-pum” (vulva) falls off of her body for a bit of commentary on sexual freedom, bodily autonomy, and rape, but I found it too difficult to even wrap my head around how that was supposed to be happening physically/logistically to fully appreciate the messaging sparked by this event and its aftermath.

“All words meant the same thing. Nothing was more important than anything else. Her appendix was the same as orchids and her memories belonged to everyone. She would have remarked out loud at the smallness and the enormity of it all, except she’d stopped breathing and speech was the same as sadness. / Awe, wonder, fear, despair, all here, all gone. No more than a moment. Forever.”

My reaction: 3 out of 5 stars. I really tried with this one and was disappointed not to like it more, because I did enjoy the concept and the writing style- it’s a beautiful book. The magical elements just did not quite match my reading taste, though I think it would be great for literary readers who also like the whimsical.

Final Reflections:

Part of the reason I adopted this color-focused tbr system for 2023 was to use the aesthetic of coordinating covers to help prompt me to keep up with logging my reads and reviews, something I had been struggling with previously. While I clearly fell off the blog bandwagon again pretty early on, I did enjoy the color-coded 3×3 bookstagram grids and the neat Goodreads rows for each color set throughout the year, so it wasn’t a total wash:

Another reason I adopted this system was to push myself to think critically and creatively and farther outside the box about what I was reading; holding six stories in my mind at a time to compare/contrast did help me to engage more deeply with what I was reading, and I had fun considering whether these books with similar cover colors had anything at all in common (without trying to intentionally match up content) and what that might be. A somewhat arbitrary exercise, but I did end up feeling like my reading sets formed (at least somewhat) coherent groups. As mentioned at the start of this post, I noticed with this set that the sweet pastel-y covers were hiding darker centers. These are books that look on the surface like potentially light, pleasant, exciting spring reads. But each of them ended up revealing toxicity or turbulence below that surface. Nothing is as meets the eye with these books, as morals, societies, even whole worlds begin to crumble under the weight of closer observation. There are a lot of things we candy-coat or turn a willingly blind eye toward to keep up appearances, and books like these press against that tendency.

Have you read any of these? Let me know what you thought! 🙂

snowy blues reviews pt 2

This year I’m trying to arrange my reading in sets of six that fit certain (arbitrary) “cover vibes,” which I kicked off in January with a snowy blues color scheme; you can find part 1 of my snowy blues reviews here, or carry on for more recent reads.

The Daughters of Izdihar by Hadeer Elsbai just barely fit the icy blue cover aesthetic I was going for, but I had preordered this one a while back and needed to make it fit into my schedule pronto. Elsbai is a lovely writer I originally found through her blog here on WordPress (which I will link in my next post for anyone looking to follow her, so she’s not tagged directly into the review); I couldn’t have been more excited to pick up her debut and I hope I can help entice you too!

This is the first volume in an Egyptian-inspired fantasy duology (the Alamaxa Duology), which I would probably classify as upper-range YA for its themes and approachability, although the characters are technically adults. I don’t read a lot in this age range these days but this one hit the spot, a quick and dramatic read I would’ve loved as a teen that also respects the maturity of its audience by offering plenty of food for thought without oversimplification, making it just as enjoyable to pick up as an adult.

The story follows two main perspectives, young women from disparate backgrounds who become involved in a protest group aiming to secure the right for women to vote. Both of these characters are also elemental weavers, a taboo in this society after a past disaster sparked a largescale fear of weaving. Though our heroines’ end goals differ, their desires for freedom and choice continually pull them together; all the more fun considering one of them has been arranged into an unwanted marriage with the man that the other woman loves. The man caught in the middle of this tangled web handles the situation marvelously, finding himself in the perfect position to become an ally for both of the women in his life; meanwhile a budding sapphic romance brings us further angst, intrigue, and delight. Characterization all around is perfection, each player following their own distinct personality toward their inevitable outcomes, driving the plot in a way that feels very organic and appealing.

I did have the sense that the world building and fantasy elements were just getting started in this volume, with more explosive events yet to come, but this sort of gearing-up makes sense given that our main characters have been largely barred from education and training up to this point, limiting their ability to use and control their magic. In The Daughters of Izdihar we watch these characters learn and grow, enraged by the world around them and inspired by their own senses of power and purpose, igniting a spark that’s likely to blaze in book 2; plenty to look forward to, but already this is a kickass feminist page-turner that reflects a lot of familiar societal issues like misogyny, police corruption, homophobia, and discrimination against those who are different, all while adhering admirably to the creative rules of its own fantasy universe.

“This isn’t a quaint little folktale where the heroes win because they’re supposed to.“

My reaction: 5 out of 5 stars. There’s absolutely nothing I would change about this book and I am eagerly awaiting the sequel.

The Miniaturist by Jessie Burton is a wintry historical fiction set in 1680s Amsterdam. Our main character is a young woman who marries a wealthy tradesman in the city after her own family’s fortunes have taken a downward turn in their more rural home village. New to Amsterdam, Nella first sees the proper faces it presents publicly, but the longer she stays the more she comes to learn the import of the secrets hidden behind closed doors.

There’s much to appreciate about this novel, especially in the beautifully captured setting in all of its glory and oddity, and the strength of its characters. There’s also a certain whimsical appeal to the mystery of the miniaturist: an unknown craftsperson who sends Nella unsolicited gifts for her cabinet- a wedding gift that is a tiny replica of her new home. The miniatures Nella receives are remarkable copies of real furnishings and people that occupy her husband’s household, but the most uncanny aspect is that the particular selection and detailing of the miniatures seems to foreshadow the tumultuous events of Nella’s life in Amsterdam.

While I expected to love this story for those reasons, I found instead that the whimsical nature of the tale put me off. The miniaturist mystery never quite feels used to the story’s advantage, but rather as a sort of sleight-of-hand trick to draw the reader’s eye away from the machinations of the underlying plot; when I wasn’t drawn in by the miniatures I found it all too easy to see the clues in the narrative, the truths spoken in circles and the things left unsaid, the logic behind the noises in the night and the family’s strange behaviors. As a consequence, absolutely nothing about the plot managed to surprise me, and with neither plot nor quirky style as a hook I was left underwhelmed. I do think readers who enjoy whimsy more than I do (think Jess Kidd) will probably fare better with this one than I did.

Despite not enjoying the storytelling as much as I’d hoped, I do think there are some wonderful themes of bravery in the face of bigotry at the heart of this novel. The cast is surprisingly diverse for how contained it is to a single household, and so much of the plot is driven by sympathetic people dreaming of freer lives from within the confines of a very strict, traditionalist society; while still feeling like products of their own 17th century time, these are characters easy to appreciate from the modern day as well. I can certainly see why Burton is such a well-loved author, even though my own experience did not quite live up to expectations.

“Her own ribs ache as she squeezes her miniature tight, and for a brief moment she believes there is no difference between the miniaturist’s minor version of herself and her own human limbs. For what am I, she wonders, but a product of my own imagination?”

My reaction: 3 out of 5 stars. A solid read, though it didn’t quite fit my personal taste. No big deal, that happens. All I have against this book in the end is that there are two beloved pets that are built up in the story only to meet (needlessly) bad fates- animal lovers beward. I do still have The Muse waiting on my TBR shelf so I’ll be giving Burton another try in the future, but based on this experience I have no desire at this point to pick up The Miniaturist‘s recent sequel: The House of Fortune.

City of Omens: A Search for the Missing Women of the Borderlands by Dan Werb was my final snowy blues read; it does have the cover color I was going for but there is nothing remotely snowy about this book. After making some progress catching up with my BOTM shelf last year I decided I would try to fit at least one BOTM book into as many of these cover challenges as possible to keep from immediately falling behind again. Since I’ve had my first ever journey to Mexico this month it also just seemed like a good time to pick up something about current social issues across the border. My experience there (more to come!) didn’t have any relation to this part of the country or the topics covered in this book, but I do now feel more generally informed about the US/Mexico relationship, which feels valuable regardless.

This is a social science nonfiction book that focuses specifically on the epidemiology of femicide in Tijuana. Werb is an epidemiologist particularly focused on HIV, a preventable disease spreading at alarming rates in this city due to unsafe drug use and sex work; he investigates how factors like cartel violence, police corruption, and border tensions heighten the dangers women face while living in Tijuana, forcing them into vulnerable situations where they engage in risky behaviors primarily because they feel there are no better options available to them. It’s a bleak examination of difficult subject matter with multi-faceted, moving pieces. Of course a group of research-based scientists are limited in the level of help they can give to women victimized by such huge obstacles as drug wars, exploitative corporations, and corrupt police, but Werb presents clear scientific and statistical evidence in support of aid that has already been offered to women in Tijuana and solutions toward health and safety that have worked to combat HIV in other cities, such as safe injection sites.

It’s an important read in itself, and I think particularly for readers in the US with a limited knowledge on the history of our southern border. Tijuana is a city with a huge influx of migrants who come for the plentiful factory jobs and/or to seek refuge on hopeful paths toward less violent futures, and the city itself is a sort of sister to California’s San Diego; the United States directly affects and is directly affected by what happens in Tijuana. HIV will continue to spread through entirely legal border crossings and consumerism, largely supported by American tourism and spending habits.

And yet, for all its clear import, City of Omens also has a tendency toward impenetrability for the layperson. While there are a few narrative anecdotes and some rich snippets of history woven in, this is clearly a book written by a scientist with the assumption that readers are as interested in epidemiology itself as in the femicide being traced in this particular instance. Which is a fair assumption, I’m sure there is an audience looking to learn more about epidemiology as a study, but it does make this a denser, drier, and more difficult read for those drawn in primarily by the social aspects (like me). Furthermore, the book doesn’t really offer any suggestions for what the reader (or the women at risk!) might do to combat any of the problems highlighted here; using clean needles for drug injections and using condoms when involved in sex work are key tenets of safety against HIV, but there are massive policy, leadership, and lifestyle changes necessary in Tijuana and larger Mexico in order to make safety a realistic goal for those who need it most. Last but not least, I think the book’s header is also a bit misleading: The Search for the Missing Women of the Borderlands gives the impression that women will be found, that perhaps there’s a true crime element to this work, but in reality Werb is only searching for the reasons that there are missing women; this book looks for risk factors, not women. By the end of the work, (through no fault of his own) Werb cannot even say with certainty where his own contacts from the study have gone.

“The purpose of supervised injection sites is simple: get people who inject drugs on the street to do so indoors, under medical supervision, so that they don’t acquire HIV and don’t die of an overdose. In that, they have proven to be spectacularly successful. While overdose deaths have reached epidemic proportions across North America, not a single person has died after overdosing in any of the approximately 120 sites that exist in Canada and around the world.“

My reaction: 3 out of 5 stars. For information alone, this would have been a 5 star read, but unfortunately I found it a slog to get through despite finding the topics worthwhile. Though I normally like going into books without much knowledge of what to expect, I think having correct expectations for this one might be the key to a positive reading experience. I do hope more people will pick up this book, but I know I’ll have a hard time recommending it.

What’s your favorite pale blue book?

~

snowy blues reviews pt. 1

As I mentioned in my last post, I am starting out the year trying a silly/fun approach to reading for 2023: by cover vibes! I’m aiming to read 6 books from each set and review them here perhaps in batches of three (maybe broken up further in future, this one is longer than I expected). My first vibe of the year is snowy blues, and I’ve now read 3 of the allotted 6 so it’s time to share some thoughts on the titles I’ve picked up.

Migrations by Charlotte McConaghy was my first read of the year- I’m usually careful with my first-book choice to give myself the best shot I can at starting out the new year with a 5-star read, and luckily (considering I arranged my cover schedule around it) this one hit that mark for me!

“I don’t want to watch this. I can’t look away. I have to stop it somehow. Of course I can’t stop it.”

It’s a near-future dystopian novel leaning slightly sci-fi as it focuses on climate change and mass extinctions. Our main character, however, while married to a scientist/professor, has a very limited formal educated herself, making this a very accessible read for the layperson interested in nature and the state of our planet who also wants something that reads more like a personal journey. At heart, Migrations is a literary triumph in which one woman (Franny Stone) sets out to join the crew of a fishing boat to follow the last migration of endangered Arctic terns, a final wild adventure to witness nature in all its remaining glory as Franny runs from a traumatizing event in her past.

Franny’s trauma happens prior to the main timeline of this story, but McConaghy weaves the clues to Franny’s past into the details of her present so that the reader can see something is not quite right and yet still appreciate the full gravity of what has happened when Franny finally must reveal the truth. It’s a gorgeously well-written examination of grief, guilt, and longing for things beyond one’s reach. It’s also a love letter to the sea, and a fascinating glimpse at a species of migratory bird that many of us (or at least, me) knew nothing about despite its remarkability. All of this set to the backdrop of the world as we know it crumbling to an end.

But the themes aren’t the only element to read for: the crew of the vessel Franny joins is a close-knit found family, an eclectic group with their own particular ties and squabbles; they each love fishing for their own personal reasons, in spite of the vitriol of the protestors who swarm the docks to disparage them for their profession, even as social opinion, changing laws, and the dwindling number of fish in the sea make it increasingly difficult to make a sustainable living off of the shared passion that connects them all. It is easy to become invested in the interpersonal dynamics, the fate of this all-too-familiar world, the mystery of Franny’s past, and the desperate search for the last trek of an incredible bird.

My reaction: 5 out of 5 stars. There was absolutely nothing about this book that I disliked. Highly recommend to anyone even remotely interested in the premise, particularly to those who are looking for books about grief and/or climate crisis. I will certainly be wanting to read more from this author in future.

The Glass Woman by Caroline Lea was my next read, and quite different though also very suitable for the cold season!

“Perhaps a contented marriage is only a matter of becoming resigned to the shape of one’s own discontent.“

This is the historical fiction story of a young woman in 1680’s Iceland who marries a wealthy man in a remote part of the country in order to ensure her ailing mother will receive the care she needs. For her new husband, also, it is something of a marriage-of-convenience, as the mysterious death of his first wife has left in its wake some unsavory gossip in a time and place where public opinion can make or break a person. Because of this, Jon tries to keep Rosa isolated in their croft, away from the speculations the villagers might share about her predecessor and also to protect her from becoming another target of their speculations.

Rosa wants to be a good wife, and needs the marriage to succeed for her mother’s sake, but she’s left behind the man she truly cared about in order to make this match work and finds herself thrust into the pressure of a new role, in a new place, with strangers around her and no one she can go to for help or even company. Her husband’s secretiveness and his orders to stay away from the village make it hard to assimilate into her new life, the gossip about Jon’s first wife makes her uneasy, and the noises she can hear from the locked attic in their croft add to the spooky sense that something is wrong with her new circumstances. There are some echoes of Jane Eyre present here, though not enough to call The Glass Woman a retelling of that classic.

One of the main draws of The Glass Woman is certainly the way this book brings its historic setting to vivid life. Lea’s descriptions of fields, hills, sea, and snow storms transport the reader to historic Iceland; from Rosa’s childhood home to her new marital croft and the days-long journey between, we are shown the scope of the country’s beauty and also its dangers, both natural and personal. The side conflict of old religious tradition versus the emerging popularity of secular Sagas pin the story to its timeline and add depth to the main marital conflict. There is also an LGTBQ+ element to the tale, the unacceptability of gayness in this time and place inflaming existing problems for a couple of characters here who fear to act on or even admit their true feelings, despite those feelings driving many of their life choices. It’s a many-layered story that makes excellent use of the world it inhabits, every piece of the puzzle fitting seamlessly together.

My reaction: 4 out of 5 stars. This book is a bit long and it took me a while to get into the story as the atmosphere was being set up, but ultimately Rosa and crew getting snowed in with a crisis turned out to be a perfect snowy blues vibe for my January reading and I did end up appreciating how the plot came together once the pace picked up. I’d recommend this book first and foremost to readers who enjoy slower, scenic historical fiction.

How High We Go in the Dark by Sequoia Nagamatsu has been my most recent read and one of the newest books to my shelves; I was excited to get to this one because I’ve been having great experiences with climate change dystopias lately, but unfortunately while How High was enjoyable in some ways it didn’t quite live up to expectations.

“In suffering, he said, we found our heart. In suffering, we found new traditions, a way forward.“

This one is a bit less snowy, although the first section of the book does open with pre-winter hail in Siberia, as changing climate releases an “Arctic virus” that’s been safely confined to ancient history until a recent melt. From here we follow a varied cast of characters through short-story-like sections, in each of which we see highlighted a different new way of life in this rapidly devolving world: from an employee at a euthanasia park, to a coma patient in a collective beyond, to a scientist problem-solving an engine for long-term interstellar flight, to an artist on that spaceship seeking a new home for humanity, and more. In this way, we move through time from the moment of viral discovery into the chaotic, disastrous years that follow.

Although lightly interconnected short stories sometimes work amazingly well for me (as with Disappearing Earth or Girl, Woman, Other), I think that layout here is partially where I struggled. There are several sections that I thought would have been powerful stand-alone stories, but with all of them strung together and no sense of connectivity (aside from the Arctic virus) until past the halfway point of the book, I quickly began to feel worn-down by the directionlessness of the overall narrative and repetitive themes of the individual pieces- grieving a child or parent, clinging to one’s art, trudging through an odd virus-related job that one tries to find the silver lining in. One may argue, however, that this eerie monotony is an appropriate feeling to accompany a pandemic catastrophe book in which funerary corporations rule the world and everyone knows several someones who have died, with no end in sight.

Of course grief and trauma are uber-present in an end-of-days story like this, both in the massive sense of loss for humanity and the changing ways of the world, as well as the many personal losses these characters face in the deaths of their loved ones, but I felt this book hit those points rather too hard, leaving little room for the reader to interpret anything for themselves or otherwise engage emotionally in the story- that work already being done on the page. The reader is also hit over the head with all that should be appreciated and preserved of humanity- mainly art and emotion- and shown ad nauseum how these characters honor that instinct. So many of the characters are relentlessly focused on music, painting, creativity and innovation. Earth may be forever changed for all those left on it, but humans will adapt and remember who or what they’ve loved and move forward in new and better ways, this book asserts. All fine, but I am simply not someone who wants to read a futuristic climate crisis/pandemic/apocalyptic story and walk away with a sense of hope and rising above, as though it is ultimately fine to do nothing preventative about preserving our climate, to just grin and bear the possible horrors on the horizon because civilization as a whole might manage to learn and grow, to be better for it in the end. (Unless there’s a horror spin to that.) All in all I’m just not looking to feel any sort of positivity in conjunction with apocalyptic events at this point, but someone looking to soothe some anxiety or approach a planetary crisis book less literally might fare better.

My reaction: 3 out of 5 stars. I really loved many of the ways-of-life ideas in the individual stories here and was intrigued by the connections between these characters. Unfortunately, I didn’t find that the separate pieces of this book worked together to a great enough extent nor delved deeply enough into each of the section concepts for the story to make a lasting impression on me. I do think there’s a lot here that another reader might enjoy more than I did though so don’t be dissuaded from picking this one up if you suspect your taste might be a bit different from mine!

Have you read any of these? How’s 2023 reading starting off for you? 🙂

~

institutional silencing

Reviews: We Keep the Dead Close by Becky Cooper and Notes on a Silencing by Lacy Crawford

I’m grateful to have received an eARC of Becky Cooper’s We Keep the Dead Close via Netgalley and Grand Central Publishing in exchange for an honest review! (Because the ARC archived before I finished reading I also picked up a final copy from my library to complete the read, so my review comes from a mix of both the early and published editions; I have checked the final copy for accuracy of all quotations included below.)

…

In the wake of the #metoo movement, there’s been a definite trend in literature toward exposing long-running abuses, often but not limited to powerful white men taking advantage of women they are meant to be helping in some way, and ensuring their silence with gaslighting and/or direct threats. At this point, most of us know these abuses of power have been taking place across all sorts of institutions that are meant to protect and nurture women (and others), but it is still shocking to stumble upon cases that reveal how deep these issues run, and how deeply they still impact the world today.

So I thought I knew what I was getting into when I picked up Becky Cooper’s We Keep the Dead Close; it’s a true crime / investigative journalism / memoir account of the infamous murder of a young woman at Harvard in 1969, an account of which has been kept alive by archeology students on campus for decades. But We Keep the Dead Close is so much more than the piecing together of a long-unsolved tragedy- it is a thorough look at pervasive sexism, gatekeeping and patriarchal self-preservation in a prestigious university (and specifically, its archeology department). This is the story of how one young woman’s terrible fate was left to rumor and speculation, which achieved something quite different than justice.

“The very things that made me love Harvard- its seductiveness, its limitlessness- also made it a very convincing villain. Harvard felt omnipotent.”

CWs: sexism, rape, murder, gatekeeping

We Keep the Dead Close opens on two timelines: one in which Jane Britton fails to attend an important exam in 1969 and is subsequently found dead in her apartment, and one near present-day as another Harvard student, Becky Cooper, hears a version of the unsolved mystery that’s been passed down from student to student for years. What fuels the story’s longevity and sparks Cooper’s interest is the fact that the man implicated in the story was not only never arrested but actually still working at the school. Before long, Cooper begins a deep dive into Jane’s life and death, the shoddy police investigation, and Harvard’s insular archeology department.

Of course a cast of suspects, many involved with Harvard archeology, begin to appear, each as convincing a criminal as the last- at least for a chapter or two. Cooper’s skill in painting a plausible picture of guilt without dehumanizing anyone or falling into the trap of sensationalism is remarkable. Instead of attempting to capitalize on shady characters for plot twists, Cooper uses each possible culprit as a jumping-off point for a closer examination of Britton’s story; she examines not only the suspects but those who believe in the suspects’ guilt, and how each version of the narrative serves its audience. In this way, Cooper manages not only to assemble a mystery but to highlight its deeper cultural context.

“…Jane’s story, one about a girl disappeared by her adviser, was still so alive in the community because it was an exaggerated, horror-movie version of a narrative that was all too common.”

I predict some readers who pick up We Keep the Dead Close as a juicy crime drama might be disappointed. Even though Britton’s story has all the shocking and surprising elements of a compelling mystery, it is much longer than the surprisingly simple answer to her death really requires and its pacing is slowed by supplemental Harvard history, the gritty details of archeological digs, and the effects of rampant sexism (with nods to racism and intersectionality as well) across the board. It’s all incredibly well done and every aspect compels, but someone expecting a fast-paced whodunnit may find their expectations misaligned with what Cooper has to offer. Where this book excels is not so much in unveiling scandalous details (though it has those) but in examining the machinations of the story itself. Here we discover how Britton’s fate has become a sort of mythology- taken on a life of its own as a way for Harvard students to warn each other about professors who seem to operate above the rules, the department’s tendency to protect itself (and the privileged white men at its helm) at any cost, and the stubborn tradition of patriarchy woven into Harvard’s very marrow. The murder mystery is only a vehicle Cooper uses (with utmost humanity, not even sparing her own research efforts from criticism) to examine greater flaws in elite academia.

“I had been reassuring myself that I was doing the right thing by telling Jane’s story, but I, too, had been propagating the things we preferred to believe. I was wrong- we were wrong.”

Photographs and visuals (nothing gory) add an extra dose of reality to the tale and help the reader keep track of the main players, while statistics and anecdotes drive the book’s feminist points home. Archeological digs lend the story an air of adventure, and Cooper’s style of unearthing facts and using them to build a story about the past feels particularly apt in relation to Britton’s area of study. I wouldn’t change a thing, and recommend this book highly.

My reaction: 5 out of 5 stars. While I can see some readers potentially finding the many layers to this mystery a bit superfluous to what they were looking for, the depth of information and exploration really worked to tip We Keep the Dead Close toward top-tier reading for me.

Inspired by the exceptional experience I had with Cooper’s book, I decided to keep following the thread and picked up Lacy Crawford’s Notes on a Silencing.

In this memoir, Crawford recounts her experiences at St. Paul’s School in New Hampshire, including a sexual assault against her and the boarding school’s shocking efforts not only to cover it up but to place Crawford in the path of further harm. In this account she details the assault and the messy aftermath, but also gives fantastic coverage of boarding school life for those of us who aren’t in the know, and takes the time to interrogate the language surrounding sexual assault- all in all, it’s revelatory, informative, and so sharply written that the CWs (rape [of a minor], sexual assault [of a minor], sexism, gaslighting, silencing, gatekeeping) are really the only potential deterrents.

“If the first violation of the boys who assaulted me was the way they made me feel erased, it was exactly this injury that the school repeated, and magnified, when it created its own story of the assault. This time the erasure was committed by men whose power over me was socially conferred rather than physically wielded, by men who- some of them- had never even been in a room with me. They still never have.”

This is another case full of shocking facts and astonishing twists, and yet once again we see a slower pace that’s driven not by the crimes but in this case by Crawford’s day-to-day life. She spends three years at St. Paul’s, and uses much of that timeline as a way to show the reader an insider view of the elite boarding experience, warts and all. The narration skips around somewhat (though each chapter is labeled with the year and Crawford’s status at school to ground the reader in time), with the event of her assault acting as a lens through which she reflects upon everything. The assault, which took place on campus at the hands of two older students (legal adults), occurred in 1990, and despite Crawford’s own statements about working hard to forget that night, the intervening years and the insight they’ve given to her show clearly in every passage.

“The story of what happened would have attached to me, the high school sophomore out of bed in the small hours. Even there- do I write the story of what happened or the story of what he did? Trying again: the story of what he did would have attached to me, the high school sophomore out of bed in the small hours, like a cursed baton he’d passed to me on the stairs while my parents and his wife and his children and my brother slept.”

Of course, as for many women, Crawford’s experience with sexual assault and harassment was not a one-time event, and thanks to her school, it was not something she saw legal justice for. It’s a devastating story, and one of the most heartbreaking parts of it for me was seeing her parents seem to lose interest once they learned Crawford had been sexually active outside of the assault case. Looking at her story, there are so many places like this where the unsympathetic listener could (and did, given some of the bullying she faced) make excuses for what happened to her, but Crawford sees these traps and deftly sidesteps to leave the blame where it rightfully lies, and it’s a damn shame to see her parents failing to jump that hurdle. Though she doesn’t speak against them outright in this book, it’s a complicated relationship that wasn’t always helpful for Crawford, and can be difficult to read about. There are some happy moments within these pages, but I think it’s worth being aware of how bleak the book can be as well; the unflinching honesty may have been the hardest part of the read for me, but it is also what impressed me most. Few memoirs (at least, in my limited experience) achieve this level of self-sacrifice and -awareness. It’s truly a powerful book.

My reaction: 5 out of 5 stars. I thought aside from the age of the protagonist this book might feel a little redundant, having just read all about Harvard and having picked up #metoo material in the past, but Crawford’s storytelling and skill with language drew me right in and truly set this account apart.

Both of these are books that I think will appeal more to female readers in general, although I would also say that books like these should be required reading for every parent who sends their child to a prestigious school- high school or college- and most of the students as well. I’ve complained a lot in my adult years about my small town public school education, and I’ve been embarrassed about not even applying to ivy leagues, but now… I wonder how these institutions can survive with this sort of information readily available to the public. And I know a sizeable portion of those who attend such schools are the rich and privileged who will benefit from this sort of patriarchal harm and thus may not mind so much that these schools have such a legacy. But I hope going forward that enough people will care about making sure educational spaces- especially where children are involved- are safe for students, so that we will start seeing positive changes. It is evidently a widespread problem. Chessy Prout, coauthor of I Have the Right To, also writes about her experience with sexual assault at St. Paul’s, which occurred in 2014. That’s only seven years ago guys, and her assault wasn’t an isolated event but part of a larger game.

Fiction has taken up the theme as well, showing further readers just how easy and often adults employed by a prestigious school can get away with preying on their students: we have examples such as Elizabeth Russell’s stunning My Dark Vanessa, which takes place at a New England boarding school and beyond, providing a nuanced commentary on survivor response to trauma; Susan Choi’s brilliant Trust Exercise, a high school exploration of teen misperception and trauma that follows survivors into adulthood, and even Leigh Bardugo’s Ninth House, a Yale-centered fantasy novel which doesn’t focus primarily on sexual assault but does comment on the exclusionary gatekeeping of the prestigious institution (which Bardugo attended herself)- honoring its wealthy and privileged few while treating outsiders essentially as disposable. Even Brandon Taylor’s Real Life speaks to institutional silencing in its own way, highlighting the ways racism can bar students of color from receiving a fair education even while their white peers, mentors, and advisors deny that any such obstacle exists, or at least their own roles in it.

If it’s #metoo stories you’re interested in moreso than the warped educational institutions of America, you shouldn’t miss Chanel Miller’s incredible memoir, Know My Name, in which her own attempted assault on Standford’s campus leads to a legal battle that seems to favor her attacker from the start. Additionally, though I haven’t read these yet, there are She Said by Jodi Kantor and Megan Twohey and Catch and Kill by Ronan Farrow, both surrounding the allegations against Harvey Weinstein, a prominent American film producer and now convicted sex offender. Speaking of film, #metoo story seekers may also be interested in documentaries like Netflix’s Athlete A, in which USA Olympic gymnasts speak out against national team doctor Larry Nassar who abused young girls and women under the guise of medical treatment for decades.

Clearly, this is a problem that affects so many in so many different settings; the magnitude of it is staggering, and the silencing on top of the assaults makes it all the more horrendous.

“‘…your piece is one of hundreds of pieces. This goes back to the nineteen-forties. I don’t even see the end of this investigation.'” -Notes on a Silencing

But there may be a light at the end of the tunnel. We seem to be entering an era where it is no longer difficult to find stories of women speaking out against abuses perpetrated by men in positions of power, and as hard as it can be to think about how deeply affecting these situations can be for all survivors, and how very many of those there are, it is also glorious to witness this page being turned. To see the fear falling away, to seeing predators start to be held accountable, to see the previously unacknowledged truths of our society brought to light. It’s an honor to hear these stories, to bear witness, and to be an ear for voices that have been kept quiet for far too long. And that is why I keep reading and recommending books about sexual assault and abuse of power, no matter how painful they may be. Awareness is the first step. Change, I hope, will be the second.

If you have further recommendations for me and other readers interested in this topic, please feel free to list them below.

The Literary Elephant

cowboys, clones: my first brushes with 2021 lit

As usual, I’ve kicked off my reading year mostly with titles I already owned, mainly releases from the year before that I just hadn’t quite gotten around to. But shiny new books are too exciting to resist for long, so I’ve got a couple of 2021 releases to review now!

First up is Anna North’s Outlawed, a January publication that reinvents history. Set in the 1890s west, the US has been torn apart and rebuilt as something new in the wake of the Great Flu, which decimated the population enough to inspire a total societal fixation on reproduction. Women are valued only for their ability to bear children- many children. Ada, our MC, is in her late teens when she faces trouble: she’s been married for a year, tried a second partner in desperation, but her womb remains empty. She joins a convent to escape being hung as a witch, discovers that there’s a whole community of barren women just trying to survive, and joins the Hole in the Wall Gang to reclaim some of what’s been lost to her and to others marginalized by a zealous society with its cornerstone in bigotry.

Outlawed is tricky for me to talk about, because I don’t think it really has anything new to say and yet it has been the most fun read I’ve picked up so far this year. The writing isn’t anything flashy- I marked only three quotations, and all of them were chosen for their ability to capture the story’s essence in various ways, not on the basis of remarkable wording. The format is straightforward, chronological with a single first person narrator in a book that would probably have been served better with a wider range of perspectives- North apparently wants to deliver these characters’ backstories and rationalizations, but doing so through one primary MC means that Ada asks a lot of nosy questions and the reader gets to roll their eyes as her companions just… tell her whatever she wants to know. But there’s such a playful tone to it all that I found it to be an utterly addictive read nonetheless. It’s a book that doesn’t take itself too seriously, that spins out a theme in a mildly ridiculous way and just has fun delivering its messages, which are good one even if you’ve heard them before. Not for content, but my experience with Outlawed had a lot in common with my experience of My Sister, the Serial Killer; I loved them both for being theatrical, entertaining, a bit absurd.

It takes two chapters to get past the character introduction and plot setup, but then we’re thrown into a world of women and non-binary characters dressed up like men, running heists and getting into trouble and helping each other out again. The cast is lovable and diverse; I had a slight reservation at first about barrenness being highlighted as The Ultimate Persecuted Thing when there’s still racism and homophobia active in this world as well, but in the end I think North does a fair job of highlighting one issue without belittling others. There are squabbles and particular alliances among the outlaws, but the complicated dynamics between them all adds to the strength and appeal of this diverse found family.

“‘It’s a way of holding us up,’ Elzy said. ‘It’s how the Kid reminds us who we are.’ / ‘And who are we?’ / We heard hoofbeats in the distance. / The Kid appeared at the lip of the gulch then, nose and mouth already covered by a scarf of purple silk. Elzy smilied at me, then removed a checked bandanna from her pocket. / ‘Didn’t you hear?’ she asked. ‘We’re kings.'”

Other slight hangups for me included the brevity of the world building and a glossing over of morality. In the case of the former, small details are scattered throughout the book, leaving the politics of this setting feeling half-finished; we get small hints about the Great Flu and the Independent Townships that formed after America fell and the sheriffs who police them, but it’s bare bones- only enough to understand the logistics of the plot. As for the latter complaint, North delivers here a band of outlaws who are fully willing to kill any man who gets in their way, and there’s very little personal reckoning over this state of affairs. Of course the entire Hole in the Wall Gang has been cast out and persecuted, but it seems there should be a distinction made between recognizing harm from society as a whole and taking individual lives. Especially for a group with prices on their heads who are endeavoring to create a safe haven, I expected some deeper examination into the decision to murder, but instead its taken largely as a matter of course. The whole book, perhaps, could have been served well by an extra 50-100 pages in order to tease things out properly. That I never wanted the book to end probably serves as an indicator that I found it lacking in some ways even while the story engrossed me.

For all my little quibbles, I loved picking this book up every time I had a chance to read, was shocked at some of the twists, and heartbroken over a particular death. Outlawed has great energy. I was invested. I had a good time.

My reaction: 5 out of 5 stars. I could see myself potentially bumping this down to 4 in time, as it wasn’t a flawless read, but I was completely hooked all the way through and sad to reach the final page. I’ll absolutely be reading more from this author.

Next is Sarah Gailey’s The Echo Wife, which is a February 16 release- I received an eARC via Netgalley and Tor Books in exchange for an honest review. All of my thoughts and reactions come from the advance edition of this book.

This plot follows a renowned woman scientist who learns her husband is having an affair- with a clone he built from his wife’s research, programmed to be docile and accommodating in all of the ways Evelyn is not. At first Evelyn cuts her losses and keeps her distance, but soon the clone has as much reason to hate the man as Evelyn, and the two women bond over an attempt to cover up his murder.

I was under the impression that this book would be a fast-paced, plotty sci-fi, perhaps even a sci-fi thriller, but instead found it to be fairly slow and introspective. Part of what makes it drag is the narration’s tendency to over-explain, pausing each scene to tell the reader outright what each gesture, expression, and comment means, leaving nothing for the reader to decipher or interpret. The careful detailing of minutiae makes it easy to see which direction the book is going at almost every turn, before it gets there. It takes a full quarter of the book for the plot to progress beyond what’s stated directly in the synopsis, and each new piece of information (the affair! the clone! the murder! *gasp*) is presented as a plot twist even though it’s all setup, primarily, for what is in actuality a very character-driven story in which one woman grapples with who she is and who she could have been under other circumstances and who she could never have been at all- as well as an inquiry into that which makes us human.

I mostly agreed with and appreciated the book’s feminist commentary but didn’t feel it pushed any boundaries- that some women desire to reproduce, others do not, and both choices are valid is not new to me, nor is the narrative of a man taking advantage of a smart/successful woman in a quest to secure his own power both personally and professionally, though they’re nice points to see made in mainstream lit and I know there will be other readers newer to the nuances of both who will likely find these themes more exciting than I did.

Ultimately this story just wasn’t quite as punchy and innovative as I expected, though I did enjoy the focus on morality, on personality, on what (if anything) differentiates a human from a highly successful clone. The writing style never managed to win me over, though it’s competent enough and clearly shows that Gailey has put some effort into the science. To be honest most of the scientific details meant nothing to me without much of a background in the field myself, and thus some suspension of disbelief was required, but having them in the story did lend a sense of authenticity to Evelyn’s lab and increase my willingness to follow Gailey through that setting. In the end I’d say this is sci-fi for fans of books like Robin Wasserman’s Mother Daughter Widow Wife and/or Helen Philips’s The Need, both lighter on the actual science and heavier on feminist and woman-centered commentary; I’d recommend it to readers who like attention to detail and no questions left unanswered. Those who already know they like Gailey’s writing will probably fare well here, too.

My rating: 3 out of 5 stars. Unfortunately, my expectations from the synopsis got in the way of fully enjoying what is actually presented here, and I suspect that in the end Gailey’s writing style is just not for me. This was my first time reading their work and I won’t rule out an exciting premise in the future convincing me to give them another go, but I don’t plant to read further for now.

Are either of these books on your radar for 2021?

The Literary Elephant

Reviews: A Lucky Man, Transcendent Kingdom, and Memorial

My final reviews of the year! This will have me all caught up, aside from my two current reads, which I’m still hoping to finish before the new year and talk more about in January (they’re Hilary Mantel’s The Mirror and the Light and Lucy Foley’s The Hunting Party). My favorite reads of the year should be up tomorrow, or, worst case scenario, the first of January. Today I’ve got Jamel Brinkley’s 2019 National Book Award shortlistee, the short story collection A Lucky Man, as well as two recent contemporary/literary releases from authors I’ve enjoyed in the past: Yaa Gyasi’s Transcendent Kingdom and Bryan Washington’s Memorial.

In A Lucky Man, Brinkley presents a collection of short stories featuring Black sons of various ages who endure complicated or severed relationships with their fathers. The stories are not mutually exclusive but they don’t share any connections beyond exploring the generational ramifications of antiblack racism in America.

“‘I got an agitated soul,’ he said. ‘Most of us do, I think. Not from no conspiracy or nothing. Just from being black and alive.'”

Though the collection as a whole is a nuanced look at the affects of racism on the relationships of Black men and their children, this isn’t a book to turn to for punchy, quotable statements about race. The writing is accomplished and thorough, but the book’s messages are primarily apparent through character dynamics, behaviors over time, and the overall volume of Black fathers here who have been pushed out of their sons’ lives in one way or another; it’s what can be read between the lines that is most impressive about this work. It’s one of the most thoughtful and cohesive collections I’ve ever read; every piece stands strong on its own, though looking at them all together is what best brings out their meaning. There were only two stories out of nine that I personally found a little less gripping, but they all belong equally to the whole.

My reaction: 4 out of 5 stars. I can see why this collection went far with lit awards last year, and I think it deserves a wider readership than it seems to have. It’s quiet and sad, but there’s undeniable skill here that makes each piece of the set engaging in its own right. Brinkley is an author to watch.

And as a bonus, I think it’s very much to the author’s credit that I was particularly attuned to the difficult relationships between Black men and their children in my next two reads, as well; A Lucky Man clarified this particular facet of family life in America for me in a very effective way.

In Transcendent Kingdom, Gifty is a neuroscientist running behavioral experiments on mice in the hopes of better understanding what has befallen her family; her brother died young in the grip of addiction, and afterward her mother succumbed to a debilitating depression that has, years later, suddenly returned.

“It’s true that for years before he died, I would look at his face and think, What a pity, what a waste. But the waste was my own, the waste was what I missed out on whenever I looked at him and saw just his addiction.”

There’s little plot here; Gifty goes back and forth between the lab where she works with the mice, and her home, where she tends to her unresponsive mother. The beauty of the novel comes through Gifty’s internal grappling with her family history and her struggle to strike a balance between her relationships with science and religion. This is another very quiet book, and it’s hard to explain the charm that comes through in Gifty’s voice, but rest assured that this is a must-read. It’s rich in social commentary but it’s also captivatingly specific; not too detailed to be alienating to those of us unscientifically-minded readers, but just detailed enough to bring another layer of texture to this story and make it feel lived-in and real.

My reaction: 5 out of 5 stars. This is such a different reading experience from Gyasi’s historical and expansive Homegoing, but no less brilliant for the change of pace. I really hope we’re going to see this title up for a lit prize or two in 2021, but there’s no need to wait for it to appear on the lists to pick it up- you won’t regret it!

In Memorial, Mike is flying to Osaka to aid his dying father, leaving his visiting mother to wait for his return in the apartment he shares with his boyfriend, Ben. Mike and Ben’s relationship has been a little rocky lately, but neither of them are strangers to complicated relationships and they’re all still trying to figure out how they fit together, or whether they should bother trying to fit together at all.

“And how did everything come to such a turning point between us? Quietly, I guess. The big moments are never big when they’re actually fucking happening.”

Memorial is a quick read packed with (unpunctuated) dialogue and a steady stream of brief anecdotes that drive the story forward and backward simultaneously. The narrative is not quite linear, but Washington is clear about sequences of events and the easy pace helps hold everything together and keep the story moving. Though little happens aside from personal reckonings, it’s a sharp book that digs into the ups and downs of multi-cultural life in the modern world (Ben is a Black American, Mike is Japanese American, and both are gay; they live together in Houston, Texas in a eclectic neighborhood halfway between low-income and up-and-coming).

It’s essentially a character study in two parts, a relationship study, if you will. I thought a little more could’ve been done with the men’s professions and sense of home, and I thought a few less expletives might have served the book just as well, but ultimately it’s a compelling representation of marginalized America; I’m not an own voices reader/reviewer, but I thought the depictions of gay, multi-cultural, polyamorous men were thoughtful and realistically messy. It’s the sort of book you don’t mind going on and on even whhen nothing is really happening because the characters are magnetic enough in themselves.

My reaction: 4 out of 5 stars. I enjoyed this novel more than Lot, though I do think that Washington’s story collection has strengths of its own that are maybe not as well-realized here- the broad exploration of setting/community, for example. But I am partial to longer form fiction and appreciated the greater depth of character Memorial had to offer; I’ll certainly be keeping an eye out for more of Washington’s work going forward.

Are any of these titles on your radar?

The Literary Elephant

Reviews: The Butterfly Garden and The Deep

I’ve been trying to read some horror for an upcoming spotlight post; reading horror while getting ready for Christmas is a new vibe for me but… I like it. Is there such a category as Christmas horror? I may want to try this again in the future. This year I read Dot Hutchison’s The Butterfly Garden and Alma Katsu’s The Deep (not to be confused with River Solomon’s The Deep, which has been getting a lot of attention this year); both fell a little short for me but were highly readable and put me back in the spooky spirit!

In The Butterfly Garden, a pair of FBI agents questions a young woman, the leader of a group of kidnapped girls who have recently been freed. Most of the surviving victims are recovering in the hospital, just down the hall from their captor, but none of them will tell their names or stories until they’ve spoken to this woman; this difficulty, along with the fact that she seems to have been instrumental in the escape effort, leaves the FBI suspicious of the nature of her involvement. They need her version of events- but she’ll tell it on her own terms.

I typically prefer going into everything I read as cold as possible, but I would not recommend that approach here unless you’re sure you can handle difficult subject matter. It can be a very intense read if you don’t know what to expect. CWs for kidnapping, captivity, rape (ages 16-21 and, on one occasion, 12), physical violence, gun violence, parental neglect, suicide (mentioned, not on page), suicide ideation, murder, and death.

There’s a bit of a mystery to the plot, but it’s weak; the real driving force of the novel is the journey through a psychologically traumatic experience and the commentary on sexism and crimes against women that it generates. Hutchison turns a light on the deep affects of physical and mental trauma and the danger of trying to choose neutrality; the horror here is the ease with which a man can get away with hurting women for his own pleasure, and the devastation left in his wake even for those who break free.

“I think a trauma doesn’t stop just because you’ve been rescued.”

It’s an incredibly dark book, a quick read despite the slow pace (the woman being questioned is circuitous in her answers) and the low-stakes mystery (the woman does not seem concerned about her fate, and in any case she and the reader both know early on that the girls are no longer captive and that the men involved are injured or dead). I can see that Hutchison is trying to add suspense and foreshadowing to the story by structuring it in a dual past-present way, but the format doesn’t quite achieve the tension or intrigue, in my opinion. The past, the story of captivity, is consistently the more gripping part of the timeline. The present exchanges between the FBI agents and our main character (she has three names, all significant to the story in their own way, so I’ll leave those discoveries to the reader) feel stiff and inauthentic; the possibility that she is a person warranting suspicion seems like an afterthought, a tactical formality to keep the reader believing that a big reveal is coming, though when it does arrive it is disappointing and farfetched.

Despite this clumsiness though, I was hooked- The Butterfly Garden is very much about the horror of the journey rather than reaching a shocking destination. Hutchison challenges sensationalism of trauma here rather than playing into it, and some of the commentary involved is much more widely applicable- emphasizing the harm in a stance of neutrality when someone is actively being hurt, for example. It’s meant to be an uncomfortable read, but the book is not devoid of hope and justice in the face of great pain.

“The trouble with sociopaths, really, is that you never know where they draw their boundaries.”

My reaction: 4 out of 5 stars. Despite my stylistic/structural quibbles, I was suitably horrified. Some suspension of disbelief is required, but points must be awarded for the compelling read. I’m not sure I’ll be continuing this series (I believe there are 4 books total) but this first volume works well enough as a standalone that even if I stop here I’m leaving satisfied, and with a deeper understanding of psychological trauma.

…

In The Deep, Annie is a nurse aboard the HMHS Britannic in 1916, tending to wounded WWI soldiers. Among the patients she finds a familiar face, a first-class passenger she served as stewardess four years earlier, aboard the RMS Titanic. Seeing him again, and navigating Titanic’s very similar sister ship, throws Annie into memories of that fateful voyage- the possible haunting, the odd behaviors of the first-class passengers, the shockingly cold water after the collision. Worryingly, some of that history seems to be repeating on Britannic– can Annie figure out who the ghost was and what it wants before it is too late?

“For all that was said about the Titanic, how superior it was, how well designed, how glorious and noble- as though it were a person, with a person’s traits- it would do nothing to save them. The Titanic was indifferent to the humans crawling on its decks and would willingly sacrifice them to the sea.”

I picked up The Deep mostly because I’ve had a long history of interest in all things Titanic– my birthday is April 15, and one of the most interesting things to have happened (historically) on that day is the sinking of Titanic. There’s also just something so captivatingly tragic about the opulence of the ship and the extremity of the disaster, as I’m sure many others can attest to. I’m mentioning my personal interest level because I think it’s relevant to my experience here; because I am fairly knowledgeable about the ship and its passengers, I found the fictionalization of real persons and the atmosphere on the ship most intriguing, and the ghost plot attempting to expand on the tragedy much less so. Someone with different interest levels might have a very different experience, though Katsu’s focus on characterization at the expense of the supernatural element is, I think, going to make this a disappointing read for anyone craving a ghost story.

My biggest issue with this book is that I picked it up expecting adult horror, and instead found historical fiction with some light mystery and supernatural elements, all of it very PG-13. Actually, I expect this book will go over better with a YA audience, many of the characters are barely into adulthood and every aspect of the story is very surface-level. There are a few mentions of a malevolent dubheasa, but aside from calling her a beautiful sea monster we get nothing of the lore and know nothing more about this magical creature than one particular character’s connection to it. The “haunting” facet of the tale is presented so benignly that to call this a ghost story would be misleading. Very few of the events and details surrounding Titanic‘s demise actually make it into the story, so this isn’t a good way to learn any genuine history, either. There are some hints toward commentary on early 20th century madness, sexism, occultism, class divides, and poverty, but they’re mere suggestions rather than statements of any significance.

“Was she hysterical? What did that mean- female hysteria? Was it different from when men got upset, yelled and stomped and slammed things about, like her father when he was at his worst? Maybe she was more like her father than she wanted to think.”

Or maybe… this would have been a good chance for Annie to realize that female hysteria is a bogus diagnosis invented for men’s convenience.

In the end, none of the darkness or complexity I was expecting based on the premise actually appears here; The Deep is an iceberg glimpsed through dense fog, dreamlike, with no sharp edges. But even so, I had no difficulty turning pages, I found myself curious about the characters, and I loved being aboard Titanic and Britannic for a few hours. It’s not a bad setup and quite easy to follow even as it skips between years and perspectives; I think the right reader could find a story to love here with its aura of tragedy and fraught relationships. I, however, am not that reader.

My reaction: 3 out of 5 stars. In the end I think the highlight was finding a mention in the acknowledgements of a Titanic book I haven’t read yet, the autobiography of a real woman who survived both Titanic and Britannic. This wasn’t a bad read and it doesn’t do anything egregiously wrong, it just… doesn’t quite deliver what it says on the jacket; don’t be fooled by the Josh Malerman blurb on the cover, The Deep is not a thriller.

Do you read horror around the holidays? Any recommendations?

The Literary Elephant