Six More Books I loved in 2023

Maame by Jessica George: Maddie is the daughter of Ghanaian immigrants living with and caring for her disabled father in their London home. Her mother has left her to it, sometimes for over a year at a time, so that she can take care of family business back in Ghana. Maame is the story of Maddie learning to stand up for herself and claim the life she wants—as soon as she figures out what it is. It is occasionally hilarious, often heartbreaking.

Family Meal by Bryan Washington: This is a tough read. Cam’s partner Kai is killed in a way that is maddening and horrible, but since you don’t find out for a while exactly what happened, I’ll leave it at that. The story of Cam’s spiral into grief and rage and self-destruction is visceral and raw. But once he nadirs out, his trajectory is toward healing— it just takes awhile to get there. Well worth hanging in there. The writing is true, and there is no higher compliment if you ask me. Check for trigger warnings, because there are some difficult moments.

We Could Be So Good by Cat Sebastian: Nick Russo has been a city reporter at a big NYC newspaper for several years when the publisher’s son Andy stumbles into the newsroom looking to gain experience before he has to take over when his father retires. What follows is a sweet and thoughtful story of two men figuring out how to be together in a world where even holding hands in public could land them in jail. Set in the 1950s, We Could be So Good felt as much like a window into the times as a romance, although the romance is beautifully done. Thoroughly enjoyed it.

Seven Days In June by Tia Williams:  Eva Mercy and Shane Hall spent a crazy week together during their senior year in high school. They were both in trouble, but their connection seemed to be a safe harbor in the midst of their individual traumas. The week ended badly, and they haven’t seen each other since. But they both became writers, and the books they write are a sort of conversation across the years. 

When they end up (mostly accidentally) at the same writers’ panel years later, a million emotions bubble up. Across another crazy week, they have to decide if they want to try again. In spite of being white and considerably older, I really identified with Eva/Genevieve, maybe because I also suffer from intermittent chronic migraines (not as debilitating as hers, but bad enough). The ending is excellent, and how often can you say that? (not often enough).

The Bandit Queens by Parini Shroff: Five years ago, Geeta’s husband disappeared without a trace. In the conservative, rural town where she lives in northern India, a woman with no husband or family is a disgrace, and rumors are swirling that she killed him. She’s lonely, but she’s figured out a way to support herself and has resigned herself to her life.

Until one night an acquaintance shows up wanting Geeta’s help with murdering her abusive husband, since Geeta “already knows what to do.” Then she discovers her former best friend might not be as uncaring as she seems. From there, complications multiply. It’s part Thelma and Louise, part My Sister the Serial Killer, part Xena Warrior Princess, occasionally hilarious, occasionally darkly ironic, occasionally black revenge comedy. It’s the kind of thing that’s super hard to do without turning it into either a farce or a bloodbath, but Shroff handles it so skillfullly, it’s hard to believe it’s a debut novel. Loved it.

Witch King by Martha Wells: Kaiisteron, Demon Prince of the Fourth House of the underearth, comes blearily awake to realize he has no idea where he is or what happened to him. His body has been held in stasis for almost a year in an underwater coffin. He has only minutes to figure out how to respond, save an innocent victim, and rescue his friend Ziede. And that’s just the first ten pages. There is some humor, but mostly this is a deeply heartfelt story of Kai and his devoted friends figuring out how to respond to oppression, betrayal, and grief. There is magic, but it is sometimes dark and desperate.

It is also almost too complex. I felt like Kai at the beginning, trying to get my bearings as I was thrown in at the deep end with little help. When I was twenty, I would have had no trouble with it—and I’m pretty sure I would have thought this was the best book I’d ever read (at the time, that dubious honor was held by the Thomas Covenant books). I still loved it but I had to read it twice to really understand what happened. There is a lot going on across two different time lines, and Wells resists the temptation to info dump—which takes far more work on the part of the author. And the reader, for that matter. Highly recommended if you enjoy complex world-building and a loyal band of friends fighting impossible odds. I went back and forth between the ebook version and the audio version, and the narrator is great. Plunge in, because it’s a great story.

Next week I will move on, promise. Other posts in this series:
2023 Reading Roundup
Six Books I Loved in 2023

Six Books I Loved in 2023

These are not in any particular order. There aren't many surprises, I think I just loved what everyone loved.

The Light Pirate by Lily Brooks-Dalton: Some climate dystopias strike me more as an exercise in paranoia than as realistic. But this one is so entirely plausible and believable— especially in the first half— that I occasionally had to remind myself when I wasn’t reading that the events hadn’t actually happened. It’s mesmerizing, and the characters felt real and like people I know. It’s deeply disturbing, and yet there are threads of hope throughout in the form of people who learn and grow and adapt. There’s also a bit of magical realism, but not enough to pull it into the realm of fantasy. 

The Mutual Friend by Carter Bays: A group of interconnected people in NYC come and go, crisscross and connect and don't, come into focus and fade away. It's brilliant and I loved it. I don't know that I can do a better job of describing it than the blurb does, but I will say that it builds slowly--not boringly, but slowly-- for the first half or so, and then all that careful character building begins to pay off. There are also a bunch of literary allusions for the lit nerds among us but you don't need to know anything about them to love this. 

Saturday Night at the Lakeside Supper Club by J Ryan Stradal:  Stradal's newest novel tells the story of several generations of women whose lives become intertwined with a local restaurant in Northern Minnesota. Betty leaves an abusive home situation and takes her daughter Florence on the road from one precarious situation to another, until she runs into Floyd, who owns the titular supper club. Florence grows up to become a human wrecking ball, creating havoc in one life after another in her desperate search for security. Her daughter Mariel grows up and falls in love with the heir of an enormous chain of restaurants that seems to exist to put supper clubs out of business. I was enthralled. It trails off a bit at the end, but I loved it.

The Last Ranger by Peter Heller:  Ren Hopper is a ranger in Yellowstone National Park. He lives alone in a cabin, a few yards away from another cabin where wildlife biologist Hilly lives. Shortly after the book opens, he finds Hilly near death, almost certainly due to the actions of a particular poacher. Ren is recovering from the death or loss of almost everyone he loves, so parts of this book are deeply sad. There is a bit of suspense as Ren tries to figure out exactly what happened and who is to blame, but mostly this is just the story of Ren, trying to figure out how to make it through the day, and then the next. Another one that falls off a bit toward the end, but I loved this book.

Shark Heart: A Love Story by Emily Habeck: George and Wren met almost by accident, but they are immediately attracted to one another. Not long after they marry, George begins to exhibit strange symptoms. They discover that he has a rare disorder that will result in his mutation into a great white shark. The premise is so bizarre that if Shark Heart hadn't come so highly recommended, I would never have believed it could work.

But it does, and it is a story of rare beauty and courage. It's hard not to compare it to Franz Kafka's 1915 novella Metamorphosis, about a young man who wakes up to find out he's turned into a giant insect. But in spite of all the parallels, the resulting story is entirely different. Kafka's story is famous for its bizarre depiction of alienation and despair, but while Habeck ignores none of the pain and suffering of George's transformation, she turns George and Wren's story into one of beauty, courage, and hope.

Tom Lake by Ann Patchett: Lara is in her late fifties and her three adult daughters have come home to spend lockdown at the family cherry farm in northern Michigan. The first half is practically an empty nester fantasy- all your kids are home, getting along, working together, and hanging on your every word as you tell the story of the summer you spent having an affair with a man who would become the world’s most recognizable star. But summer flings (and cherry harvest season) eventually come to an end, and not always gracefully— the ending of that long ago summer comes back into focus and things turn a little dark. The final reveals are sad and somewhat difficult to read, but it's beautifully done-- a tour de force by an author at the top of her game. I liked it better than The Dutch House, but I think I'm in the minority there.

Entirely by accident, I read these last two books (Shark Heart and Tom Lake) immediately after one another. Both books have characters who are deeply involved in a production of Thornton Wilder's classic play Our Town, which was first performed in 1938. I've never seen it, but I ordered a copy of it after reading these two novels and it is great (of course) and makes a thought-provoking reading experience together with the two novels. Made me wish I was still teaching so we could discuss.

Six more next week. Let me know if you have any recommendations!

2023 reading round-up part one

This is the first of three posts on what I read in 2023 (I know. But reading is my thing, so apologies in advance, because three posts is probably two (three?) more than you want.) This one is about what I read, then the next two will actually list the books. I'm going to try doing the lists this year with a shortened version of the reviews I posted on Goodreads, which makes for a longer post, which is why I split it in two. 

I am all in favor of everyone reading whatever the heck they want, so I have zero intent to change your mind about what to read. But if you know how our tastes compare, then you can figure out if a book I like might be a book you will like. So, with that in mind:

What works for me: character-driven novels as long as something is happening; plot-driven novels as long as the characters are well-developed and memorable. It's not easy to make me laugh while reading, so when an author can do that, I love it. I often enjoy books that have a mystery element, but I'm only good for a handful of actual "mysteries" a year. I love some books that leave me in tears, but not many. And I especially love a book that surprises me with how good it is, which is not much help in figuring out my taste, I know. I love smart characters, competent characters, or on the other hand, characters that start out in a bad place but then learn and grow.

What doesn't work for me: horror, suspense, or anything that's going to interfere with my sleep. My main time to read is right before bed, so I don't want to read anything that's going to keep me up with dread, anxiety, or scary-ness. (That said, for my entire life I've stayed up too late on countless nights reading books I couldn't put down. I just don't want it to be because they are scary or horrifying.) I don't mind if Everything Is Awful at various different points in a story, but I don't like books whose main message is that Everything Is Awful, even if the writing is gorgeous. I do not like books that other readers describe as leaving them wrecked, sobbing on the floor with my soul torn in two. I'm just too old for that.

I was an English major in college, and I loved it. Then I went straight from undergrad into grad school to get a Master's in English, but I bailed, because I was so burned out on school. I hated grad school the first time I tried. But unlike people who get tired of reading when they have to study it in school, reading was never the problem. It was school that was the problem, not reading. I have gone through periods where I was uninterested in reading certain types of books, but I don't think I've had a day that I didn't read since I was in about second grade. 

Then I went back to grad school when I was 49 and that time, I finished and got my Master's. I wrote about a bazillion posts about that while it was happening so I'll skip over that. Unfortunately, the second time ruined me for bad writing. I used to be able to read anything. Now it has to have a certain level of good writing or I can't get through it. I know I'm supposed to be a snob about that (and I am), but I also regret it. It's much harder to find books that I love now.

The other thing grad school did for me is use up whatever patience I once had for existentialism. It's been the gold standard of academic posturing for the past sixty years and I have no use for it. If you're sincere about it, it'll make you suicidal, and if you're not sincere about it, it's just a pose. No thank you. Human existence is inherently meaningful, and inherently worth experiencing. You don't need to believe in God to believe that. So there.

Whoa. Where did that soap box come from? So anyway. If you're out of patience with existentialism, that eliminates upwards of half of "serious" literary fiction from the past couple of decades, so I've been on the wrong side of intelligent opinions for awhile now. Which makes me kind of defiantly determined to read whatever the fuck I want, you know? So I read romance novels, science fiction, memoir, and all kinds of literary fiction, and if you tell me that we need a "women's fiction" category because it's not as intellectually sophisticated as so-called literary fiction, you and I have nothing in common, go away. And lucky for me, I'm not the only one who is getting tired of existentialism, so there's a lot more good literary fiction out there than there used to be. (Good as defined by me, that is.)

As I've said before, I keep track of my reading on Goodreads (click here). According to them, I read 98 books this year, but they count books that I shelve as "skimmed," which I don't, so really I read 86 books this year, a good amount. I'm happy with it. Mainly fiction, maybe a dozen non-fiction. The non-fiction was mostly memoir except for Sharon Salzberg's book Faith, which is excellent, even though it didn't make the top-twelve list I'll get to next time I post. 

Sorry about all the grumpy opinions today. I feel like I didn't cover everything I meant to, but it's 11pm on Thursday night and I don't want to miss posting on Friday the very first week after I said I was going to start, so that is all. It's well below zero here right now (possible explanation for the grumpiness), I hope you are warm and have a stack of good books, wherever you are. 

Post from the past:  Last year's reading wrap-up

thoughts on blogging in 2024

I wrote this last spring when I was waffling about whether or not to keep posting here. Then over the summer, I decided I was done. But I miss it. I always do, and so one of my new year's changes is to start posting again. Probably not often. I'm aiming for once a week, on Fridays.

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When I started blogging a million years ago (2003), the online world was not the center of popular culture the way it is now. Those of us who set up personal blogs early on were just a bunch of nerds having fun. Social media didn't even exist. 

It never occurred to me that by keeping a blog, people would think I was setting myself up as an expert or (god forbid) an influencer. I mean, why would I? I'm barely passable in any area where influencers excel (fashion, makeup, home decor, cooking). Other than reading a lot and thinking too much, I have few talents.

It was months after I wrote the "Makeup and Me" post back in 2015 that I figured out that some people thought I meant to give advice about makeup. It was so absurd, I was speechless-- who in the world would take advice from me about makeup? I wear as little as I can get away with. I thought I was making fun of myself, and also I thought more of my readers would be smiling along with me (which turned out not to be the case)(more about that another time).

In my mind, this blog has been about providing sometimes-snarky, sometimes-heartfelt commentary from the cheap seats, so to speak. But that doesn't seem to be possible anymore. I don't know. I'm trying to figure this out as I type. 

Based on the feedback I've been getting recently, if you express an opinion in a blog or a substack or on social media, people assume you are setting yourself up as someone who wants to be an example, listened to, noticed. Apparently it doesn't have to do with intent, it's just the way social media works these days. It feels like people are either looking for someone to follow, or someone to tear down. There doesn't seem to be any room for wiseass, hey-what-about-this-interesting-thing commentary.

Of course at various times I've hoped that by posting here, I would find like-minded people, especially years ago when I was writing intensively about recovering from evangelicalism. Or maybe I could find other people who enjoy complex, non-nihilistic literary fiction but have a soft spot for genre fiction with smart, competent female characters.

(ok maybe that's a good example-- I type that thinking I'm poking fun at my absurd zenn diagram of reading tastes, but maybe it comes across as me thinking that is an admirable goal for all readers. I don't know.) 

I do post my opinions about books I've read and movies I've seen, and of course I'd love it if you agree with me, but I'm not expecting it. Maybe even when we disagree, my opinions will help you figure out what you like. It's like listening to my favorite book podcast. By my estimate, Anne and I have about a 60% overlap of books we like, and of those, there's maybe a 30% overlap on books we love. The rest we'd probably disagree on. But I can listen to her and usually figure out whether or not I'll like something she's recommending because I've been listening long enough that I have a pretty good idea of how our tastes compare. 

I've also written posts that I thought might give you a different way to think about things, or even change your mind, but I never thought anyone would actually listen to me. It's like the way I give advice to my kids-- I can't stop myself from doing it, but most of the time they ignore me (as they should, they're 33 and 26). I post almost entirely for selfish reasons. I like writing. I like the way it clears my head. I like the way it forces me to figure out what I think. And writing for a blog forces me to think harder than scrawling in a journal (although sometimes I do that, too).

After all, if I truly meant to set myself up as an influencer, I would do some self-promotion-- and I have not. I have posted a link to this blog on social media exactly twice in the past dozen or more years. Three times if you count the time I posted it to a private group on FB. The link is in my profile on all of my social media accounts, but that requires someone clicking on my profile, first of all, and then being curious enough to click on the link. I'm hardly forcing anyone to read it. 

Obviously the criticism I've received struck a chord, probably far deeper than people intended. (In fact, it was only said to my face twice--once explicitly, once implied. And then there are frequent comments online in general terms that are unrelated to me, but which I neurotically take personally. My response is, uh, clearly way out of proportion.) "I like doing it" is pretty much the only reason I have to keep going, and theoretically, that's the only reason that matters. But in reality, it's hard to keep going when people are telling you that by continuing on, you're suffering from delusions of grandeur. And yet here I am.