Unquiet
Things

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?