Published on December 4, 2024 by Catapult.

I am a self-professed specialist when it comes to “weird-woman lit.” I love when women are strange, creepy, and plain off-putting. It describes the authentic experience of being a woman in an increasingly stupid and malicious world in a metaphorically honest, if not literal, way. Needless to say, Ella Baxter’s sophomore novel Woo Woo was very up my alley.

The story follows Sabine, a self-described “artist” getting ready for the debut of her photography-cum-performance-art exhibition with the help of her husband and social circle of other professed “artists.” As her exhibition date gets closer, Sabine becomes untethered from reality and descends further and further into her world of art, performance, and all the trappings that come with it in our age of social media personas, celebrity culture, and late-stage capitalism. Using absurdism, surrealism, and dark humor, Baxter looks at what it means to be a woman, to be an artist, and to be famous when the whole world has access to you every moment of every day.

The title was apt: This novel was, above all, deeply weird. I don’t mean weird in the increasingly commercial way co-opted by big-box publishers. I truly mean weird. Sabine is strange, her relationships with her husband and friends are strange, the art she creates is strange, and her view of the world is strange. I appreciate Baxter’s commitment to bizarreness in her images, language, character development, and dialogue. This is evident from the first chapters of the novel—Sabine live streams herself messily eating fruits on her kitchen floor in complete silence. Seeking a source of comfort, she lays directly on top of her husband in bed, head-to-head and toe-to-toe, listening to him breathe. Her exhibition consists entirely of self-portraits where she is hanging off bridges by her arms, wearing mesh costumes and masks of her own manufacture. These costumes range from “witch” to “baby,” and she refers to them as her “puppets.” The pinnacle of this being the final appearance of the “Rembrandt Man”— Sabine donning animal bones and driving him out of her home is not an image easily forgotten.

Again, this book isn’t weird for the sake of being weird, it has purpose. That purpose being Baxter’s desire to explore themes of womanhood and feminism, kunstlerroman, and the increasingly dire social conditions in which one creates art in a deeply unsubtle, incredibly memorable, and sometimes oddly poignant way. Though it might take a while, the absurdism did, by-and-large, have weight behind it.

I am of two minds when it comes to this novel’s approach as a kunstlerroman. I appreciate its bluntness of existence as the story makes no effort to hide the fact it is “art about art.” Right away, it’s clear every chapter is titled after a different piece of art, whether it be a performance piece, song, or film. The most obvious allusion I noticed was a fictionalized version of the painter Carolee Schneeman that appears as a hallucination-slash-fairy godmother to Sabine. Schneeman’s appearance highlights how Woo Woo is up front about the fact most literature, art, and theater in our current age is a pastiche of what already exists but rethought and reinterpreted.

However, on the other hand, I was a bit concerned about allusions to artworks becoming too derivative. Towards the end, the story felt weighed down by its own cultured-ness. The referenced art nearly eclipses the story itself. If you are constantly bringing up Marina Abramović and Meat Joy it is a bit inevitable your artistic creation is going to be compared to such works. But perhaps that was the point. Maybe the purpose was to make Sabine seem small compared to the performance-art titans of Schneeman and Abramovic. Maybe the point was to highlight the limits of the novel form in comparison to mediums like visual art and performance. It did give me a bone to chew on, even if I found that it didn’t quite work all the time. 

Most of my criticisms range closer to questions. My biggest question being whether Woo Woo was intended to be satirical. At first, I thought it was—the dinner party scene, in my mind, all but confirmed it. The overwhelming amount of red wine and the bizarre and abstract way Sabine’s friends converse with one another felt like a parody of the interdisciplinary-artist types who only drink artisanal, locally-made liquor and try to hide that their parents have Wikipedia pages. But, the boot of dramatic irony never came down. In spots, it felt completely earnest. Sometimes Sabine live streams herself eating a pomegranate slowly, or rolling around on the floor, and the story moves right along as if it is as thoughtless as doing the laundry. But again, maybe that’s the point. Maybe it is an exercise on purpose—Sabine’s artist-cum-influencer persona is meant to be earnest and ironic in equal measure and, in turn, confusing. 

Perhaps my biggest point of contention with this book is Sabine’s husband, Constantine. Why is he so tolerant of Sabine’s madness? I struggle to see why Constantine sticks with her. At one point, she turns up at the restaurant where he is the Executive Chef, orders massive amounts of food, causes a scene because he doesn’t come out to visit her, and leaves without eating anything. Following this episode, he returns home to her covered in animal bones, slopping around in rotten food from the fridge. Why would he put up with this? For a while, I became convinced Constantine was a figment of Sabine’s imagination, and I am still kicking the idea around. We do not see enough of the build up of their relationship, or really much of their relationship at all, to justify the lack of conflict between them given Sabine’s behavior. Again, maybe he is that great of a guy, and that is the point. Perhaps he is a figment of her imagination. But I didn’t see enough of him to say.

Woo Woo is fascinating and experimental. It’s clever, bizarre, and incredibly memorable. I enjoyed how experimental Baxter was and, for the most part, her efforts paid off. However, there were times Woo Woo wandered so far into “weird” I got a bit confused about how I was meant to interpret the story. That is not to say I didn’t enjoy it all the way through—I got a bit lost at some points, but I enjoyed the journey. It’s certainly a worthwhile read if you’re interested in visual and performance art, social commentary, and surrealism. Overall, Woo Woo is not a book easily forgotten. 

*SPOILER ALERT* This review contains plot details of The Vengeance.

This title will be released on March 6, 2025 by Solaris.

Morgane’s short life hasn’t been an easy one—she grew up on the sea, leading a violent, dangerous life as the daughter of Captain Anna-Marie, the ferocious captain of The Vengeance. However, after Anna-Marie is mortally wounded during a rage-fueled attack on a Four Chains Trading Company vessel, she confesses this was not the life Morgane should have had as she is not truly her mother. What’s more, the captain of the Four Chains Trading Company vessel was contracted not only to slay Anna-Marie but return Morgane to her wealthy and powerful birth family.

Morgane isn’t the only one in need of rescuing, however. Upon finding a letter from her birth mother on the trading company vessel, Morgane learns her birth mother may be facing some danger of her own, even from within the apparent safety of her castle. Author Emma Newman takes readers on a frantic journey through 18^th century France and all its haunting decadence as Morgane desperately tries to reconcile conflicting internal feelings about the mother she’s known all her life, while trying to save the one she was stolen from.

Those feelings are a central element of this novel’s overarching theme: confronting and overcoming generational trauma. While readers only know Anna-Marie for a short time, it’s immediately understood she is deeply affected by an experience she had with Morgane’s father in the past. This experience impacts her in a profound way and shapes who she is as a person—she can be coldly angry, distant, and abusive at times towards Morgane. These emotional issues have a major impact on how Morgane sees Anna-Marie, which she acknowledges internally but cannot voice aloud: “That was what she remembered most about the woman who wasn’t her mother: the constant anger just beneath the surface.” However, beneath her hard exterior is a woman in emotional turmoil, still reeling from a betrayal twenty years earlier. Anna-Marie’s coldness is a defense mechanism—something built up to protect herself from future betrayals. Morgane recognizes this but still carries a level of resentment towards her for it. This is further complicated once she learns Anna-Marie is not her biological mother.

Throughout the novel, Morgane carries a similar coldness. On one hand, this can partially be explained by her circumstances: She is alone in a strange country and surrounded by social conventions that feel stifling, especially compared to the previous looseness of her life at sea. On the other hand, her behavior is reflective of Anna-Marie’s coldness. Despite conflicting feelings over how to view Anna-Marie, it’s obvious she inherited many traits from her, from the anger she expresses when she feels vulnerable to the hatred and mistrust she expresses towards her father once they are reunited. Newman illustrates this theme expertly through the conflicts Morgane’s defensiveness creates, even among the few allies she makes in France. Readers will finish scenes feeling just as furious and frustrated at Morgane as she is towards herself—a familiar feeling for anyone working through their own generational trauma. Watching her start to overcome some of that trauma and allow herself to be vulnerable with characters like Lisette was one of the strongest parts of this novel.

Speaking of Lisette, Newman does a great job depicting a strong relationship between her and Morgane. One of the most enjoyable aspects of The Vengeance was watching the initial animosity between the two bloom into tentative friendship, and then romance. Both are thrust into a dangerous situation and must learn to lean on each other throughout the novel; Morgane must trust Lisette to safely guide her through France and its unfamiliar customs, while Lisette must trust Morgane to protect her from the terrifying new enemies that emerge during their quest to rescue Morgane’s birth mother. I particularly loved the quiet moments in their relationship, such as the scenes at the inns they stay at along the way where Lisette takes the time to teach Morgane how to read. This gap in knowledge is something Morgane is embarrassed of but doesn’t know how to fix on her own. These scenes were a great demonstration of her character’s vulnerability and Lisette’s endless patience. They are great foils for each other throughout the novel.

The romance, overall, is one that plays out naturally once it develops. However, the initial transition between romance and friendship feels a little rushed—it happens suddenly and lacks the slower build-up of their friendship I enjoyed earlier in the novel. For example, their first kiss occurs suddenly and without much build-up. Prior to that moment, neither of them expressed much interest in each other romantically. After that scene, their relationship grows much more naturally. Slowing down the transition from friendship to romance would provide more time to develop and explore Morgane’s reactions as, prior to this point, she’s never had a serious relationship and grew up watching Anna-Marie discard lovers quickly. It’s a small thing, but one that could add another layer of nuance to the relationship and the secondhand understanding of romance Morgane learned from Anna-Marie.

I also would have liked to see the fantastical elements of the novel expanded upon earlier. About half-way through The Vengeance, Morgane and Lisette encounter a creature that is clearly supernatural. They acknowledge this, but then the supernatural aspect of the plot does not return until the end of the novel. Though the series is called The Vampires of Dumas, that element of the plot is given very little time on the page. Rather, the novel leans more towards the historical fiction genre—a different direction than marketed.

Overall, Newman’s prose is fast-paced and approachable, making it work well in the high stakes action scenes throughout The Vengeance. This novel is perfect for young adult readers looking for a fun, spooky-at-times romp around 18^th century France with a pirate on a mission to save the mother she has never known.

How did the concept for “Sayir” come to fruition?  

I ran across a writing contest from Jerry Jazz Musician. I saw the contest as an opportunity to write about something other entrants probably wouldn’t be covering, but I had more than enough enthusiasm to go on about: the joy of entering a new world of music.

The concept of the story came paired with the title. In Arabic music, one way the different modes are defined in a taqsim is by the melodic path they follow called the sayir. It might be an ascending mode where the melody starts from the bottom and climbs to the top, or a descending mode that starts high up but falls down to a lower resting spot. Sammy’s solo follows a musical sayir, but it also tells his own sayir on his journey from his past to the present.

“Sayir” incorporates a lot of Arabic music traditions, such as the taqsim. What drew you to write about Arabic music? Did you have any specific songs in mind when you described the narrator’s reaction to the music?

I’ve been a student of Arabic and other folk music genres for a couple decades, and I play a lot of traditional instruments from those regions, including the Oud. I love the improvisational, never-the-same-song-twice quality to the genre and the anti-pop appeal when a song builds connections across multiple generations. The taqsim are especially a joy to get lost in. It takes the stress of memorization or recollection away from playing and lets you enjoy each moment of playing or listening. Even just generally, I like studying musical traditions and theories different from ones I’ve heard my whole life.

The story’s casual restaurant gig was based on typical suite arrangements, usually a mix of classical, folk, and standards, separated by those taqsim solos to tie it together. I thought a lot about concert recordings of the singer Sabah Fakhri later in his career and the amazing power still in his voice. I could hear Sammy singing Fakhri’s versions of songs like Al Arasiyya or Fog Al Nakhel in my head, but I also thought of Hamza Al Din’s very tender recording of Lamma Bada Yata Thanna on the oud, which is the 10-beat song mentioned in the story.

In “Sayir,” the narrator and Sammy discuss how music can communicate a story. As a musician and composer, have you ever found the stories you write influence the stories in your music, or vice versa?

Only on a broad philosophical level so far. For instance, one of the seeds of this story came from the way playing a taqsim solo has been explained to me in the past, that it tells a story. I don’t think they meant a literal narrative, like I tried to do here, but as a metaphor for pacing and how you manage the energy and flow, how you arrive at an end, etc. I think the metaphor works going the other way too. Writing benefits if you play with your pacing and flow like a musician, changing your tempos and moods at just the right spots in just the right order to land your audience right where you want them emotionally.

Sammy uses music to tell a story within your story. Was this an intentional element you included or is it something that appeared as you drafted?

I had the conceptual idea when I started writing that there could be a parallel set of life events revealed to correspond to the modulating twists and turns of the solo, but I didn’t know the specifics until I really got rolling. I was a bit afraid to tell too much of the story in Sammy’s words. Writing characters outside of your own experience or background is one thing, but I’m also hyper aware of how a clumsy attempt at it in this situation could come across as cultural appropriation or stereotyping. I’m still crossing my fingers I did a good enough job to respectfully represent the culture and the craft.

What book are you most looking forward to reading in 2025 and why?

I have a stack of books on my nightstand I’m not even close to getting through, so it all depends on which one I grab next. In between lots of little poetry chapbooks and collections, the next “big” book I’ll probably read is an anthology I got into that comes out later this month. It’s sometimes a confidence booster to read them and think, “They thought I was as good as these? Wow!” After that, the next read might be a book on super-niche Greek music, or possibly another of Randall Munroe’s “What If?” books. Or maybe George Martin will finally finish the next Ice and Fire book and save me from learning something! Or my wife will convince me to read more Tolkien.

The publishing process at times can feel more daunting than the writing itself. What was that process like for you and what advice would you give to aspiring authors?         

I always feel a little weird giving any kind of advice on this field because I’m actually not super successful at it myself. I get rejection letters WAY more than acceptances and I still get depressed by it every time. So, I can at least pass on the advice I’d always received: get used to rejection. Try not to think of it as a roll of the dice you just keep losing, but that there’s a place out there for each piece and you just haven’t found the right home for it yet. Also, some practical advice: keep track of everything you send out and where/when you sent it. It helps enormously to see if you’ve already sent one to a “no more than 1 entry per period” publisher, or when accepted you now need to cancel your entry of that work everywhere else. Use a spreadsheet or be mindful of how you organize your files to track it.

Midowed: A Mother’s Grief explores parenthood, grief, organ donation, and unexpected love—when did you know you wanted to turn your experience into a memoir? Was writing a therapeutic experience or challenging at times to be close to something so emotional?

I started journaling almost as soon as I’d returned from the hospital after Dan died. I couldn’t believe what had happened and I knew I was in danger of forgetting. As a lone parent of an only child, there was no one else to share the burden of remembering. The idea of having no record of this universe-altering period was terrifying. At that point it certainly didn’t feel therapeutic, more an act of necessity. A few months later, I wanted to create a memento of Dan’s wonderful life. Once I began writing with that intention, it became more therapeutic, spending time with my Dan memories and carefully considering how best to represent him. What I wrote became the memoir.

Your book takes advantage of two timelines: navigating the year after Dan’s death and Dan’s childhood. How did you find the balance between these two headspaces and timelines?

I wrote them separately at first. I was journaling my daily life without any editorial thought at that stage. I created a Birthday Book for Dan, completed each November. It contained a photo of him on his birthday, and notes about his favorite things and notable events—friends, books, toys, holidays, etc. It was something I’d intended to complete up to him being eighteen. Well, that wasn’t possible, but it gave me instant access to the worlds he’d inhabited each year. I turned the notes into rounded tales and deepened those with reference to my old social media posts too. It was only a year and a half after losing Dan that I properly began to look at my timeline and to revisit those dark days. I knew I needed to blend the two so the reader had time to breathe between my raw pain of immediate loss and the gentler reflections on Dan’s childhood.

Midowed brings hope into the narrative through organ donation—it definitely had me welling up at times—what more would you want readers to know about Dan’s organ donation?

Dan’s organ donation legacy continues. It gave me hope then and it still does. I’m in touch with two of the recipients. Knowing they have a positive effect on the lives of their friends and family thanks to Dan’s gifts fills me with joy. Each year in the UK, only 1 percent of people die in the kind of circumstances that permit organ donation, so it’s rare and special. I’d say please let your loved ones know your wishes so if that set of circumstances arises, they can enact your wishes with certainty, because there’ll be plenty else to think about. Every country has slightly different rules about organ donation, so it’s worth having a google to see how you can best register your intent.

In the book, you briefly explore Dan’s ADHD diagnosis. How impactful was that experience on the two of you?

Dan was such a bouncy kid! People would marvel at his energy and enthusiasm and then look at me and asked how I coped. I knew he was hyperactive, but I also knew how to manage it with good food, strong routines, lots of sleep. Outside of school, it was never really a problem, Dan was bright, lively, fun. But school was so tough for Dan. Not intellectually, but in conforming to the long periods of sitting still and doing tasks he found unstimulating. I was more resistant to him being labeled, but Dan absolutely owned who he was and wanted to find ways to make school better for himself.

Midowed was published with Zsa Zsa Publishing, an independent UK publisher. Tell us more about what your publishing journey was like.

When I’d written Midowed to a point where I thought it was a solid story, I started writing to agents, but I was mostly ghosted, with the very rare, “not right for us.” Once I’d worked my way through the entire Writers and Artists Yearbook, I booked a fifteen-minute slot with an agent via Jericho Writers. She confirmed, “the pitch is good, the writing is good, but you have no platform/celebrity and are not commercially appealing.” Writer friends advised investigating indie publishers, so I sent out letters. Really quickly Zsa Zsa came back and said they were interested. I met with them in August 2023 and Midowed was published in April 2024. From zero to super speed! Indie publishing is quick, and you develop a close relationship with every aspect of the process. What you don’t have is distribution, so getting the book onto shelves is much harder, and not something I’ve achieved yet.

You’ve recently started a podcast, Bereaved Parents’ Club, creating a space to celebrate family stories and support other grieving parents. How important is a resource like this for fellow parents?

It’s really valuable. There are many organizations for bereaved parents all with leaflets and online/face-to-face support groups. But I didn’t want leaflets and I find groups overwhelming. So, for me, a podcast is a way to share stories and information in a digital space. I wanted to give voice to everyone in “the club no one wants to belong to” and offer a way for people to find out about support they might not otherwise have known about.

What future writing projects are on your horizons?

I’m currently plotting a folk-horror novel, which will give me the chance to revel in writing the macabre. And I have another memoir in mind about growing up in the alternative 80s. That should be lots of fun to write and will allow me to revisit my memories of my parents, who are also no longer alive. A romp through my childhood and teen years awaits.

What book(s) do you want people to be aware of this coming year and why?

I can’t wait to read Kate Atkinson’s new Jackson Brodie novel for some lip-smacking literary crime satisfaction. Malcolm Gladwell’s Revenge of the Tipping Point will be a fascinating exploration of how epidemics and “viral” stories thrive in our modern world. Why Can’t I Just Enjoy Things?: A Comedian’s Guide to Autism by Pierre Novellie looks insightful too. Cathy Rentzenbrink has Ordinary Time coming out soon—I love her nonfiction and am excited to try her fiction. For any aspiring memoir writers out there, I recommend Cathy’s book Write it All Down. I wish I’d read it before I wrote mine!

*SPOILER ALERT* This review contains plot details of Coup de Grace.

Published on October 1, 2024 by Titan Books.

Have you ever drawn your skin across the edge of something sharp, felt the sting of flesh splitting, the gentle tug as a thousand epithelial cells part? It doesn’t quite hurt, it feels nearly inconsequential—but then the blood comes, heady and fast, the shock of so much red from such a tiny cut. This is how it feels to read Sofia Ajram’s Coup de Grace, this is how it flays you open—with a whisper of silver, and a flood of vulnerability.

Vicken, a soul-tired EMT and our main protagonist, is prepared to escape this dismal existence. Undeterred by his love for the softest parts of life, he plans to fling himself into the Saint Lawrence River and sink into blissful oblivion. But this is not to be. Disembarking from the subway and onto the platform of his last stop, Vicken instead finds an endlessly winding maze, determined to keep him trapped within. Wander as he may, there is no end to these gray-washed walls and buzzing fluorescents, to the towering cathedrals and corridors built as monuments to commercialism and obsolescence. He begins to suspect his summoning to this place was no accident, that something terrifying within the labyrinth is toying with him.

Coup de Grace does not shy from centering itself around horror and the despair of suicidality. From the book’s summary, you’re prepared to read about the labyrinthine, brutalist nightmare of the maze Vicken is trapped in. You are prepared to understand it as a supernatural metaphor for depression and anxiety. What blindsides you is the excruciating intimacy of the narrative, and the way it lovingly peels away your defenses and makes you greet the darkest version of yourself. The way it requires an act of condemnation or salvation from its reader at its close—towards Vicken, and, consequently, towards the self.

The first way in which Ajram wields this narrative to pry you open is through language. He has a magnificent mastery of words, and every one of them is chosen with a precision that never fails to pierce your carefully constructed defenses. This is not a book you can engage with passively, it requires your attention, your imagination, your intelligence, your honesty. You must masticate the message and the words used to tell it. Have your dictionary open—anatomy, medicine, architecture, mythology—there is meaning in every reference and metaphor. The prose is its own entity, hypnotizing and soothing like a drugged haze, an ill-advised lust, the voice of a seductive, intrusive idea. Dive into the river. Take the pills. Just give in. 

This mastery of language also enhances the horror. Sensorimotor OCD is a condition that makes you hyperaware of your body: the heartbeat in your ears, the floaters in your eyes, the spit in your mouth. Just so, Ajram does not let you or Vicken forget the burden of existing in a cage of flesh. The descriptions of his suffering are disturbing and deviant, calling forth disgust and terror as the physical form ages, breaks down, betrays. Vicken’s mind cannibalizes itself, ruminating endlessly on his slow destruction. The deepest moments of terror are not the nightmares lurking in the endless gray corridors, but what the protagonist carries within. The twisting tunnels of this labyrinth are in his body; the labyrinth is in his mind.

Here, Ajram cuts into you again, with the pain of recognition, with their ability to convey visceral human emotion. This internal labyrinth is that carousel of rage, apathy, overwhelm you have spun on since you could comprehend injustice. It is the black humor of despair and exhaustion, the kind you can only understand after you’ve come to the edge and nearly fallen from its precipice. Vicken’s mind/body screams: THIS IS YOUR BEING ON LATE-STAGE CAPITALISM, and we understand, because we are living the same nightmare. He bleeds concrete and silt because homogeneity and hopelessness have seeped into him. He wanders the nightmare of replicated, repeated, subway corridors, featureless and unremarkable, and is ground down by the curated nothingness of our ersatz society. In desperation, Vicken debates himself on philosophical bullshit that has haunted humanity since its inception: purpose, love, peace, the point of living, whether hope is hopeful, or simply another noose to hang yourself with—and finds no solutions. There is a comfort in his despair, in tasting this flavor of self-destructive longing. A familiarity that threatens to return you to the bad days.

But Ajram has a final knife to throw, trembling and deadly, towards their soft, pulpy target. When Vicken first speaks to us, it is a poignantly jarring moment. You’ve become so accustomed to the misery of his thoughts, the shambling, dragging weight of his body, that it is startling to realize you and he are not one in the same. You are a witness, the book seems to say, you are all he has. And there’s comfort in that, too. The company you provide him, the kind you wished for in your own labyrinth. Until Ajram rips that comfort away and puts Vicken’s fate in your hands.

The final stretch of Coup de Grace allows you to choose Vicken’s ending—and shouldn’t you have expected that? It’s in the name. Coup de grâce: death blow, finishing shot, mercy killing of animal that lays bleeding. And so, you are no longer a witness. You are complicit. You look at this animal lying bleeding and you are forced to consider: what would I want someone to decide for me? It’s not so easy as putting the dog to sleep: You have a nearly unbearable sympathy for this man. You know Vicken, you have grieved with him, you have experienced his fears and his longings and his impossible hope. You were him, once. Perhaps you are him now.

I won’t tell you what I chose for Vicken, or what, by extension, I chose for myself. But I hope the ending I gave us shows I understood the message implicit in Ajram’s masterful words. There is horror in life, yes. There is misery, always. But there is also art. Deification of the ugliest of commercialism, elevation of the human condition, romanticization of the simplest pleasures. And that is enough to live for, on the days you are lost in the labyrinth. Ajram’s voice is so shameless, so vivacious, so unabashedly clairvoyant, that these lessons never feel like a sermon, a minimization of the misery the book explores. You know Ajram has lain on the subway tracks, waded knee-deep in the river, stood on the precipice, right alongside you. So, even at its darkest, Coup de Grace is a paean to beauty that tempts you to live.