Unquiet
Things

Eye of the Beholder by Emma Bamford lures you in with an irresistible setup – a ghostwriter arrives at a glass mansion (writers! rich people’s excess! all the stuff I love!) in the Scottish Highlands to pen a famous cosmetic surgeon’s memoir, only to find her subject mysteriously absent. Despite its predictable twists and stupid, unconvincing romance, something about this moody thriller kept me turning pages. The atmospheric setting and beauty industry backdrop create an intriguing world, even if the story doesn’t quite deliver on its promise. As a writer, I found myself particularly invested in Maddy’s professional journey, though the resolution of her work situation left me fuming. A flawed but weirdly compelling read.

Glass Houses by Madeline Ashby follows Kristen, a “chief emotional manager” at a tech startup, who along with her colleagues and their eccentric billionaire CEO Sumter, finds themselves stranded on a mysterious island after their plane crashes. The survivors discover a high-tech mansion that proves to be both shelter and threat, as people start dying one by one. The story weaves between island events and Kristen’s questionable character and complex past, creating a tense thriller that mixes near-future tech with classic locked-room mystery elements.

Parents’ Weekend by Alex Finlay follows five college students who vanish during a campus event, leaving their parents to confront both their children’s secrets and their own. While Finlay’s writing is formulaic – so much so that I can’t even remember characters who apparently appear in multiple books – his short chapters and quick pacing make this a dependable palate cleanser between more intense reads. Not remarkable, but it serves its purpose as a literary breather when you’re tackling denser works alongside it. Publishing May 2025

The Blue Hour by Paula Hawkins unfolds on Eris, a tide-locked Scottish island – that eerie claustrophobic setting that has served gothic horror so well in works like The Woman in Black and The Third Day. Like those stories, here the tide itself becomes an antagonist, twice daily conspiring to trap you with your fears. When human bones are discovered in a famous artist’s sculpture, an art curator must visit the island’s sole inhabitant, but can only leave during the brief windows when the causeway emerges from the sea. Hawkins uses this natural prison to amplify questions of creativity, isolation, and control through a slow-burning mystery that’s more interested in the psychology of its characters than shocking twists. The rising waters become a countdown clock that transforms every decision into a possible trap.

The House That Horror Built by Christina Henry drops us into a horror fan’s dream job – cleaning a reclusive director’s mansion filled with creepy movie props. The premise sounds like a wonderland for horror fans, but the execution stumbles with repetitive internal monologues (how many times can our protagonist second-guess a moving prop or remind us she needs a new job?) and a rushed ending that fails to deliver on the setup’s promise. While I appreciate any story that features horror-loving characters, this one needed tighter editing to trim the padding and build actual suspense.

Darkly by Marisha Pessl Louisiana Veda, the enigmatic creator of the Darkly game empire, crafted board games that pushed well beyond simple entertainment. Her elaborate puzzles, steeped in Victorian gothic aesthetics, garnered a cultish following before her mysterious death rendered them collector’s pieces worth millions. Enter Arcadia “Dia” Gannon and six other teens, chosen from across the globe for a coveted internship at the Veda Foundation. Their summer quickly transforms into what appears to be Veda’s final, unreleased game – one that never made it to production, perhaps for good reason. Pessl’s world-building shimmers with dark imagination, carrying forward the same haunting intrigue that made Night Film so compelling. The games she’s invented feel startlingly authentic, each one a clever fusion of artistry and psychological manipulation. Dia’s sharp perspective keeps us invested as the mystery deepens, and the plot unfolds in clever layers. A swift, addictive read from an author who excels at crafting dark tales about brilliant, enigmatic creators and the chaos they leave in their wake.

Victorian Psycho by Virginia Feito introduces Winifred Notty, a governess who arrives at dreary Ensor House, where in three months’ time, she informs us that everyone living there will all be dead.  Winifred is tasked with educating the Pounds children in subjects ranging from English and French to ornamental needlework, and in the course of their lessons and bedtimes, we learn that while outwardly embodying Victorian propriety, Winifred’s carefully constructed persona belies a chillingly dark imagination and inner world. As she becomes further entrenched in the estate’s oppressive atmosphere and uncovers the Pounds family’s peculiar proclivities, Winifred finds it increasingly challenging to maintain her façade. If you relished Maeve Fly’s violently irreverent antihero and unhinged plot, you’ll find Winifred Notty’s distorted and uniquely vicious mind equally captivating in this eerie, blunt, and grotesquely humorous masterpiece. Warning to sensitive readers: maybe don’t. Publishing February 2025

Rivers Solomon’s Model Home is an unrelentingly haunting tale centered on the Maxwell siblings – Ezri, Eve, and Emmanuelle. Their childhood in a gated community outside Dallas, where they were the only Black family, was marred by strange and terrifying events in their home at 677 Acacia Drive. This traumatic past has kept them at a distance from both the house and their parents in adulthood. The siblings’ forced return home following their parents’ mysterious deaths sets the stage for a confrontation with their history. As they delve into family secrets and attempt to unravel the truth behind the house’s disturbing occurrences, Solomon crafts an atmosphere of intense unease and palpable dread. I already love reading about the complex dynamics between the siblings, and Solomon’s portrayal of the family kept me invested throughout. I found myself particularly drawn to Ezri’s perspective, though it was often a difficult and heartbreaking place to be. Spending time in Ezri’s head was truly horrifying at times, as their trauma and struggles were so vividly portrayed. Model Home was not anything like I expected. Solomon doesn’t pull any punches when it comes to dark themes and disturbing scenes – it’s a brutal read, no doubt about it. But I found myself unable to put it down, even when it made me uncomfortable. If you’re up for an intense, unsettling read, this book offers a bold, unconventional take on the haunted house story. It’ll make you think, and it’ll take you deep into the heart of family secrets and hidden horrors.

The Unworthy by Agustina Bazterrica Religious extremism meets environmental apocalypse in The Unworthy, where Bazterrica continues her exploration of how quickly humanity devours itself. Inside a mysterious convent, an unnamed woman documents her experiences among the “unworthy” using whatever materials she can find – including her own blood. While less viscerally shocking than Tender is the Flesh’s literal cannibalism, this tale of a brutal religious hierarchy creates its own kind of horror as it examines how power structures consume the powerless. I didn’t find this one as strong or as compelling as her previous work (in fact, it was a bit of a slog in some parts), but Bazterrica’s unflinching style still provokes profound discomfort. Publishing March 2025

In Beta Vulgaris by Margie Sarsfield,  the mundane task of harvesting sugar beets in Minnesota becomes a surreal descent into one woman’s spiraling depression. What begins as a straightforward story about seasonal work to escape debt becomes something far more devastating – and weirdly compelling. Through Elise’s eyes, we experience not just the physical labor of the beet harvest, but the exhausting weight of existing in a mind that’s constantly at war with itself. Sarsfield renders disordered eating, self-loathing, and crushing anxiety with such stark familiarity that you find yourself nodding in recognition even as you wince at the truth of it. It’s all threaded through with a caustic, mean-spirited humor that somehow makes the relentless internal monologue bearable – even darkly entertaining. When mysterious voices begin emanating from the beet pile and workers start disappearing, you’re not quite sure if you’re witnessing a psychological unraveling or something more sinister. The genius is that both readings work, and both are equally horrifying. Publishing February 2025

In The Last Session by Julia Bartz, social worker/art therapist Thea can’t shake the feeling she knows the catatonic patient who shows up at her psychiatric unit – a connection that leads her straight into the tangles of her own messy past. When the patient briefly surfaces only to vanish, Thea follows her trail to a wellness retreat in New Mexico where couples supposedly work through relationship and sexual trauma. The retreat’s increasingly invasive exercises force Thea to confront not just her missing patient’s story, but her own complicated history with a predatory pastor and teenage experiences that left deep scars. The story veers into some wild territory involving reincarnation and cult dynamics, which might lose some readers along the way who are looking for more basic mystery/thriller business. Despite Thea making some questionable choices that stretch belief (especially for someone working in mental health), there’s something compelling about watching her barrel through every red flag in pursuit of answers. P.S. For fellow perfume enthusiasts like me who always notice perfume in their stories, there’s a Clinique Happy mention in these pages. Publishing April 2025

Absolution by Jeff VanderMeer returns us to Area X decades before its formation, weaving together three distinct timelines that demand your complete attention – I had to set aside all other books to fully immerse myself in its complex web. Through a doomed science expedition, a worn-out operative named Old Jim, and the first official Area X exploration team, VanderMeer crafts a story that feels both inevitable and horrifying. I found the novel’s most chilling insight in the insinuation that certain catastrophes are predetermined, but that their severity might be negotiable – if we could even recognize the difference between salvation and extinction when it stands before us. Like looking into an abyss that stares back, Absolution offers only the briefest glimpse of something vast and incomprehensible that will needle at your brain forever, maddening fragments of understanding you won’t even be able to articulate by the time the next book appears.

I picked up It Will Only Hurt for a Moment by Delilah S. Dawson, craving a spooky artist retreat story, and I wasn’t disappointed. To be fair though, I always crave thrillers or mysteries featuring artists or writers at the center! The plot follows Sarah, a potter escaping an abusive relationship, who joins a secluded artists’ colony. Things take a horrifying turn when she unearths a body, and it only gets worse as more corpses appear and her fellow artists start acting bizarrely (somewhat reminiscent of the possessed students in Lois Duncan’s YA gothic horror Down a Dark Hall, if anyone remembers that?) Sarah’s journey from victim to investigator kept me on edge, and she was an absolute hoot – her snarky inner monologue often had me laughing out loud despite the increasingly disturbing events. While the ending felt a bit rushed, I loved the vivid setting of the crumbling resort and the quirky cast of increasingly unhinged artists in this thoroughly enjoyable and very satisfying read.

Guillotine, also by Delilah S. Dawson serves up a fashion-obsessed protagonist who’ll endure a terrible date for a shot at her dream job, only to find herself trapped on an island with the ultra-wealthy family from hell. While it aims to skewer the one-percent with both satire and actual skewering, the story works better as an over-the-top revenge fantasy than social commentary. A quick, gleefully graphic read that’s entertaining enough if you don’t think too hard about it.

Starve Acre by Andrew Michael Hurley follows Richard and Juliette as they grapple with their young son’s death in their isolated Yorkshire house. While Juliette turns to occultists and Richard obsessively digs for an ancient hanging tree’s roots, something darker than grief begins to take hold. When Richard unearths the skeleton of a hare that slowly, impossibly begins to regenerate, Hurley’s folk horror takes a turn from psychological to supernatural. The ending refuses to offer even a glimmer of light in the darkness – what some read as peace feels to me like something far more chilling.

The Doll Factory by Elizabeth Macneal Victorian London seethes with dark possibility in The Doll Factory, where aspiring artist Iris works painting doll faces while dreaming of real canvases. When she meets Pre-Raphaelite artist Louis Frost, she strikes a deal to model in exchange for painting lessons, opening a door to the fascinating world of radical Victorian art. But during the construction of the Great Exhibition, she also catches the eye of Silas, a taxidermist whose obsession turns the novel from historical drama into something much darker. Despite my aversion to romance plots, the rich blend of Pre-Raphaelite art history with gothic suspense made this one worth my time.

The Sphinx and the Milky Way: Selections from the Journals of Charles Burchfield collects intimate journal entries from American painter Charles Burchfield, distilling his vast 10,000-page journals into a small but potent volume. Through his eyes, we experience both the transcendent and mundane – from counting cricket chirps to tell the temperature, to profound reflections on infinity while studying pussywillows. Burchfield’s entries reveal a mind deeply attuned to nature’s mysteries, yet also touched by very human struggles with depression and money worries. His observations shift seamlessly between precise detail and cosmic wonder, creating a quiet but profound meditation on what it means to truly see the world around us. If you’re a sensitive spirit yearning to find meaning in this chaotic world, this book isn’t just a recommendation – it’s essential nourishment for your inner life.

Chuck Wendig’s The Staircase in the Woods reunites four adults haunted by their friend’s disappearance on a mysterious woodland staircase twenty years ago. When the stairs reappear, they’re forced to confront both the supernatural and their own unresolved guilt. While Wendig’s premise is intriguing, and the supernatural elements create an eerie atmosphere, the characters’ trauma exists more in description than experience – we’re told of their deep psychological wounds but never quite feel them ourselves. Though Wendig has a devoted following and he seems like a really nice guy, this emotional distance and utilitarian prose style keep me from fully connecting with his work.

Susan Barker’s Old Soul begins in an Osaka airport, where a missed flight leads Jake and Mariko to discover they share a haunting connection – both have lost loved ones under inexplicably similar circumstances. Their paths crossed with a dark-haired woman who moves through time collecting photographs and leaving broken lives in her wake. Jake’s search for answers takes him through neon-lit cities and across sun-bleached deserts, gathering testimonies from those who’ve encountered this ageless wanderer as she shifts between names and identities. In New Mexico, an ailing sculptor named Theo holds pieces of her story that reach back through centuries. Barker weaves these testimonies into a mesmerizing tapestry, each account adding layers to a mystery where immortality and predation twist together in the shadows of human grief. The novel unfolds with patient, elegant menace, delivering what I felt to be one of the year’s most original and compelling horror stories. Publishing January 2025

Christian Francis’s novelization of Session 9 transports Brad Anderson’s cult horror film to the page, following an asbestos removal crew through the moldering corridors of Danvers State Hospital. The story tracks the psychological deterioration of Gordon Fleming and his crew as they navigate the asylum’s shadow-filled halls, where decades of dark history seep through crumbling walls. The disturbing psychiatric sessions of former patient Mary Hobbes weave through the main narrative, her fractured voices echoing against the backdrop of peeling paint and broken windows. While the novel may not capture every nuance of the film’s suffocating atmosphere, Francis keeps a steady hand on the growing tension as the crew descends deeper into the abandoned institution’s maze-like passages. The result feels more like a companion piece than a reimagining, preserving the core elements that made Anderson’s film so unsettling.

The Summer I Ate the Rich by Maika Moulite and Maritza Moulite What’s a teenage zonbi to do when she’s got culinary ambitions and a taste for human flesh? In The Summer I Ate the Rich, Brielle Petitfour balances her dreams of becoming a chef with caring for her chronically ill mother and managing her secret identity as a half-zonbi. When she lands an internship at a pharmaceutical company and starts running an exclusive supper club for Miami’s wealthy elite, Brielle finds herself serving up dishes with very special ingredients sourced from the local mortuary. (I do wish we’d gotten more of an explanation and description of the purpose of this. We somewhat see the results, but I wanted to know more of the hows and they whys.) Despite its horror premise, the book reads more like a YA drama, complete with a romance between Brielle and Preston, the son of a powerful pharmaceutical dynasty. Drawing from Haitian zonbi lore rather than Hollywood-style zombie stories, the authors create an unexpectedly glossy take on what could have been a much darker tale. The story weaves together elements of young love, family dynamics, and class disparity, while keeping its more gruesome aspects surprisingly subtle. Publishing April 2025

No One Gets Out Alive by Adam Neville plunges a desperate Stephanie into the cheapest room she can find, where unnerving encounters quickly devolve into inexplicable terrors. How is this place so cold and dark and hopeless? Where are her housemates that she can hear muttering and sobbing through the walls? Her vile landlord Knacker and his towering, unwashed cousin Fergal add human menace to the supernatural dread – and Nevill excels at making both equally terrifying. Stephanie’s financial anxiety alone had me stressed before anything violent or otherworldly happened! But at over 600 pages, the story is unforgivably bloated, with one late scene taking what feels like twenty pages just to literally light a match. I’m keeping this review brief because if you decide to immerse yourself in the book, you’re already signing up for plenty of reading.

Lost in the Garden by Adam S. Leslie had me at its premise: a forbidden village, a world trapped in an unnatural permanent summer where ghosts roam freely, and that marvelously unsettling folk-horror vibe I can never resist. When I couldn’t find a library copy anywhere, I broke down and bought it. What a letdown. Though I enjoyed Leslie’s writing style and the way he could turn a phrase, the story meanders endlessly before even reaching Almanby. We spend 450 pages with characters I never connected with – particularly Heather, who reads like a hyperactive feral toddler rather than an adult, and Antonia, whose simmering but persistent obsession with Heather drives them through pointless wandering. I usually DNF books this tedious, but having actually paid for it, I stubbornly kept reading, hoping it would click into place. It didn’t. I’d give Leslie another try – he can write when he wants to – but this book desperately needed a ruthless editor.

I could not possibly end 2024 with what turned out to be the most disappointing read of the year (see Lost in the Garden, above), so I had to squeak in one more. The Bewitching by Silvia Moreno-Garcia weaves together three timelines of witchcraft and dark academia, following grad student Minerva as she investigates an obscure horror writer whose famous novel was inspired by her roommate’s mysterious 1930s disappearance. As someone who loves academic mysteries and deep dives into forgotten authors, I was hooked by the premise alone. While the ’90s setting initially charmed me with its familiar touchstones (Minerva’s Discman loaded with The Pixies, The Sneaker Pimps, and about twenty other familiar things, along with references to things like the Molly Tanzer Library and a philosopher named Stephen Graham Jones), the constant cultural name-dropping eventually felt like too much of a good thing. Moreno-Garcia deftly handles the multiple narratives and ties everything together neatly, though seasoned mystery readers might spot the twists coming. As Ruthie Langmore says, “I don’t know shit about fuck,” and even I was able to see who’s who and what’s what and where things were going. Still, this atmospheric tale of dangerous magic and buried secrets kept me engrossed to the last page and was a way better end to the year! Publishing July 2025

If you enjoy posts like these or if you have ever enjoyed or been inspired by something I have written, and you would like to support this blog, consider buying the author a coffee?

✥ comment

A commenter recently asked if I would be doing a video showcasing my favorite things from the past year. While that particular roundup will manifest as a written piece here on the blog (because attempting to recall and articulate twelve months’ worth of treasures in a video format would result in a rambling mess of “oh! and this! and that! and I can’t believe I almost forgot about…”), it did plant the seed for something else: a shorter video featuring some of my recent acquisitions.

The timing feels particularly appropriate as we creep ever closer to the holiday season. We all know the peculiar anxiety of last-minute gift shopping – that frantic search for the perfect present when time is running out and inspiration seems to have abandoned us entirely. Perhaps you, too, have found yourself desperately scrolling through pages of suggestions that feel hopelessly generic, wondering how to find something special for that person in your life who prefers their gifts with a touch of shadow, a hint of mystery, or a whisper of the arcane.

I confess there’s also something deliciously self-indulgent about holiday shopping for others. You know the ritual: one for them, two for me. After all, how can we truly recommend gifts if we haven’t tested them ourselves? At least, that’s what I tell myself as I add items to my cart, justifying each purchase as “research” for future gift recommendations. It’s a slippery slope from “this would be perfect for so-and-so” to “but first, let me make sure it’s as wonderful as it seems.”

What began as a simple “look what I bought” video has transformed into something I hope you’ll find more useful: a carefully curated guide for those seeking gifts for their favorite shadow-dwellers. Whether you’re shopping for the friend who conducts beauty rituals by candlelight, the loved one who collects Victorian curiosities, or the companion who reads tarot while sipping botanical spirits, you’ll find something here to intrigue and delight. Let’s explore these treasures, shall we?

Scents & Potions:

• Heretique’s Nosferatu perfume
• Eauso Vert’s Fruto Oscuro
• Miskeo Parfums
• Anjali Perfumes
• Forthave Single Batch Floral Bittersweet Liqueur
• A24’s Genre Candles – atmospheric scents inspired by film

Beauty & Ritual:

• Rituel de Fille’s ceremonial approach to beauty

Tools for Recording Dark Thoughts:

• Open Sea Design’s Witch’s Year planner
• The elegantly practical chrome pen
• A gravestone-rubbing inspired address stamp that adds gothic flair to correspondence

Oracle & Wisdom:

• The Dark Goddess Oracle
• Memento Mori: The Art of Contemplating Death to Live a Better Life
• The Universe in 100 Colors: Weird & Wondrous Colors from Science and Nature
• Moon Lists: Questions and Rituals for Self-Reflection: A Guided Journal

Curios & Antiquities:

• Select pieces from Roses and Rue Antiques
• Dellamorte Co.’s darkly beautiful offerings

While the items above represent my recent acquisitions, I would be remiss not to mention several perennial favorites that deserve a place in any gothic gift guide. These are the treasured pieces and reliable sources I return to again and again – items that may not have made it into the video (as they weren’t recent purchases) but which have proven themselves worthy additions to any dark soul’s collection. Some are single items that have earned their place through years of use, while others come from sellers and artisans whose work I’ve collected over time, each piece adding to a carefully curated cabinet of curiosities. Consider these time-tested additions as you plan your gift-giving this season…

Adornments & Artifacts: Flannery Grace Good creates bold, soulful jewelry pieces that speak directly to the heart – each creation reflecting not just masterful craftsmanship but the warm, wickedly clever spirit of an artist who pours genuine love and understanding into every piece. Under the Pyramids crafts portable magic in the form of talismans, amulets, and magical symbols, each piece handcrafted in recycled silver to serve as wearable vessels of power and intention.

Bloodmilk’s creations emerged from the liminal space of grief, beginning as personal talismans of psychic armor and evolving into a collection that weaves together Victorian spiritualism, dark romanticism, and profound personal narrative. Each piece serves as a physical reminder – of love, of self-reliance, of mourning, of the fleeting nature of beauty – crafted with an understanding that jewelry can be more than adornment; it can be a tangible manifestation of our most nebulous dreams. Alexis Berger’s hand-fabricated glass jewelry captures the luminous beauty of Art Nouveau and the Belle Epoch, with translucent lampworked beads creating pieces of timeless elegance, and Parrish Relics melds medieval grandeur with Pre-Raphaelite sensibilities in time-worn amulets that look as though they were unearthed from some ancient, flower-strewn cloister.

Garments & Sacred Spaces: Altar + Orb creates clothing and decor inspired by lunar mysteries, Victorian aesthetics, and the shadowy corners of nature, perfect for those who wish to wear their mysticism or create atmospheric spaces. I can personally attest that their sweaters are the best I’ve ever owned – managing to be both spooky and delightfully cozy, which is really the ultimate combination. Their blank books are equally stunning, providing the perfect vessel for recording all of your haunted thoughts and midnight musings.

Scent Stories: Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab has spent decades crafting literary and mythological inspiration into wearable art through their vast catalog of atmospheric perfume oils. From Lovecraftian horrors to Victorian gardens, their scents tell complete stories. Arcana Wildcraft combines ancient perfumery techniques with wild-harvested plants and magical practice, creating process-oriented perfumes infused with elements of alchemy and witchcraft. Seance Perfumes draws inspiration from Victorian spiritualism and the metaphysical realm, creating fragrances that bridge the rational and emotional worlds, while Poesie Perfume crafts scents inspired by literature, wanderlust, and the romance of bygone eras.

Literary Treasures: Victoria Mier’s Beyond the Aching Door weaves Welsh mythology and Slavic folklore into a darkly romantic urban fantasy. Iris Compiet’s Faeries of the Faultlines provides a stunning artistic journey into otherworldly realms, while The Sphinx and The Milky Way shares Charles Burchfield’s fascinating naturalist observations. Una Maria Blythe’s Muses No More: Portraits of Occult Women illuminates the often-overlooked stories of female occultists throughout history. For those who walk in dreams, Naomi Sangreal’s Little Hidden Doors offers an artfully crafted guide to exploring one’s dream landscapes through a lens of creativity and compassion.

Sonic Spells: Chelsea Wolfe’s She Reaches Out To She Reaches Out To She provides a darkwave journey perfect for winter nights. This latest offering weaves together industrial rhythms, gothic rock, and ethereal vocals into a tapestry of transformation and self-discovery. Moving between haunting ballads and electronic storms, the album creates a world where vulnerability and strength coexist in shadow, making it an ideal soundtrack for those long dark nights of the soul.

If you enjoy posts like these or if you have ever enjoyed or been inspired by something I have written, and you would like to support this blog, consider buying the author a coffee?

✥ 1 comment

As I prepared for this interview about Naomi Sangreal’s Little Hidden Doors, I found myself drifting through the landscapes of my own recurring dreams. They arrive unbidden, like persistent visitors who know where I keep the spare key: there I am at Checkers, my first job at fifteen, somehow still on the schedule thirty years later with unclaimed paychecks waiting for me; or I’m at the health food store I worked at while I was living in New Jersey, eternally trying to close up as customers mysteriously materialize through locked doors and darkened spaces. Sometimes I’m struck with the heart-stopping realization that I’ve forgotten about a phantom apartment somewhere, with ghostly cats waiting to be fed. But perhaps most luminous among these visitations was a single dream about my beloved tuxedo cat, Inkers, who appeared to me on a childhood path after her death, leading me through an impossible doorway in her own throat – a dream that spoke to the ineffable nature of loss and the labyrinthine corridors of grief. These dreams, persistent and precious, seem to embody what Jung called “little hidden doors in the innermost and most secret recesses of the soul.” They’re exactly the kind of ethereal material that our interview subject suggests we should embrace, rather than dismiss as mere midnight wanderings.

Little Hidden Doors: A Guided Journal for Deep Dreamers by Naomi Sangreal  is an enchanted threshold into the mysteries of our sleeping minds – a luminous sanctuary where dreamers can unfold the origami of their unconscious thoughts. My own copy is heavily annotated, its margins filled with midnight revelations and sunrise insights, and it has become one of my most frequently recommended books, as well.

Through an alchemical blend of psychological wisdom and soul-stirring creative prompts, Sangreal becomes our gentle guide through the labyrinth of dream interpretation, translating complex Jungian concepts into whispered revelations that feel like secrets shared in twilight. In our meandering conversation, we wander through shadowed corridors and sunlit chambers of dream exploration: from the quiet rebellion of honoring our nocturnal visions in a world that prizes constant wakefulness, to the shimmering potential of lucid dreaming as a practice ground for transformation. We pause to examine nightmares not as terrors to be fled from, but as dark messengers bearing gifts of insight, and explore how the gossamer threads of dreamwork weave themselves into the tapestry of our waking lives. Sangreal’s voice – both as psychotherapist and intuitive wayfinder – illuminates our path as she shares her own dream-touched stories, including a pivotal vision that beckoned her toward her calling as a counselor, while offering gentle lanterns of wisdom to those just beginning to map their own dreamscapes.

Unquiet Things: Your book title, “Little Hidden Doors,” evokes a sense of mystery and discovery. Can you elaborate on what these “doors” represent in our dream life and psyche?

Naomi Sangreal: The title comes from one of Carl Jung’s renowned quotes, “The dream is a little hidden door in the innermost and most secret recesses of the soul, opening into that cosmic night which was psyche long before there was any ego-consciousness, and which will remain psyche no matter how far our ego-consciousness extends.”

Jung describes how our ego consciousness remains small and separate, whereas through the dream we have access to this multidimensional and timeless experience of primordial wholeness. I see these doors as opportunities and inklings, ushering us as we might follow our curiosity through the corridors of an abandoned mansion; we choose which rooms we enter and the deeper we go the more treasures we may find. Dreams are incredible intrapsychic doors into our deep psyche.

You mention that paying attention to our dreams is revolutionary. How can this practice of dream engagement serve as a form of rebellion against what you call “wake-centricity” in modern society?

Revolutionary in the sense that dreams show us what we don’t want to know or see, what is disavowed and unallowed. They are raw, unfiltered and untouched by the social norms, rules and regulations of morality and waking consciousness and by interacting with them we can make contact with truer aspects of ourselves that may not be accessible or embraced by our waking external circumstances or environment. Dreams can offer us transformative experiences and life-changing ideas that we may not have access to in daily life. They share problem-solving wisdom and new insights that we can bring into our lives and our communities to create change.

You discuss the concept of the anima in your work. For those unfamiliar with Jungian psychology, could you explain what the anima is and why reconnecting with it is important in our current societal context?

In Jungian psychology, the anima archetype speaks to the inner feminine principle and the animus to the inner masculine soul that is not yet made manifest. According to Jung, the anima and animus are the contrasexual archetypes of the psyche. They are built from feminine and masculine archetypes from the individual experience as well as experiences with parents and collective, social, and cultural images. These inner figures seek to balance out our otherwise possibly one-sided experience of gender energy or personality expression and call us toward expressing our deep soulful wholeness. We are all both, but sometimes express varying levels of one or the other outwardly at different times. Our inner experience compensates to ensure the balance of our nature, which often is completely unconscious.

Marion Woodman states, “The tragedy and the danger of a patriarchal society is that too often it suffers the terrible consequences of leaving the feminine soul in both men and women in a repressed and abandoned state. Wherever this happens, the ego, unrefined and undeveloped by intercourse with the inner feminine, functions at a brutal, barbaric level, measuring its strength paradoxically by its power to destroy in the name of an inhuman ideal.” Perfectionism is a patriarchal plague. In inviting the anima into consciousness, we can harness her creative potential and enliven the Eros within, calling us toward the rebalancing of feminine power.

You introduce an intriguing perspective on nightmares, suggesting we invite these scary elements into our space. Can you walk us through this process and its potential benefits?

Our shadow can appear in nightmares as perils, gargoyles, tricksters, unsightly beings, or maybe just someone we don’t like. These figures are often helpful guide-look posts at a crossroads showing us exactly which way we need to go. When we can address and face these rejected parts of our psyche; we can further integrate our wholeness and take back our personal power.

Nightmares are not necessarily an indication that something is wrong. They are often more effective messengers. We often remember nightmares more than we do other types of dreams because they are so visually and emotionally impactful. This is for a number of reasons, one being that nightmares are specifically formulated to get your attention. A nightmare figure may have something important to communicate to you or be an aspect of your psyche or shadow that is starved for nourishment and attention. I offer a full guided experience and journaling prompts in my permanent online class through Ritualcravt, as well as detailed in the book!

You mention the concept of “flow state” in your book. I’ve heard this term before, but I am still not entirely sure I understand its meaning. How does this relate to dreamwork, and can engaging with our dreams help us access flow states more easily in our waking lives?

Flow theory was initiated by psychologist Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi in 1975 and held that creative activity can actually influence emotional affect by eliciting the experience of flow. Flow is defined as “an automatic, effortless, yet highly focused state of consciousness” and has been conceptualized as a particular type of optimal experience associated with vital engagement, which is a deep involvement in activities that are significant to the self and that promote feelings of aliveness and vitality. Flow causes deactivation in the brain, and the brain begins to switch from conscious processing, which is extremely slow and energy expensive, to subconscious processing, which is quick and energy efficient. We see this have negative impacts when our brain starts tuning out positive and helpful stimulus and focusing only on survival and threat, but in the experience of flow it has a positive impact in that we get completely absorbed in our creative activity and the brain reduces our anxiety and actually has an opportunity to heal.

The idea of “changing the world from the inside out” through dreamwork is fascinating. How do you envision this internal work manifesting in external reality?

All inner work manifests in the world around us. It changes us and therefore changes our choices and our relationships. If dreamwork is the primary way in which we can face our unconscious directly, it is a prime opportunity for some of the most challenging and liberating self work that we have access to. I have both personally experienced this level of change and watched dreamwork transform my patients lives.

You describe dreams as “vivid visual gifts.” How can people who don’t typically remember their dreams or don’t consider themselves visually oriented benefit from dreamwork?

Dreams are not just visual, they are often highly emotional. Even paying attention to the emotional arch of a dream and the embodied memory of interactions or sensations gives us clues to what is living in the unconscious. There are many styles of dreamwork and ways to work with dreams, they can be felt, acted out, spoken, written, made into poems, plays or songs. Whatever creative venue feels most intuitive to you is ripe for your dreams to emerge, working on and through you. I am partial to visual expressions in part because my dreams are vivid and I am a visual artist.

Have you noticed any shifts in how people relate to their dreams since you began your work in this field? If so, what changes have you observed?

Yes! Overall dreams seem to be taking off collectively in a huge way! When I first sought out dream work in therapy there was only ONE therapist in all of Portland whom I could find (who wasn’t friends with my mom lol) to see who worked with dreams. Now tons more folx are working with dreams, offering classes and writing about dreams online. The dreaming community continues to grow and it is amazing.

In your book, you discuss using lucid dreaming as a practice ground for real-life skills like public speaking. (I’d probably use it for highway driving, which terrifies me!) Could you elaborate on this idea? How can people harness their lucid dreams to improve their waking life abilities, and what other skills might benefit from this dream practice?

Lucid dreaming has been used all over the world to practice difficult tasks, learn new instruments and languages, even face general fears like public speaking. Dreamwork is not only creative and spiritual, it is incredibly useful and practical. For example, when a person is lucid dreaming, they have access to literally any tools that might help them grow. They can practice diving, summon instruments or books, and engage in sports or other physical activities without limitation. Once a dreamer becomes experienced in inducing lucidity, they can use their ability to develop skills that are beneficial in waking life. A person is able to use the dream space to practice skills that have a direct impact on their physical muscle memory and prime their cognitive functions.

In your experience as a psychotherapist and intuitive guide, what’s the most surprising or profound insight you’ve gained about the human psyche through working with dreams?

Dreams never cease to surprise me. They show me over and over again that people have access to deep truths and spiritual images that can change the color of their mind and experience forever. Just one big dream can transform a person.

Your book combines various practices like writing, collage, and meditation. How did you develop this multifaceted approach to dreamwork, and why do you think it’s effective?

These practices are all well-known and documented across traditions both therapeutic and spiritual. I was definitely influenced by my mother, who is a prolific visual journalist, dream worker, SoulcollageTM facilitator, and psychotherapist. For me, bringing them together feels intuitive, engaging different senses; visual, mental, kinesthetic – word, image and imagination allows for greater access to unconsciousness and that is where we are trying to get to and to connect with through dreams.

Can you share a personal anecdote of how engaging with your dreams has led to a significant change or realization in your waking life?

As I mentioned briefly and vaguely in the book, a dream I worked in therapy told me to go to school for counseling. I don’t mind sharing it here; I dreamed I am on the steps of a building with 4 perpendicular sides. It looks gothic or church-like and on each side there are many steps leading up to a door. I ascend the steps and go inside. Somehow I know I need to go upstairs. I go up several flights and find my way into a big event room. There is some kind of conference or celebration happening. The room is full of all different types of people milling about and talking. I take a seat in a chair toward the back of the room near a window. I am introverted, so I tend to wallflower and observe in these types of situations. I sit quietly and listen, gently rocking (autistics will know lol). I am able to hear everyone’s conversations loudly, even private whispered exchanges close to one another’s ears.

I hear people complaining. “I am a professor and I hate my job.”

“Oh really?”

“I am a medical doctor and it’s awful, I’m so unfulfilled.”

I quickly realize that all of these successful and professional people hate their jobs and have no idea who they are or what they want to do. I start rocking harder in my chair and I yell loudly “I know exactly what I want to do!” Everyone stops talking and looks at me. They all say collectively, “Well then why don’t you go do it?” I run out of the room and down the stairs. The next morning I applied to college.

For someone new to intentional dreamwork, what’s one simple practice you’d recommend they start with tonight?

Just set the intention before you go to sleep, “when I wake up, I will remember my dreams” and try to gently recall your dreams as soon as you wake up. Practice, practice, practice.

As someone fascinated by the power of routine and ritual, I’m curious about your personal practices. Would you mind sharing your nighttime routine? What rituals or habits have you found most effective for nurturing quality sleep and rich dream experiences?”

I discuss some sleep hygiene suggestions in the book, but a few personal supports I left out are the manta sleep mask – it’s absolutely incredible – and a grounding sheet. I sleep in a cold room, read before bed, minimize artificial lighting and no screen time. Baths and meditation are also a huge help for me in winding down. I am actually not a night person, I usually go to sleep around 8:30 pm – most of my rituals are morning rituals, which included recording my dreams.

As both a creative soul and an adept navigator of dreamscapes, I’m curious about how you perceive the relationship between dreams and various art forms. Beyond visual art, how do you think other mediums like music, literature, or even scent art like perfumery might intersect with or be influenced by our dream experiences? Have you explored any of these connections in your own practice or research?”

Scent! The olfactory sense is rare in dreams but not completely absent. Just this week I dreamed of an ex’s bad breath lol – smell is, as you know, deeply connected to emotion and memory. Good smells and perfumes can be used to invite sweet spirits and influence our dreams in positive ways! I would be curious if anyone has made a perfume for dreaming? Possibly including some of the well-known oneiric plants or flowers? I know cologne, sprays, and perfumes are used in folk magic practices, and I wouldn’t be surprised if there were specific ones for dreams and dreaming. [Author Edit: here are some of my favorite sleeping and dreaming scents!]

Find Naomi Sangreal: website //Instagram

All imagery courtesy Naomi Sangreal.

If you enjoy posts like these or if you have ever enjoyed or been inspired by something I have written, and you would like to support this blog, consider buying the author a coffee?

✥ 1 comment

My two favorite comfort spots as a child: tucked in a corner with a book, or in the kitchen at my grandmother’s knee. Both places taught me to love the slow unfolding of stories – whether they came from mixing bowls or printed pages. Maybe that’s why I find myself lingering over scenes of characters eating. A flaky crust or the smell of burnt sugar can transport you more surely than any map. What characters eat, how they eat it, who they share it with – these details tell us everything about their world.

As I grew older, I realized something curious: while other readers might have dog-eared the romantic scenes in novels, I was the one impatiently flipping past them to get back to the detailed descriptions of gathering herbs or preparing meals. Even in the notoriously salacious Clan of the Cave Bear, I cared more about Ayla’s medicinal plants than her spicy cave encounters. Maybe because food scenes revealed something more intimate – not just how characters fed their bodies, but how they nourished their souls and connections to others. Plus, I was a constantly hungry child. My mother had me counting calories from age five. I ate vicariously through these characters, savoring every detailed description of their meals, while secretly stuffing saltines and oyster crackers into my pockets – not always from hunger, but often from spite, claiming these small crunchy acts of rebellion. Even now, I can’t read without something to crunch between pages.

The Boxcar Children showed me first what food could mean beyond hunger. Four siblings with nothing but each other, turning an abandoned train car into home. I envied their freedom to eat what they found, when they found it. Every small victory mattered: a cup cut from a tin can, milk kept cool in a stream, wild blueberries gathered in a fresh bucket. Each meal became an act of love and defiance – we can make this work, we can stay together, we can turn nothing into something.

In Little House on the Prairie, each meal was a triumph I could taste in secret: stewed jackrabbit with white-flour dumplings and gravy, steaming cornbread flavored with bacon fat, and molasses to pour over top. No one counted Laura’s calories. Karana in Island of the Blue Dolphins followed the same patient rhythm of survival: abalone pried from rocks, fish caught in tidal pools, roots dug from the earth with improvised tools. These girls ate to live, and lived fully.

In The Secret Garden, I found a different kind of mirror. While Mary transforms from sallow to vibrant, I was being taught to wish for the opposite. My mother’s voice suggested that thin and pale was preferable to rosy-cheeked and sturdy. Still, I devoured the descriptions: warm milk, homemade cottage bread slathered with raspberry jam, buttered crumpets, currant buns. As the garden comes alive, so do the children who tend it, nourished by Susan Sowerby’s hearty oatcakes and fresh milk brought for picnics among the roses. They eat without anyone watching, measuring, counting.

On dark and stormy nights in A Wrinkle in Time, the Murray kitchen glows with love and warm milk for cocoa. Charles Wallace, wise beyond his five years, makes liverwurst-and-cream-cheese sandwiches while his sister Meg gets her one precious tomato with her mother’s blessing. Here was another kind of hunger being fed – not just for midnight snacks, but for unconditional love served up with hot chocolate and understanding. A mother who could say of her last tomato, “To what better use could it be put?” than feeding her child’s happiness. That liverwurst sandwich, by the way, became such an indelible detail that years later, when I was interviewed about the Wrinkle in Time cover art saga, it was the only thing I could recall from the entire story!

The Wind in the Willows packed picnic baskets of pure imagination: a yard of French bread, sausage fragrant with garlic, cheese that “lay down and cried,” and bottled sunshine from Southern slopes. In Heidi’s world, simple meals became feasts: toasted cheese and fresh goat’s milk in her grandfather’s alpine cabin, tasting of freedom and mountain air. In Harriet The Spy, Harriet M. Welsch’s tomato sandwich appeared like clockwork, made the same way every day by her nanny Ole Golly (white bread, ripe tomatoes, mayo, and though I’d add salt and pepper, I doubt Harriet would approve).

When my mother was monitoring every bite, allowing only Weight Watchers-approved foods and endless bowls of undressed salad, I found myself drawn to the strange, exotic foods in books: Edmund’s Turkish Delight in Narnia, the pickled limes Amy March coveted at school. I had no idea what these things actually tasted like, which made them perfect for fantasizing. They existed purely in my imagination, where no one could measure their calories or deem them forbidden. No Weight Watchers points chart in the world could calculate the value of magical sugar covered in snow, or the tart sweetness of pickled citrus traded like contraband between schoolgirls.

And speaking of fantasy feasts, the dwarves raid Bilbo’s pantry with a gleeful abandon I recognized in my own hidden snacking: seed-cakes vanishing, buttered scones disappearing with raspberry jam and apple-tart, followed by mince-pies, cheese, pork-pie and salad. Then more cakes, ale, coffee, eggs, cold chicken and pickles. The Redwall books fed these fantasies – deeper’n’ever pies, greensap milk, meadowcream pudding, hot cornbread studded with hazelnuts and apple. Between crackers crushed in my pockets, I devoured these imaginary feasts.

In Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe, a plate appears loaded with Southern comfort: fried chicken, black-eyed peas, turnip greens, cornbread, and those titular tomatoes. The chocolatier in Chocolat reads her customers through their cravings. In Like Water for Chocolate, a single chile in walnut sauce captures all possible flavors: sweet as candied citron, juicy as pomegranate, hot with pepper, subtle with nuts.

But food can speak of darker things too. The Secret History’s feast spins out of control – soups, lobsters, pâtés, mousses blur together with Tattinger champagne and brandy until the room tilts with excess and abandon. In Castle Dracula, Jonathan Harker’s journal opens not with terror but with dinner – an “excellent roast chicken” served by his gracious host. And in Rebecca, the narrator torments herself remembering teatime at Manderley: dripping crumpets, crisp toast wedges, mysterious sandwiches, that special gingerbread, and angel cake that melted in the mouth. These are meals haunted by what comes after.

I actually started writing this piece seven years ago, just a simple list of meals from books. But, like the best stories about food, it was never really about the food at all. It was about hunger and love and what happens when those things get tangled together, about mothers and daughters and all the ways we learn to feed ourselves when no one else will.

Yet it’s not these haunted meals or desperate hungers I want to carry forward. What I want now is to nourish what was starved. I imagine setting a table for my younger self, covering every inch with the food of these beloved books: warm cottage bread fresh from the oven, slathered with sweet butter and honey, piled with slices of ripe tomatoes and sprinkled with salt. Crumpets dripping with melted butter, currant buns still steaming, seed-cakes and apple tarts and mince pies. A tureen of rabbit stew with dumplings, cornbread flavored with bacon fat, blueberries gathered by small determined hands. Hot oatcakes wrapped in clean napkins, brought by a mother who knew how to feed children’s souls as well as their bodies. I’d tell that hungry, hiding girl that she can eat until she’s satisfied, that there’s no need to count or measure or feel shame, that the crumbs in her pockets were not crimes but survival. And maybe I’d set a place for my mother too, hoping we could both finally taste something sweeter than fear – forgiveness, served in portions large enough to fill all our empty spaces.

Next month marks eleven years since she died. My body remembers before my mind does. It asks for comfort reads and crackers in corners. The old familiar hungers, the slow work of healing.

If you enjoy posts like these or if you have ever enjoyed or been inspired by something I have written, and you would like to support this blog, consider buying the author a coffee?

✥ 1 comment

Polybius by Colin Armstrong is a horror novel that plunges readers into a nightmare unfolding in a small coastal town in 1982. At the story’s center is Andi, a smart, tech-savvy teenager working at the local arcade/movie rental place, where the trouble begins with the arrival of a mysterious new arcade game. This game quickly becomes an obsession for the townspeople, young and old, players and nonplayers alike, triggering a series of disturbing events. As the victims start experiencing severe mood swings, paranoia, and hallucinations, Andi finds herself drawn into investigating the game’s sinister origins. The situation takes a dire turn when a violent coastal storm cuts the town off from the outside world, coinciding with a surge in aggressive behavior among the residents. Alongside her friend Ro, the sheriff’s son, Andi races to uncover the connection between the game and the town’s descent into chaos, all while grappling with her own desire to escape Tasker Bay.

Armstrong’s writing style immediately reminded me of the horror novels I devoured in my younger years. It’s action-packed and straight to the point, not trying to romance us with flowery language and linguistic frills. Polybius is quite different from the “literary horror” that’s become popular (I don’t want to say “lately”…I can’t pinpoint when we started referring to it that way.) But there’s been a lot of talk about horror with lush, beautiful prose and supposedly elevated concepts, but Armstrong’s novel isn’t trying to be that. The writing is straightforward and focused on propelling the story forward rather than waxing poetic. It gets you from point A to point B efficiently, even if you won’t swoon over the writing. I am not trying to say one is better than the other, I am not trying to be a judgemental contrarian edgelord! Just…managing expectations, I guess?

I will say though, that I wanted more from the urban legend aspect of the story; I honestly didn’t come away from the book with any sense of urban legendry at all, and only remembered it was supposedly meant to be an aspect of the story as I was reading reviews about it, so I definitely feel like there was potential for deeper exploration there. On the other hand, the government conspiracy angle didn’t really grab me, and I found those parts a bit boring.

The marketing compares this to The Walking Dead or Stranger Things, but I’d say it has more in common with the Crossed comics (not THAT bad, though) or CJ Leede’s American Rapture. The rapid spread of the contagion, the extreme violence and aggression of those affected, and the overall bleakness of the situation really reminded me of those works.

For readers who appreciate horror that prioritizes visceral thrills over introspection, “Polybius” capably scratches that itch.  It’s not going to win any literary awards, but I am not sure that’s why we are reading horror in the first place, is it?

Polybius by Colin Armstrong is due out on April 29, 2025. NetGalley provided this digital review copy.

The next two books are more in the vein of the more literary-type horror that I mentioned above. And although the two stories are completely different and told in very different voices, interestingly enough, they have a fair bit in common. Another for the list of literary synchronicities! Unlike Polybius, these are both recently published, and you should be able to find copies easily.

A bit of a trigger warning for Private Rites. If you are someone who has recently been affected by weather and water…you might want to skip this one for now.

Private Rites is one of those books that didn’t always keep my attention…until all of a sudden, it did. Julia Armfield’s writing is so unlike any author in my memory, with a lush intelligence that’s hard to articulate. It feels scientific and philosophical, distilled into lyrical, emotive prose without being overly fraught. Set in a drowning world, the story follows three sisters dealing with their emotionally distant father’s recent death. Irene’s relationship is straining at the seams, Isla is grappling with her own personal complications, and the cynical Agnes is falling in love for the first time. As they sort through their father’s legacy in his famous glass house, their fragile bond is tested by revelations in his will and a mysterious purpose they’ve been chosen for. Armfield’s unique voice and the gradual unfolding of the sisters’ stories eventually drew me in. Private Rites is an atmospheric read with its beautifully distinctive prose, tumultuous family dynamics, and the nerve-wracking enigma of its watery apocalypse.

Rivers Solomon’s Model Home is an unrelentingly haunting tale centered on the Maxwell siblings – Ezri, Eve, and Emmanuelle. Their childhood in a gated community outside Dallas, where they were the only Black family, was marred by strange and terrifying events in their home at 677 Acacia Drive. This traumatic past has kept them at a distance from both the house and their parents in adulthood. The siblings’ forced return home following their parents’ mysterious deaths sets the stage for a confrontation with their history. As they delve into family secrets and attempt to unravel the truth behind the house’s disturbing occurrences, Solomon crafts an atmosphere of intense unease and palpable dread.

I already love reading about the complex dynamics between the siblings, and Solomon’s portrayal of the family kept me invested throughout. I found myself particularly drawn to Ezri’s perspective, though it was often a difficult and heartbreaking place to be. Spending time in Ezri’s head was truly horrifying at times, as their trauma and struggles were so vividly portrayed. Model Home was not anything like I expected, and Solomon doesn’t pull any punches when it comes to dark themes and disturbing scenes. It’s a brutal read, and there is no doubt about it. But I could not put it down, even when it made me uncomfortable. If you’re up for an intense, unsettling read, this book offers a bold, unconventional take on the haunted house story.

Finally, the twisted tale of Victorian Psycho by Virginia Feito introduces Winifred Notty, a governess who arrives at dreary Ensor House, where in three months’ time, she informs us that everyone living there will all be dead.  Winifred is tasked with educating the Pounds children in subjects ranging from English and French to ornamental needlework, and in the course of their lessons and bedtimes, we learn that while outwardly embodying Victorian propriety, Winifred’s carefully constructed persona belies a chillingly dark imagination and inner world. As she becomes further entrenched in the estate’s oppressive atmosphere and uncovers the Pounds family’s peculiar proclivities, Winifred finds it increasingly challenging to maintain her façade. If you relished Maeve Fly’s violently irreverent antihero and unhinged plot, you’ll find Winifred Notty’s distorted and uniquely vicious mind equally captivating in this eerie, blunt, and grotesquely humorous masterpiece. Warning to sensitive readers: maybe don’t. Victorian Psycho by Virginia Feito is due out on February 4, 2025. NetGalley provided this digital review copy.

Day Eight of 31 Days Of Horror in years past: 2023 // 2022 // 2021

If you enjoy posts like these or if you have ever enjoyed or been inspired by something I have written, and you would like to support this blog, consider buying the author a coffee?

✥ 2 comments

Horror Movie by Paul Tremblay is an intricately meta exploration of film culture and memory, centered around a never-completed student film that inexplicably gains cult status Tremblay nails the sweet spot between spooky urban legend vibes and the nitty-gritty of indie filmmaking, all while poking at the weirdness of memory and perception. His take on fan culture – think horror cons and “cursed” film lore – feels spot-on, asking some uncomfortable questions about fame, tragedy as commodity, and the often messed-up relationship between creators and fans. All this to say…it took me a long time to finally fall into the rhythm of this story, and by the time I did–it was over! And speaking of the finale: while the ending may prove divisive, it’s very quintessential Tremblay – challenging and thought-provoking. Ultimate, this book was trying to do some really interesting things, and I recognize and admire that, but at the end of the day, something was missing for me, something vague–but somehow important when it comes to how satisfying a story is–that I can’t quite put my finger on or articulate, but I know when it’s not there. This too I find is part of the classic Tremblay experience.

American Rapture by CJ Leedes  At its core, this is Sophie’s story. And if you have read and enjoyed Leede’s Maeve Fly, just now you are in for a wildly different protagonist with Sophie. She’s a 16-year-old Catholic girl who’s been sheltered her whole life, and suddenly she’s thrust into a world that’s literally going to hell. There’s a virus turning people into lust-crazed maniacs (kind of like Crossed if anyone recalls and/or will admit familiarity with that series), and Sophie’s got to navigate this nightmare while questioning everything she’s ever been taught. Leede doesn’t pull any punches here. The violence is brutal, the sexual content is intense, and the religious themes are going to make some folks uncomfortable. But that’s the point. This book wants you to squirm, to think, to feel. What really works is how personal it all feels. You’re right there with Sophie as she’s figuring things out, making mistakes, and growing up way too fast. It’s messy and raw and sometimes beautiful in the most horrific ways. The side characters add a lot to the story too. There’s this whole “found family” vibe that gives you something to root for amidst all the chaos. As a warning, there is an incredibly awful animal death in these pages, and, in the afterward, the author explains a bit of why that is. Personally, I get it. I didn’t like to read about it. But I *get* it. Leede’s taken the apocalyptic genre and injected it with a dose of coming-of-age drama and religious introspection. It’s not always an easy read, but it’s definitely a memorable one.

blud by Rachel McKibbens is a book of poetry I read, and I find it a bit difficult or even sum up poetry collections, so I will just say this: I don’t think I have ever experienced a book of poetry where I have casually relating to it up to a point, or at least enjoying the language enough to keep me reading, and then WAM. Suddenly a poem grabs me by the throat, strips me to my deepest pain, and doesn’t stop there; it digs the heart from my chest in one swift yank and sucks the marrow from my bones in a single swallow. The poem’s title is  * * * (I think? I am not sure.) and begins on page 48, but you need to work your way up to it. As a matter of fact, forget you’ve read this. Just remember what it’s like to love someone–all of the someones, the worst and the best of them– and stumble upon this poem one day, unbidden, your heart unguarded, all your defenses down. You will be destroyed, and it will feel exquisite.

The Unmothers by Leslie J. Anderson offers a compelling blend of folk horror and mystery set in the isolated town of Raeford. The story follows Marshall, a grief-stricken journalist tasked with investigating an impossible claim: a horse giving birth to a human child. What begins as a seemingly absurd assignment quickly unravels into a dark exploration of small-town secrets and generational trauma. In crafting Raeford, Anderson creates a palpable sense of unease. The fog-shrouded landscape becomes a character in itself, its oppressive atmosphere mirroring the weight of the town inhabitants’ unspoken burdens. This eerie setting serves as the perfect backdrop for the novel’s deeper themes, including bodily autonomy and the unique challenges women face in rural communities. Anderson tackles these complex issues with sensitivity and nuance, skillfully grounding her supernatural tale in very real, contemporary concerns. Despite the story’s bizarre premise, the characters feel remarkably authentic and their struggles and motivations resonate deeply, lending an added impact to the horror elements woven throughout the narrative. As the story progresses, the pervasive fog of Raeford seems to seep into the narrative itself. While this contributes to the overall atmosphere, it occasionally makes the plot feel hazy, particularly in the final act. However, even though it contributed a bit of befuddlement to the story, this minor issue doesn’t significantly diminish the book’s overall impact. I hesitate to slot “The Unmothers” into any single category; while it could be described as “horror for horse girls,” this label doesn’t do justice to the breadth of Anderson’s vision. Instead, it’s a thought-provoking tale that will appeal to anyone drawn to stories of small-town mysteries and the often unsettling nature of human relationships.

A Sunny Place for Shady People by Mariana Enriquez In A Sunny Place for Shady People, Mariana Enriquez crafts narratives that blur the lines between reality and the fantastic, channeling a sort of raw, punk-infused literary version of say, kooky dreamer Remedios Varo’s bizarre surrealist visions. But where Varo’s paintings offer enigmatic, haunting cosmological qualities, Enriquez’s stories present a more visceral, earthier, street-level take on the surreal. The characters often come across as emotionally distant, and this coolness amplifies the otherworldly atmosphere throughout the collection. It’s as if they’re slightly removed from their bizarre circumstances, mirroring our own sense of disorientation as readers. Enriquez’s prose is sharp and unflinching, describing surreal and often disturbing scenarios with a matter-of-fact tone that packs a punch. From urban ghosts to body horror that defies explanation, each story pushes our imagination to its limits, much like Varo’s paintings, but with an edgy, contemporary twist. The characters’ emotional distance might not be everyone’s cup of tea, but it’s this very quality that allows Enriquez to dig into deeper themes of societal dysfunction, historical trauma, and personal alienation. The surreal elements aren’t just for show – they’re powerful metaphors for the often inexplicable nature of human experience. A Sunny Place for Shady People isn’t a cozy read, but it’s definitely a compelling one.

If It Bleeds by Stephen King King’s latest novella collection includes four stories: “Mr. Harrigan’s Phone,” “The Life of Chuck,” “Rat,” and the titular “If It Bleeds.” While each tale showcases King’s knack for blending the supernatural with the everyday, “Rat” particularly intrigued me. Its exploration of a writer’s struggle had me wondering: how many of King’s stories are responses to queries he’s put to himself? The titular novella, featuring the recurring character Holly Gibney, is one I wish I had read before Holly’s standalone book, but oh well. A note I made to myself while reading: throughout the book, references to things like landlines (which I remember) and party lines (which was before my time) reminded me of King’s long career, making me ponder how younger readers than I might interpret these technological time markers.

Antenora by Dori Lumpkin Set in the suffocating religious snake-handling community of Bethel, Alabama, this novella dives deep into the murky waters of repressed sexuality, religious dogma, and possible possession. Lumpkin’s writing is a Southern Gothic dream, weaving a tale of two girls, Nora and Abigail, whose affection and loyalty to each other becomes a threat to their entire town. The story of Nora’s “possession” unfolds through Abigail’s eyes, a bittersweet confessional that’ll have you squirming in your seat, clenching your fists, and breaking your heart. At its core, “Antenora” is a queer love story, exploring the complexities of friendship, desire, and faith in a way that feels achingly, desperately real, and while it delivers some deliciously gruesome scenes, the real horror here is in the oppressive atmosphere of the small town and its smaller-minded inhabitants. It’s a short but potent read that’ll leave you yearning for more of Lumpkin’s poignantly twisted prose.

Psychedelica Satanica by Sybil Oxblood Pope What a gem! I went into this one with zero expectations and came out thoroughly entertained. This oddball romp follows dark-arts dabbling sisters Jerica and Pen as they dive into some extremely demonic magic, but somehow, the story never feels too heavy. Pope’s writing strikes this weird balance where, despite the menacing threats of infernal forces and sometimes very human violence, it’s wrapped in a layer of absurdity that keeps things from getting too intense. The absolute star of the show is Vinegar Bill, a sassy, snarky demon-goat who steals every scene he is in. Fair warning: Vinegar Bill hates housepets, so you’re absolutely going to see this book listed eventually on doesthedogdie.com. And despite the (somewhat) light-hearted tone, don’t expect a happy ending – this isn’t that kind of story. But if you’re in the mood for a surprisingly fun ride through some dark territory full of snappy dialogue and sisterly shenanigans, “Psychedelic Satanica” delivers a very good time. It’s like a B-movie horror flick in book form – gory, ridiculous, and weirdly enjoyable.

The Coiled Serpent by Camilla Grudova Ooooof. I loved Children of Paradise, (so much that it influenced a whole perfume review!) which definitely did have a bit of a crusty aspect to it, but I am not sure how I feel about these stories, which shoot way past crusty into the territory of the grotesque and the disgustingly visceral. A provocative collection of short stories that blends surrealism, body horror, and social commentary, The Coiled Serpent is an incredibly unsettling reading experience in the form of experimental fiction (?) satire of the Great British institutions. I only know this because I read a Guardian article which clued me into that bit. Until that point, I thought I was just reading a series of gross, surreal stories. Now I feel like an idiot. In Grudova’s distinct style of writing that is sharp, witty, and unapologetically transgressive, these stories explore themes of class struggle, capitalism, and gender issues, often alongside repulsive imagery and the nastiness of bodily functions. Her matter-of-fact delivery of the absurd and horrific adds to the stories’ disquieting atmosphere. The Coiled Serpent shows off Grudova’s wild imagination and her commitment to pushing boundaries to create stories that’ll stick with you – like so much faecal matter on filthy toilets or spoilt custard crusting to an unruly mustache–even if sometimes you wish they wouldn’t.

Cicada Summer by Erica McKeen wonderfully (horribly?) captures the disorienting atmosphere of the 2020 pandemic summer. Set in a remote Ontario cabin, it follows Husha, her ailing grandfather, and her ex-lover, Nellie, as they navigate isolation amidst emerging cicadas and oppressive heat in a several weeks long slice of life where McKeen weaves themes of grief, climate anxiety, and trauma, I thought with remarkable sensitivity. Unpleasantness beautifully tended through gorgeous prose. Things take an intriguing turn when Husha discovers her late mother’s short story collection, adding a meta-literary element that both enriches and occasionally disrupts the main narrative. Interestingly, I found Nellie to be a particularly enigmatic character – her relationship with Husha felt oddly distant despite their history, contributing to the overall sense of unease. McKeen’s ability to portray the warped sense of time and unreality during that unprecedented period is particularly striking, even if some elements, like Nellie’s presence, remain weirdly unclear.

Bad Dolls by Rachel Harrison I tend to think of Rachel Harrison’s writing as a sort of Gilmore Girls gal-pal coziness, but make it a little bit creepy and maybe add some campiness. It’s not exactly horror; it does play with the elements you find in horror –the atmosphere, the suspense, and even the monsters– but the fear and frights are tempered with friendship and humor and a sort of hygge-sleepover horror vibe that Rachel Harrison does really well. These stories of bachelorette parties from hell, the literal monstrosity of diet culture, and the titular creepy doll are delightful and fun, if not literally spooky or scary. And that’s okay! This is exactly why I enjoy Rachel Harrison so much. She fills a void I didn’t even know existed, and I love her for it.

We Used To Live Here by Marcus Kliewer is a the kind of frayed-nerve horror that has some aspects which will definitely cause some brutally sleepless nights. It captures that skin-crawling dread of falling down a Reddit rabbit hole at 2 AM, leaving you feeling infected by the story like a case of literary Morgellons. At its core, it’s a tale of boundaries – personal, physical, and psychological – and what happens when they start to blur in terrifying ways (think Aronofsky’s “Mother!”, but with a hefty dose of internet-age paranoia). When house-flipping couple Eve and Charlie let a strange family into their newly purchased home, reality begins to unravel in chilling ways. Kliewer’s prose creeps up on you, lulling you into false security before plunging you into heart-pounding terror. While some might balk at unanswered questions, the lingering mysteries only amplify the novel’s unsettling power–which, on one hand is a plus, as I do love an ambiguous ending, but on the other, I kinda feel like this book fizzled about halfway through, like the story couldn’t sustain itself.

God of the Woods by Liz Moore centers on the disappearance of 13-year-old Barbara Van Laar from her family’s Adirondack summer camp in 1975, echoing her brother’s vanishing fourteen years earlier. Moore tells the story through multiple perspectives, including Barbara’s mother Alice, counselor Louise, and detective Judyta. The non-linear timeline, jumping between the 1950s and 1970s, while I first found it discombulating, adds intriguing layers to the unfolding mystery. I think some reviewers have complained about the pacing, but I found it to move along pretty consistently throughout, with the multiple viewpoints keeping the story engaging and offering fresh insights at every turn. The vivid Adirondack setting and well-developed female characters particularly stood out to me. Moore’s exploration of themes like motherhood, class, and identity is nuanced and thought-provoking, and while on one hand, sure–rich people’s problems, but on the other, well, a tragedy is a tragedy, and there were a slew of heartbreaking ones in this book.

In The Lonely Hours by Shannon Morgan, When Edwina Nunn inherits Maundrell Castle, she and her teenage daughter Neve are thrust into a world where past and present collide in shadow-filled corridors, and there are quite literally ghosts around every corner. Morgan deftly navigates between timelines, unraveling a mystery that spans generations and centers on the enigmatic Maundrell Red diamond. The castle itself becomes a character (albeit sort of a Scooby Doo character), its history seeping through ancient stones and into the very bones of the story. While ghost story tropes abound, Morgan infuses them with fresh energy, exploring themes of generational trauma and mental health with a nuanced touch. The relationship between Edwina and Neve provides a grounding counterpoint to the supernatural elements, though Neve’s often shitty attitude towards her mother can grate on the nerves. It’s a slow burn at first, but once the plot picks up steam, you’ll find yourself deeply immersed in the gothic soap opera-esque twisted tale of the Maundrell family.

Generation Loss by Elizabeth Hand is definitely not new, and I am very late to the party, and you could maybe argue that self-destructive nihilist Cass Neary is just another generation‘s version of the kind of contemporary character trope I have grown to hate…but…I don’t think so. Cass is no fresh-faced MFA graduate grappling with first-world problems and wallowing in existential crises born of comfort. She’s a weathered survivor of New York’s punk scene, carrying the scars and stories of a life lived on the edge. The bleak atmosphere and weirdness the novel’s setting, a remote island off the coast of Maine, isolation and decay it’s very landscape, and the undercurrent of violence running through the story and threatening to explode at any moment–this all added a raw, urgent intensity that makes so much else I have been reading lately lackluster and pale in comparison.

The Glow by Jessie Gaynor  follows desperate publicist Jane Dorner as she gets entangled in a bizarre wellness retreat, a premise that might sound familiar to readers of recent millennial wellness horror. However, Gaynor’s novel stands out with its self-awareness and refusal to take itself too seriously. I appreciated the amusing metaphors and funny turns of phrase that pepper the narrative. Unlike some entries in this genre The Glow knows exactly what it is – it doesn’t buy into its own hype or come across as pretentious. This self-aware approach to satirizing wellness culture and social media influencers made for a refreshing read in an increasingly crowded field.

Little Hidden Doors by Naomi Sangreal As someone who has been fascinated with dreams and diligently recorded them since my teens, I found Naomi Sangreal’s Little Hidden Doors to be a transformative guide for deepening my engagement with the dream world. This guided journal artfully combines psychological insight with creative prompts, offering a unique approach to self-discovery that I found both engaging and transformative. Sangreal’s writing style is accessible yet deeply thoughtful, making complex concepts from Jungian psychology feel relevant to daily life. I particularly appreciated her nuanced take on nightmares, which helped me reframe and engage with challenging dream imagery. The artistic elements throughout the book not only beautify the experience but also serve as inspiration for one’s own creative exploration of dreams. Little Hidden Doors has genuinely altered how I perceive my nighttime adventures, and has dramatically expanded my dream practice beyond mere recording, turning each morning into an opportunity for growth and insight and opening up new avenues for self-discovery and creative expression that I’m excited to continue exploring.

In The Middle of The Night by Riley Sager follows Ethan Marsh, who returns to his childhood home on Hemlock Circle 30 years after his best friend Billy mysteriously vanished from their backyard tent. Plagued by insomnia and strange occurrences, Ethan begins to investigate what really happened that night, leading him to reunite with old neighbors and explore the surrounding woods where Billy once claimed monsters roamed. As he delves deeper, Ethan uncovers dark secrets about a nearby institute and realizes that the past is not as far behind as he thought. Unlike my experiences with Sager’s previous books, which often left me frustrated, this one exceeded all my (kinda low tbh) expectations. For the first time, I can say I have zero complaints about a Riley Sager novel –  five stars and a smarmy Paul Hollywood handshake to you, sir.

Salt Slow by Julia Armfield Julia Armfield’s “Salt Slow” is a siren song of nine stories, luring readers into deeply disturbing territory. In “The Great Awake,” sleep becomes a phantom limb, while “Stop Your Women’s Ears with Wax” orchestrates a symphony of feminine fury that left me breathless. Armfield’s prose is a scalpel, dissecting societal norms with surgical precision, yet leaving behind a beautifully grotesque patchwork of magical realism and horror. This collection is a tide pool of the strange and familiar, where each story is a creature that, once observed, changes you irrevocably.

 Calling a Wolf a Wolf by Kaveh Akbar is a shattered mirror, each shard reflecting…I don’t even know what. How to talk about poetry so often eludes me. It’s like describing a dream, all over the place and nonsensical and at the end you’ve told no one anything and you’ve bored them, too. Calling A Wolf A Wolf is full of addiction’s gnawing hunger, desire’s scalding touch, faith’s frantic ache. Tenderness and yearning, doom and deliverance and all the pain and ecstacy of being alive; encompassing all of these things in a vessel too small and too human and always one step always from breaking, maybe broken because we were born to be so (“the geese are curving around the horizon drawing maps / a curve is a straight line broken at all its points so much / of being alive is breaking.”) Bonus: the cover art is by Nicola Samori. And fuck that reviewer who dismissed it as being ugly. Seriously. Fuck that guy.

Spiritus Mundi is a fascinating anthology that explores the connection between creativity and the occult. Editor Elizabeth Sulis Kim has curated a collection of writings generated through various mystical methods, from scrying to tarot reading. My experience with this book was filled with what felt like magical coincidences, perfectly mirroring its mystical theme. I discovered a contribution from Camila Grudova, an author I’d recently encountered in my other readings (mentioned in a review above.) Jen Campbell, whose YouTube book reviews I frequently watch, also contributed a piece that I found both innovative and engaging. Pam Grossman’s “Invocation to Iris,” a lyric essay about the Greek goddess of rainbows, was absolutely phenomenal. Grossman describes it as “one of the weirdest, most personal, and most magical” things she’s ever written, and I wholeheartedly agree – it’s an absolute must-read. In a serendipitous turn, this book sparked a personal exploration of literary synchronicities. A passage I encountered eerily paralleled a phrase in a poetry book I had just read, inspiring a blog post about these uncanny literary connections. This experience felt like a real-life manifestation of the book’s exploration of mystical creativity. Spiritus Mundi left me with a deeper appreciation for the various ways writers can tap into unconventional sources of inspiration. It’s a thought-provoking journey that not only challenges our understanding of where ideas come from, but also seems to invite its own brand of magic into the reader’s life.

Tiny Threads by Lilliam Rivera had me initially intrigued but ultimately left me frustrated. The novel follows Samara, who lands her dream job working for the infamous designer Antonio Mota in Vernon, California. But this is no sunny paradise – the city is permeated by a slaughterhouse “perfume,” with pig squeals piercing the night. Rivera’s premise of blending fashion industry drama with supernatural horror seemed promising, as Samara grapples with visions of a blood-soaked woman amidst her high-stress work environment. The ambiguity between Samara’s potential substance-induced hallucinations and genuine hauntings added an intriguing layer. Samara’s increasingly erratic behavior, while reflective of her circumstances, became challenging to connect with as the narrative progressed and even the supernatural elements felt hindered by the overall slow progression of the plot. The elements for a compelling story were present, but the execution didn’t quite bring them together in a way that held my interest throughout.

youthjuice by E.K. Sathue Extremely flat-on-the-page 29-year-old copywriter Sophia joins skincare company HEBE and gets tangled up with their miracle product “youthjuice.” Attempts to skewer beauty influencer culture and “clean girl” trends, but lacks the bite to say anything new. Sophia’s poorly conceived character and baffling motivations drag down the story. Another “American Psycho meets [insert trendy reference]” that falls short, but might work if you’re really into skincare-themed thrillers and don’t need your satire to be particularly sharp.

If Something Happens To Me by Alex Finlay was the sort of fast-paced summer beach reading (I don’t go to the beach but whatever) that kept me engaged from start to finish. The story follows Ryan, a law student still dealing with his high school girlfriend’s mysterious disappearance, and includes multiple perspectives, including that of a super likable rookie deputy in Kansas. Finlay weaves together complex plot threads that span continents and timelines at a clipped pace, so much so that while some coincidences in the plot seemed a bit far-fetched, the story’s momentum was enough to keep me invested. I appreciated Finlay’s ability to balance suspense with emotional depth, creating characters that felt believable. The intricate, surprising narrative would have kept me guessing until the end–except I had just literally read another book with a similar plot, so too bad, Alex Finlay, I figured it out!

The Madness by Dawn Kurtagich I really wanted to love Dawn Kurtagich’s The Madness, but it left me with mixed feelings. This reimagining of the Dracula tale blends Welsh folklore with a modern psychological thriller, which sounds great on paper. The story follows Mina, a psychiatrist dealing with her own demons while trying to help her mysteriously ill friend Lucy. I appreciated some of the fresh takes, like turning Quincy Morris into a lesbian cop, and Kurtagich’s vivid descriptions of the Welsh landscape definitely set a creepy mood. But as I read on, things got messy. The book dips into mental illness and human trafficking in ways that made me uncomfortable, feeling more like shock value than thoughtful exploration. While I liked the focus on strong women, many characters fell flat for me. The climax had me turning pages, but it zoomed by so fast I could barely keep up. In the end, “The Madness” bit off more than it could chew. It has some cool ideas, but doesn’t quite pull them together. I closed the book feeling more perplexed than satisfied, wishing it had lived up to its intriguing premise.

 Just Like Mother by Anne Heltzel I initially struggled with Just Like Mother, but I’m glad I persevered. The story centers on Maeve, a cult escapee who reunites with her cousin Andrea after years apart. Andrea, now a successful CEO of a fertility-focused tech startup called NewLife, quickly draws Maeve into her world. I found the contrast between Maeve’s modest life as an editor and Andrea’s wealth intriguing. The novel delves into themes of motherhood and trauma in ways I didn’t expect, particularly through Andrea’s unsettling “Olivia” dolls and her intense focus on parenthood. While some plot developments were predictable, the book’s exploration of societal expectations around motherhood kept me engaged. It wasn’t a perfect read, but it certainly exceeded my initial expectations.

Perfume & Pain by Anna Dorn was deeply, infuriatingly disappointing. The novel follows Astrid Dahl, a mid-list author living in Los Angeles, as she attempts to revive her career after being “lightly canceled.” Despite its premise of homaging 1950s lesbian pulp fiction, the book falls squarely into a subgenre of contemporary fiction I’m finding increasingly tiresome, filled with millennial ennui and malaise. Astrid’s romantic entanglements with Ivy, a grad student, and Penelope, her neighbor, felt more like distractions than compelling plot points…which is maybe the point? Ugh. Depressing. Even the potentially interesting storyline of an actress wanting to adapt Astrid’s previous novel for TV couldn’t salvage my interest. As a perfume enthusiast, I was particularly let down by the perfume references, which felt like scattered afterthoughts rather than integral elements of the story. While Dorn aimed for “unapologetically feminine yet ribald,” I found myself more frustrated than entertained by a story that seemed more interested in navel-gazing than genuine storytelling. And don’t get me wrong, I can get on board with navel-gazing but for god’s sake don’t be so gross and annoying about it.

Whoever You Are, Honey by Olivia Gatwood is a mesmerizing debut that blends elements of literary fiction with a tantalizing hint of sci-fi that never quite crystallizes into full-blown speculative fiction. Set in a gentrified Santa Cruz waterfront, the novel crafts a world that feels both familiar and slightly off-kilter and delves deep into the complexities of female relationships and identity in our hyper-connected world. The relationship between neighbors Mitty and Lena forms the core of the story, and in their burgeoning friendship, we examine desire, envy, and the personas we adopt to fit in. I found the story’s pacing somewhat challenging, as it doesn’t follow a typical plot-driven structure. The narrative takes on a dreamlike quality at times, particularly in its final act. This approach, however, aligns with the themes of memory and identity that Gatwood explores throughout the book. Whoever You Are, Honey prompted me to question the nature of authenticity in our digital age. I find myself frequently replaying the book’s final scenes in my mind, pondering their implications and the questions they raise. Even as I speculate about what might have truly transpired, I find I prefer the open-ended nature of the conclusion, allowing the story to continue evolving in my imagination these many months later.

In The Secret Lives Of Color by Kasia St. Clair explores 75 shades, detailing their historical, cultural, and artistic significance. The book covers a spectrum from lead white to pitch black, each color’s story packed with facts and anecdotes. St. Clair reveals how certain hues, like ultramarine blue and Tyrian purple, once rivaled gold in value and how others, such as radium green, had deadly consequences. Despite the potentially vibrant subject matter, I found parts of the book unexpectedly dry. Ironically, the chapters on black emerged as the most engaging, offering insights that truly caught my interest. While St. Clair’s research is undoubtedly meticulous, the overall execution left me wishing for a more consistently colorful and captivating. In a similar vein, The Universe in 100 Colors: Weird and Wondrous Colors from Science and Nature by Tyler Thrasher is being released tomorrow, and I have very high hopes for that one. I have previously interviewed Tyler, and there is no way that book is going to be dry and boring!

Annie Bot by Sierra Greer  Annie is a top-of-the-line, state-of-the-art robot designed to be the perfect girlfriend for her owner, Doug–but as Annie’s intelligence evolves, she begins to question her purpose and the nature of her relationship with Doug. Greer’s portrayal of Annie’s growing self-awareness is both fascinating and unsettling. The book delves into complex themes of autonomy, consent, and the nature of love in unequal power dynamics, and while I found this narrative engrossing, there were some scenes I found difficult to read, particularly given my past experiences with controlling, manipulative relationships. Doug’s behavior, right down to choosing and approving Annie’s outfits and clothing, was upsetting to me, even after all this time. Interestingly, I found Annie, a robot, to be the most likable character I’ve read in recent memory. This realization gave me pause – what does it say about the state of contemporary fiction, or perhaps about my own perceptions, that I connected most strongly with an artificial being?

Trainwreck: The Women We Love To Hate, Mock, and Fear…And Why by Jude Ellison Sady Doyle examines society’s fascination with women in crisis, analyzing figures from Mary Wollstonecraft to Britney Spears. Doyle explores how media and culture create and consume the “trainwreck” narrative, dissecting cases like Charlotte Brontë, Billie Holiday, and Amy Winehouse. The book draws connections between historical treatment of women like Sylvia Plath and contemporary figures such as Whitney Houston and Lindsay Lohan, revealing enduring patterns of public scrutiny and shame. I found Doyle’s analysis of these diverse cases particularly enlightening, challenging me to reconsider my own perceptions of these women and the narratives surrounding them. I previously read Doyle’s essays on monstrous feminine archetypes,  Dead Blondes and Bad Mothers, which was similarly illuminating and I’m pretty sure I’d recommend anything they’ve ever written. Also, did you know that BPAL created a perfume collection for this book?

Happiness Falls by Angie Kim portrays a biracial Korean-American family facing a father’s sudden disappearance, with the only witness being their son Eugene, who has Angelman syndrome and cannot speak. The story, narrated by 20-year-old Mia, moved me with its nuanced exploration of language and disability, prompting reflection on assumptions about communication and intelligence. While the mystery drives the plot, it’s Kim’s handling of complex family dynamics and philosophical questions that lingered with me long after finishing the book. Despite occasional pacing issues due to Mia’s detailed analyses, the depth this brought to the characters made for a thought-provoking read that I found myself turning over and over in my brain.

Bury Your Gays by Chuck Tingle is a compelling blend of Hollywood critique and supernatural thriller following Misha, a gay screenwriter out to his friends but not publicly, who’s grappling with industry pressure to kill off queer characters in his hit TV show. Tingle’s writing cleverly weaves Misha’s past and present, creating a layered exploration of integrity in the face of success. The story takes an intriguing turn when characters from Misha’s old horror scripts come to life, adding a thrilling dimension to the industry commentary. While the middle dragged a bit, Misha’s indomitable spirit kept me invested. I appreciated his unwavering optimism and determination to do things his way, fighting not just for what’s right, but for his vision and principles. Tingle’s combination of insider knowledge, LGBTQ+ representation issues, and supernatural elements makes for a unique read that, while it wasn’t my favorite read in the past few months… it was an ambitious novel that I thoroughly enjoyed in the moment.

Chlorine by Jade Song follows Ren Yu, a competitive swimmer whose obsession with becoming a mermaid drives her to extremes. The novel alternates between Ren’s intense pursuit of her aquatic ideal and her teammate Cathy’s unreciprocated love letters. Set against the backdrop of high-pressure competitive swimming, the book delves into Ren’s struggle with her human form and her desire to transcend it, touching on issues of body image and self-acceptance and exploring themes of identity, belonging, and transformation, While the premise might seem fantastical, Song grounds it in the very real pressures faced by young athletes–and even if you’re not sporty in any sense of the word, you will find yourself drawn in (sort of like how I was with Ted Lasso, even though I resisted for the longest time!)  The writing is immersive, capturing both the physicality of swimming and the mental state of someone increasingly detached from reality. This was probably the most unique take on coming-of-age stories I have ever read, blending elements of magical realism with an incisive look at the costs of pursuing perfection.

I Was a Teenage Slasher by Stephen Graham Jones might be my favorite book of his yet. Set in 1989 Lamesa, Texas, it follows Tolly Driver, a seventeen-year-old with more potential than motivation, who finds himself cursed to become a killer. Jones brilliantly captures the claustrophobia of small-town life, where everyone knows your business, and sets it against the backdrop of the slasher genre he clearly loves. What really got me was how Jones cleverly reimagines the standard slasher formula, telling the story from the killer’s perspective. I found myself, disturbingly, rooting for Tolly as he navigates this blood-soaked tragedy. The way Jones explores the unfairness of being an outsider through horror tropes is both clever and unsettling. It’s like a summer teen movie gone terribly, wonderfully wrong – and I couldn’t put it down.

Fruit of the Dead by Rachel Lyon Aimless, vulnerable camp counselor Cory falls into the orbit of charismatic pharma CEO Rolo Picazo in this summer thriller that, unbeknownst to me while reading (because I am an idiot, I guess), retells the Persephone myth. Lyon’s lush prose creates a hypnotic atmosphere as Cory navigates luxury, addiction, and power imbalances on Picazo’s private island. The dual perspectives of Cory and her mother Emer add depth, but sometimes slow the pacing. While I missed the mythological connection, the themes of consent and captivity are unmistakable, offering a scathing critique of modern power dynamics. Might appeal to readers who enjoy dark, sensual narratives, whether or not they catch the classical allusions.

Smothermoss by Alisa Alering Set in 1980s Appalachia, focuses on two sisters in an isolated mountain community. Sheila, the protagonist, is a complex character grappling with poverty, her identity, and an inexplicable supernatural burden. Her younger sister Angie has an uncanny connection to the mountain’s arcane elements. When a brutal murder occurs nearby, Sheila must confront both tangible dangers and mystical threats. The author creates a really atmospheric story that blends their harsh reality with dark, folkloric elements, weaving a tale that’s both grounded and eerily otherworldly.

Aesthetica by Allie Rowbottom follows a 35-year-old former Instagram influencer now working behind a cosmetic counter. On the eve of Aesthetica™, a high-risk surgery to reverse all her past plastic surgeries, she’s forced to confront her traumatic past when asked to expose her former manager/boyfriend. The novel jumps between her life as a 19-year-old Instagram celebrity and her present struggles, delving into the dark realities of social media fame, body image, as well as mother-daughter dynamics. Rowbottom’s writing seems deliberately and effectively ugly, stripping away the glossy veneer of influencer culture to reveal its grotesque underpinnings. I did not enjoy this and I am not sure I appreciated it, either. So many wellness/beauty industry/influencer books are being published right now! I think half of them are in this blog post!

Fruiting Bodies by Kathryn Harlan is a subtly disquieting collection of short stories that blends everyday situations with surreal elements, and the somewhat fantastical or slightly off-kilter.  The stories range from a tale of mushrooms growing on a woman’s body to an eerie exploration of childhood fears about a new family member. My favorites were “Algae Bloom,” “The Changeling,” and “Is This You?”, with “Fiddler, Fool, Pair” being the standout (it kinda reminded me of Elizabeth Hand’s short story “Near Zennor”.) (I liked “Near Zennor” so much, I made a playlist for it!) Harlan’s writing is vivid and evocative, creating an atmosphere that’s both familiar and slightly unsettling, and these stories are outstanding in the way that only a quietly shocking story can be. Not bombastic or gory, but the sort of thing that makes your heart gasp for air because, for a moment, your lungs forgot how to breathe.

The Dissonance by Shaun Hamill is a contemporary fantasy that brings together three former friends, Hal, Erin, and Athena, in their Texas hometown, where, as teenagers, they practiced a secret magic system which harnessed negative emotions. There’s also a fourth friend, Peter, who features prominently in flashbacks. Like Hamill’s previous work, this book has a lot of heart, and the world-building is immersive and satisfying. The story intertwines their adult struggles with a supernatural threat accidentally summoned by a teenager named Owen.  Hamill’s writing is immersive and character-driven, making the fantastical elements feel grounded in reality. While the magic system is intriguing, the premise that deeper trauma equates to greater magical potential made me reflect on the problematic assumption linking artistic genius and mental illness. Despite this, Hamill’s skillful world-building and exploration of themes like redemption and unresolved past trauma make for a compelling read.

Bird by Bird Annie Lamott is a treasure trove of wisdom that transcends its categorization as a book on writing, offering a raw, honest, and often hilarious look at the creative process. Lamott’s self-deprecating humor and personal anecdotes create a work that’s as entertaining as it is insightful. Her unflinching acknowledgment of the neuroses and setbacks that plague writers resonated deeply with me – not as a soothing balm, but as a weirdly addicting, pricklingly poison ivy for my spirit. I cannot count the times I cackled whilst reading this book; equally, I lost track of the number of times it moved me to tears.

Also: Writing is hard. I want to hear about how hard it is! One reviewer complained that Lamott made writing sound as painful as passing a kidney stone, and while he disagreed with that takeaway, I sure don’t. So I appreciate having that struggle, that difficulty, validated, even (especially) in snarky, petty, but also really encouraging and inspirational ways.

I underlined the hell out of this book. So much of this advice is good for not just for the writing life, but just…navigating life, itself. Here are a few things she said that I am still thinking about…
Her assertion that “being enough was going to have to be an inside job” hit me like a revelation, echoing my own recent struggles with seeking external validation, particularly through social media. This idea resonated with me as I continue to grapple with building my self-worth, rather than relying on likes or followers.

The author’s emphasis on giving from the deepest part of yourself, and finding reward in that act of giving itself, felt revolutionary in our often results-driven world. As Lamott puts it, “You have to give from the deepest part of yourself, and you are going to have to go on giving, and the giving is going to have to be its own reward.” Publishing and recognition doesn’t solve everything. In fact, it hardly solves anything. It’s a reminder that I need to focus more on the (painful) joy of creating itself, rather than constantly worrying about how my work will be received. But I’ll admit, I often find myself wondering what the point is of writing something if I’m not sharing it. It’s a tension I’m still grappling with – the pull between creating for its own sake and the desire for my words to be read and acknowledged.

This metaphor of writing as a ‘little lighthouse’ really struck a chord with me. It made me think about how my own writing might impact others in ways I can’t predict or even imagine. It’s a comforting thought when I’m struggling with self-doubt – that even if I can’t see it, my words might be illuminating a path for someone out there.

Finally, and maybe most of all, I love how the book’s title comes from Lamott’s childhood memory of her brother struggling with a bird-watching report. It’s become a sort of mantra for me when I’m facing overwhelming tasks, not just in writing but in life generally. ‘Bird by bird’ reminds me to take things one small step at a time. When I’m staring down a daunting project, I try to remember this approach – break it into tiny, manageable pieces. It doesn’t always work, but when it does, it helps me feel like I’m making progress instead of drowning in the enormity of it all. This, and the crappy little elf advice, are probably the most helpful writing suggestions I know. 

If you enjoy posts like these or if you have ever enjoyed or been inspired by something I have written, and you would like to support this blog, consider buying the author a coffee?

✥ comment

There’s a mesmerizing quality to Jerome Podwil’s book covers that arrests the eye and captivates the imagination. His artistry weaves an irresistible spell, whether depicting the shadowy corridors of gothic romance or the shimmering vistas of far-flung galaxies. Podwil possesses a rare gift: the ability to imbue his subjects with a depth and complexity that transcends the typical boundaries of cover illustration.

Gazing upon a Podwil heroine is akin to peering through a window into a fully realized world. These aren’t mere figments of fantasy, but women with hidden depths and untold stories etched into every line and shadow. Their eyes, rendered with exquisite care, seem to hold secrets just beyond the viewer’s grasp. Each expression is a masterclass in subtle storytelling, hinting at complex emotions and veiled motivations that leave you yearning to unravel their mysteries.

What truly sets Podwil’s work apart is his uncanny ability to marry this psychological depth with an ethereal beauty. His touch is delicate yet assured, creating faces that are at once soft and strong, vulnerable and resolute. The eyes, in particular, are windows not just to the soul of the character, but to entire worlds. They’ve an immersive, expansive quality draw you in so completely that you can almost feel yourself slipping into the character’s perspective, seeing their gothic mansions or starlit skies through their eyes.

Podwil’s affinity for, and fluency in, the gothic is evident in his work on classic tales like Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray or the Dark Shadows novel The Mystery of Collinwood. While these pieces may not be his most daring or groundbreaking creations, they resonate with the eerie charm of the genre. Podwil’s brush dances between light and shadow, conjuring an atmosphere thick with unspoken secrets and lurking supernatural presence. As I gaze at these covers, I’m struck by how effortlessly he distills the essence of gothic literature, that palpable sense of brooding atmosphere and latent supernatural menace, into visual form. These works, while honoring the classic status of their source material, bear the unmistakable mark of Podwil’s artistry – a testament to his ability to infuse even well-trodden paths with his unique vision.

But Podwil’s artistic prowess isn’t confined to the realm of the gothic. His science fiction covers reveal an equally deft touch, transporting viewers to cosmic vistas that feel at once alien and oddly familiar. Where other artists might assault the senses with harsh lines and chromium gleam, Podwil opts for a more nuanced approach. His extraterrestrial landscapes are rendered in muted jewel tones, creating worlds that feel less like cold, distant planets and more like half-remembered dreams.

It’s no wonder that Podwil’s name frequently surfaced during last year’s search for the artist behind the iconic A Wrinkle in Time cover art. While that particular piece wasn’t his work (it is Richard Bober!) the frequent attribution speaks volumes about Podwil’s reputation in the field. His sci-fi illustrations share that same sense of wonder and otherworldly beauty that many associate with classic young adult science fiction.

In Podwil’s hands, celestial bodies become precious gems suspended in the velvet backdrop of space. His galactic empresses and space vampires exude an otherworldly glamour, their alien nature conveyed through subtle, telling details rather than outlandish caricatures. Even his depictions of spaceships and stations possess a whimsical, almost organic quality, as if they’ve grown naturally from the stuff of stars rather than being wrought by future engineers.

Podwil’s approach to science fiction illustration offers a unique perspective in a genre often dominated by sleek, technological imagery. While his covers are rich with detail, they feel more like stumbling upon an ornate treasure chest than poring over a complicated NASA blueprint. Each element, from swirling nebulae to gleaming spacecraft, is rendered with exquisite care, inviting viewers to lose themselves in a galaxy of intricate particulars. This style captures the wonder of space exploration not through sterile precision, but through a sense of opulent mystery that beckons the imagination.

In an era when cover art often served as mere marketing, Podwil elevated it to an art form in its own right. His distinctive style, at once recognizable and ever-surprising, transforms each cover into a carefully composed overture. Layers of visual storytelling complement and expand upon the written word, enriching the reader’s journey from the moment they lay eyes on the book.

Jerome Podwil’s book covers visual feasts and not simply previews, but portals to worlds both familiar and fantastical. When I encounter a Podwil piece, I’m drawn into a narrative that begins long before the first page is turned.

To discover Podwil’s work is to unearth a hidden treasure trove of imagination. His dreamy, evocative style reminds us of the magic inherent in a single image. Whether beckoning us down a gothic mansion’s candlelit corridor or to a distant planet where crystalline spires rise under triple moons, Podwil’s art whispers of midnight revelations and stardust-streaked journeys. Each cover is an invitation to step through the looking glass, a promise of adventure that lingers long after the book is closed. In this artist’s capable hands, the humble book cover becomes a gateway to infinite possibilities, sparking our imagination and priming us for the wonders that await within the pages and beyond

✥ 3 comments

I probably should have written this intro before I even began this series on cover artists. Actually, it just occurred to me today that I have written so frequently about book cover artists that I should make a series about it. In fact, now is probably a good time to confess that there is zero foresight or planning or scheduling at all when it comes to these blog posts. I get an idea–I write about it–I hit publish. I don’t have a content calendar or a backlog of posts waiting in the wings. I barely even edit these things!

So let me take a moment to apologize properly for my characteristic lack of foresight. But better late than never, right? Classic Sarah, chronically putting the dramatic reveal before the proper setup. Either way, here we are at last…

There’s a peculiar magic in the way a book cover can beckon to you from across a dusty shop or on a quiet library shelf; its ensorcelling visual siren song ensnares your imagination before you’ve even cracked the spine or read the first page. My obsession with cover art is a many-splendored thing, and as a connoisseur of the gloriously over-the-top, I’ve long been enthralled by these gateways to other worlds, particularly those depicting gothic romances, psychedelic fantasies, and golden age sci-fi. These genres, with their unapologetic embrace of the dramatic and fantastical, speak to the part of me that still believes in mythical monsters and mystical creatures and all manner of ghosts and goblins and ghoulies.

I’ve waxed poetic about many a cover artist in these digital pages: Victor Kalin with his brooding heroines and looming castles, Ted Coconis and his fever dream color palettes, Laurence Schwinger’s mastery of shadow and light. I’ve swooned over Hector Garrido’s penchant for placing impossibly coiffed damsels in the most dire of circumstances, marveled at Ed Emshwiller’s ability to make even the most outlandish alien worlds seem plausible, and lost myself in the transcendent visions of Leo and Diane Dillon. But today we turn our gaze to an artist whose gothic romance covers are a veritable feast for the eyes: the inimitable Vic Prezio.

Before we dive into the delicious depths of Prezio’s gothic oeuvre, I feel compelled to acknowledge the elephant in the room – or perhaps more accurately, the scantily clad pin-up and problematic stereotypes in the room. Yes, Prezio is perhaps best known for his ‘men’s magazine’ art. To which I say: yawn and yikes. Let’s just draw a veil over that particular aspect of his career and instead lose ourselves in the fog-shrouded moors and candlelit corridors of his gothic imaginings.

Vic Prezio’s gothic romance covers are a masterclass in atmospheric tension. His heroines, invariably clad in diaphanous nightgowns that seem to exist in a perpetual state of windswept drama, navigate landscapes that are equal parts allure and menace. Crumbling mansions loom against stormy skies, their windows glowing with an eldritch light that promises secrets best left undiscovered.

But it’s in his depiction of landscapes that Prezio truly shines. His seaside scenes rival the most evocative marine paintings, with jagged cliffs and turbulent waters that echo the emotional storms of his characters. The grounds of his manor houses are studies in cultivated wildness, where manicured lawns give way to tangled woods with shadows deep enough to hide a multitude of secrets.

Prezio’s shadowed midnight streets evoke comparisons to the nocturnes of Whistler or the gaslit avenues of Atkinson Grimshaw. While perhaps not rivaling these masters in technical execution, Prezio captures their spirit, transforming ordinary urban scenes into stages for extraordinary encounters. Gas lamps cast pools of sickly yellow light, barely holding the encroaching fog at bay. Cobblestones gleam with recent rain, reflecting the moon in fractured shards of silver.

[Edit: A commenter inquired as to the provenance of the above artwork, and I think…I may have saved it in my Vic Prezio folder by accident. I am but a human person and I do make mistakes! It’s possible the artist is actually Darrell Greene, but I am not entirely sure about that. My first inclination is to be embarrassed about flagrantly misattributing something, but I guess at least it was just in a blog post and not a published book, ha! At any rate, who has time for embarrassment when there’s a new artist to learn about?! And a big thanks to Steve for catching the error, seriously–thank you. ]

His color palette is a thing of moody beauty. He favors rich, deep hues – midnight blues that seem to swallow light, forest greens that whisper of ancient, untamed wilderness, and crimsons that could be passion or peril, depending on how the light hits them. These dark tones are often punctuated by a single, startling splash of brightness – the heroine’s golden hair, a shaft of moonlight piercing the gloom, or the sickly yellow glow of a ghost light leading unwary travelers astray.

There’s a delicious absurdity to many of Prezio’s compositions, a quality that I find utterly irresistible. On one cover, a ghostly woman outside a crumbling wooden house bathed in a crimson sunset looks as if she’s experiencing a head-scratching, logic-defying transporter malfunction  – she appears to be morphing into a tree, her form blurring with the gnarled branches behind her.

Another cover features a negligee-clad woman transfixed by a zombified hand rising from a marsh. Despite the apparent danger, she’s at a comically safe distance, with ample time to turn and flee, yet she remains rooted to the spot in classic gothic heroine fashion.

In yet another, a woman sits at a bloody piano, looking coquettishly alarmed, as if she’s been interrupted mid-way through a flirty rendition of “Three Blind Mice.” Behind her, a menacing figure glowers from a mirror, creating a delightful juxtaposition of the mundane and the macabre. It’s as if Prezio delighted in pushing the boundaries of the genre, seeing just how far he could stretch credulity before it snapped like an overstretched piece of lacy elastic from a flimsy peignoir.

Yet, for all their melodramatic excess (or perhaps because of it?), there’s something undeniably compelling about these covers. They capture the essence of the gothic romance genre – that delicious frisson of fear and desire, the thrill of the unknown, the promise of passion lurking just beyond the veil of propriety.

In Prezio’s hands, these stock elements become something more than the sum of their parts. They become windows into worlds where every shadow holds a secret, and where what should be perceived as menace and danger becomes, to the right kind of connoisseur, a tantalizing promise. In Prezio’s gothic landscapes, threats don’t just lurk—they beckon, transforming the nightmare into a thrilling invitation to adventure.

At least for us, the readers, if not for the artfully terror-stricken lady on the cover.

So here’s to Vic Prezio, master of the gothic cover, weaver of visual tales that have likely caused many a reader to miss their bus stop, so engrossed were they in the promise of the pages within. May his heroines never run out of breath, may his manor houses never succumb to mundane building codes, and may we all find a little of that gothic magic in our everyday lives, with a luxurious abundance of billowing nightgowns.

Billow on, friends. Billow on.

✥ 4 comments

As a writer, blogger, and (most importantly) a voracious reader, I’ve long been beguiled by the weird, wonderful threads that stitch seemingly random experiences together. These uncanny echoes, what Carl Jung called synchronicities, are like tiny magic tricks the universe performs for the observant soul. They have been a constant companion in my literary journeys, often leaving me breathless with wonder and pondering the hidden mechanics of our universe.

A recent example, and the thing that actually inspired this blog post, happened just this morning. Within the span of five minutes, I encountered two strikingly similar instances in completely unrelated texts. In Calling a Wolf a Wolf, a book of poetry by Kaveh Akbar, I came across the line, “…hobble back to your hovel like a knight moving in Ls.” The vivid imagery of a chess piece’s movement stuck with me as I set the book aside. Moments later, I picked up Spiritus Mundi, an anthology by contemporary creatives inspired by occult writing prompts. There, in a description of a dream, I read of a bed “hovering, darting over the floor like a chess piece in L-shapes.”

The parallel was unmistakable – two distinct authors, in two entirely different contexts, conjuring the same unusual image of L-shaped movement. What are the odds? And yet, in the world of synchronicities, such occurrences seem to happen with surprising frequency.

These literary echoes aren’t confined to the realm of fiction and poetry. Often, they bridge the gap between the written word and our lived experiences. Just today, I found myself fretting and extremely agitated over the state of our lawn. With Ývan nursing a broken foot and all our attempts at finding temporary lawn maintenance services mysteriously unresponsive, I’ve been anxiously eyeing the growing grass, all too aware of our HOA’s stringent standards and all the judging eyes of the neighborhood.

To take my mind off it for a moment, I randomly opened The Sphinx and the Milky Way: Selections from the Journals of artist Charles Burchfield. To my astonishment, I found him lamenting the very same issue – the pressure to maintain a perfectly manicured lawn in a neighborhood of immaculate yards. He writes of cutting down bunches of weed, plants that he actually deems quite beautiful, “Back of it all was the custom of people to have neat flat lawns–our front yard was a “disgrace,” and, accordingly, I was out with my sickle.” Burchfield’s frustration penned almost 100 years ago in 1925, mirrored my own current predicament with uncanny accuracy.

These synchronicities, while fascinating, often leave us grasping for explanations. Are they merely coincidences, random alignments in the vast tapestry of human experience? Or do they point to something deeper, a hidden order in the universe that occasionally makes itself known through these moments of convergence?

Carl Jung believed these meaningful coincidences were evidence of an acausal connecting principle – a force that links events not through cause and effect, but through meaning and significance. He saw synchronicities as moments when the collective unconscious bubbles up into our conscious awareness, revealing connections that transcend our ordinary understanding of time and space. As a reader and writer, I find Jung’s perspective particularly compelling. Books, after all, are portals to the collective human experience. They allow us to tap into the thoughts, emotions, and observations of countless individuals across time and space. Perhaps it’s not so surprising, then, that as we immerse ourselves in this vast sea of human consciousness, we occasionally encounter currents that align with our own lives in startling ways.

But synchronicities aren’t just curiosities to be marveled at and forgotten. They can serve as powerful tools for self-reflection and personal growth. When we encounter these meaningful coincidences, they often highlight aspects of our lives or psyches that we might otherwise overlook.

For instance, the recurring chess knight imagery I encountered could be seen as an invitation to consider the non-linear paths we sometimes need to take in life. Just as the knight moves in unexpected L-shapes on the chessboard, perhaps there’s an area of my life where an unconventional approach might yield surprising results. Similarly, Burchfield’s lawn-related frustrations resonating with my own current situation might be prompting me to examine my relationship with societal expectations and the pressures of conformity. Am I, like Burchfield, chafing against norms that don’t align with my values or natural inclinations?

Synchronicities can also serve as creative sparks, igniting new ideas and connections in our minds. As a writer, I often find that these moments of convergence become seeds for new blog posts, essays, or poems. They invite us to explore the liminal spaces between different ideas, disciplines, and experiences, often leading to fresh insights and innovative thinking. Frequently, I’ll be working on a piece of writing and suddenly recall a perfect reference or idea that I’ve encountered in my reading. What’s remarkable is that these references often come from sources that seem entirely unrelated to my current work. Yet, they fit seamlessly into the piece I’m crafting, as if they were waiting to be discovered and used in this exact context.

An experience late last year perfectly encapsulates this phenomenon. While preparing for an interview with Adam Rowe about his book on 70s Sci-Fi Art, I was concurrently reading John Koenig’s Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows – a work that, while not directly related to science fiction, explores otherworldly notions and ineffable experiences.

In Koenig’s book, I encountered the concept of “Astrophe” – the feeling of being irrevocably tethered to Earth while longing for the stars, that bittersweet mix of dreaming of other worlds and being constantly pulled back to earthly reality. This concept, emerging from a book ostensibly unrelated to my interview preparation, provided the perfect springboard for a question to Rowe:

“Is there a particular sci-fi artwork you revel in or an artist you admire whose art is so bold and striking that somewhere in your mind, it permanently yanks you right out of Earth’s orbit, perhaps quells that Astrophic yearning?”

This question, born from the collision of Koenig’s philosophical musings and Rowe’s exploration of science fiction art, bridges two seemingly disparate worlds. It invites a deeper reflection on the power of visual art to transport us beyond our earthly confines, even if only in our imagination.

Of course, it’s important to maintain a balanced perspective when it comes to the stuff of synchronicity. While they can be meaningful and insightful, it’s all too easy to fall into the trap of seeing significance in every coincidence. This can lead to magical thinking and a disconnection from reality. The key, I believe, is to remain open to these experiences without becoming obsessed with them or reading too much into every chance alignment.

Cultivating an awareness of synchronicities isn’t some magical talent – it’s a skill we can hone over time. I recall an early exercise in my high school AP English class that, while not synchronicity in the strictest sense, helped attune me to these literary coincidences. Our teacher encouraged us to note down on index cards any instances where we encountered our vocabulary words outside of class. The very evening after this assignment was given, I heard the word ‘surreptitious’ used in a rerun of Roseanne! It was either that or The Simpsons –in any case, it was an unexpected find. This exercise trained me to be more aware of the connections between my academic reading and the wider world.

As readers, we can cultivate a mindset that’s receptive to synchronicities without actively seeking them out. This involves maintaining a wide-ranging reading habit, exposing ourselves to diverse perspectives and ideas. It also means staying present and mindful as we read, allowing ourselves to fully engage with the text and notice connections that might otherwise slip by unnoticed.

Keeping a reading journal can be an excellent way to track and reflect on these synchronistic experiences. By noting down striking passages, recurring themes, or moments when a text seems to speak directly to our current circumstances, we create a record of these meaningful coincidences. Over time, patterns may emerge, offering deeper insights into our own psyches and the themes that resonate most strongly with us.

In my own practice, I’ve found that sharing these synchronicities – whether through public blog posts, private journaling, or conversations with fellow readers– can amplify their impact. Not only does this allow us to gain new perspectives on these experiences, but it also creates a sense of connection with others who have had similar encounters. There’s something deeply affirming about realizing that you’re not alone in experiencing these uncanny moments of convergence, and as we navigate the complex web of our lives, with all its challenges, joys, and mysteries, synchronicities serve as gentle reminders of the interconnectedness of all things. They whisper to us of hidden patterns and unseen connections, inviting us to look beyond the surface of our everyday experiences.

In reflecting on literary synchronicities, I realize that what truly captivates me is not just the phenomenon itself, but the magnetic pull it exerts on my curiosity and imagination. These uncanny convergences of text and life, of disparate books echoing each other across time and space, have held me spellbound for years. Perhaps it’s the thrill of discovery, the feeling of being let in on a cosmic secret each time I stumble upon a meaningful coincidence. Or maybe it’s the way these synchronicities transform the solitary act of reading into something more expansive, connecting me to a vast web of ideas and experiences that extends far beyond the pages in my hands.

There’s a comfort, too, in sensing an underlying order to the seemingly chaotic flow of life and literature. Each synchronicity feels like a gentle reassurance that my voracious reading habit is more than just a personal indulgence – it’s a way of attuning myself to the hidden rhythms of the universe. In exploring these literary convergences, I’m really excavating my own psyche, uncovering the deep-seated need to find meaning and connection in the world around me. And in sharing these experiences, I invite others to join me in this wonder, to see their own reading lives through this lens of magical possibility. After all, isn’t that shared sense of awe and discovery what draws us to literature in the first place?

The decision to pair this introspection on literary synchronicities with the artwork of Remedios Varo feels like a synchronicity in itself – a perfect convergence of text and image that speaks to the mysterious interconnectedness that so captivates me. Varo’s surrealist paintings, with their dreamlike quality and intricate, often impossible machines, beautifully capture the essence of what draws me to these meaningful coincidences. Her works often depict figures engaged in arcane pursuits, surrounded by swirling energies and cosmic symbolism, mirroring how I, as a reader, find myself caught in the eddies of unexpected connections.

The way Varo blends the mundane with the magical – ordinary rooms opening onto vast, starry voids, or domestic objects revealing hidden, otherworldly purposes – echoes my own experiences of finding profound links between everyday reading and life. Her recurring motifs of threads, webs, and intricate patterns visually represent the invisible links that I’m constantly seeking and discovering. In Varo’s world, as in my world of synchronicity-attuned reading, reality is permeable, full of hidden doorways and unexpected connections. Her art reminds me why I’m so drawn to these literary convergences: they reveal that beneath the surface of our ordinary lives lies a realm of wonder and mystery, waiting to be discovered by those with eyes to see. Just as Varo’s paintings invite viewers into a world where the impossible becomes possible, my fascination with literary synchronicities stems from a desire to uncover the magical in the mundane, to find meaning and connection in the vast tapestry of words and experiences that surround us.

So the next time you encounter an uncanny parallel between your books and your life, or between two seemingly unrelated texts, pause for a moment. Savor the shiver of recognition, the sense of wonder that washes over you. Reflect on what this convergence might be highlighting in your life, what invitation it might be extending. And then, by all means, keep reading. For in the vast library of human experience, who knows what synchronicity might be waiting for you on the next page?

✥ 2 comments

It’s a July morning, a weekday at 7 am, and I’m curled up on the sofa with my coffee, lost in the pages of a book.  (Future me: I added the above image a month later. Sorry to be confusing.) The house is quiet, save for the gentle hum of the AC. I don’t have to work today – it’s the 4th of July, and my office is closed. I’m lingering leisurely, savoring the rare luxury of unhurried time, yet I presently find myself here at my desk anyway, in this familiar routine.

Today’s book is Stephen King’s If It Bleeds (not pictured above; it’s a digital version), and as I read, my mind wandered. I can’t help but notice how his writing feels increasingly tinged with a sort of nostalgic melancholia. It makes me think of when I first read IT, published in 1986, though I probably devoured it in 1987 when I was eleven. In my memory, that’s when I read everything. Back then, the kids in his books felt like real kids to me. They had outrageously horrifying adventures, of course, but their words and thoughts weren’t always dripping with reflections and portents.. were they? O…r were they? I was only a kid, too. Perhaps I didn’t observe or internalize that vibe; perhaps I couldn’t have recognized it even if I had.

I found myself glancing up from my book, taking in my surroundings. Here I am, a middle-aged person, reading on a comfortable (and not inexpensive) sofa. Morning light stipples through the lace curtains of the house I now own outright. The AC blows on my sockless feet, chilling me even in midsummer – it’s very robust; we just had a lot of duct work done! This dawn-light ritual has become so vital to my day, a cocoon of comfort I’ve carefully crafted.

But as I sit here, I can’t help feeling it doesn’t quite measure up to those vivid memories of my eleventh year. I can still see myself, a chubby preteen growing out of my clothes, sprawled on a vinyl chaise lounge on our dusty screened porch. Hour after sticky hour, I’d sit there, plowing through stacks of lurid paperbacks. Sweat trickling down my back, thighs peeling off the seat when I shifted. I’d gulp down endless icy cups of Crystal Light (the horrid red kind, probably full of now-banned dyes). It was gross and uncomfortable, and yet… I loved it fiercely. When I think back on my childhood, it’s these humid afternoons of feverish reading that stand out as some kind of high point. The kind you can’t recreate, no matter how hard you try.

I’m feeling pretty maudlin lately, and I can’t pin it all on Stephen King. I keep asking myself: as much as I enjoy my cozy morning reads, why don’t they ever quite match up to those sweaty summer afternoons? Is it because at eleven, my whole life stretched out ahead of me, full of unknowns? While now, I feel like I’ve already lived the bulk of it?

Which is ridiculous, right? I’m not even 50. There’s still plenty of road ahead.

I find myself hopeful that every phase of life has its own peculiar charm? Yes, childhood had its magic, but adulthood has its own wonders, too. The ability to create a space that nurtures my passions, the depth of understanding I bring to my reading now, the quiet satisfaction of a life built on my own terms – these are not small things. There’s something to be said for this life I’ve pieced together. It’s not nothing, is it?

I wonder if instead of trying to relive that childhood intensity, I could find a way to tap into that openness, that hunger for stories, right here in my present. There are still worlds to explore, both in these pages and beyond them.
Those memories of reading marathons in muggy, mosquito-filled Florida summers – they’re part of me. But I don’t want to get lost in them. Maybe they can serve as a reminder of why I fell in love with books in the first place. What if I could bring some of that raw enthusiasm to my reading now? What strange new territories might I stumble into? What might I learn about myself in the process?

Who’s to say the most vivid moments are all in the past? (Notice I didn’t say “the best moments,” ha! Not over here trying to say I ever had any glory days.) There could be something waiting in the next chapter, or in a random Thursday morning like this one. This might just be the pinnacle of joy I’ll be nostalgic for decades from now.

✥ 5 comments