*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.

Published on September 24, 2024 by June Road Press.

I wasn’t sure what to expect when I started Songs for the Land-Bound, but I certainly didn’t anticipate connecting so deeply to this poetry collection. In her debut, Violeta Garcia-Mendoza constructs a portrait of life the way she experiences it. In this collection, she explores the ambivalence of joy and anxiety through nature, family, and all modern life has to offer.

Through many of the poems, we discover what family means to Garcia-Mendoza, along with the many definitions of family she juggles. The past and present occasionally blur as the poet reflects on her own parents and childhood while considering her current situation as a parent. One poem, titled “A Dozen New Collective Nouns for Fathers,” expands on this theme in a wonderful and thought-evoking way by giving fathers names such as “a stable a stumble a stubble/an ambition.”

Although I am not a mother like Garcia-Mendoza, I see myself in poems that touch on being a woman poet with responsibilities. Yes, I want to say to her poems, I get it. I’ve been there. Many a day, I have found myself in front of the sink, elbow-deep in dishes, wondering if I’ll ever amount to anything, as in “Instructions for the At-Home Poet.” I’ve been the one shutting doors around the house when expecting visitors, because, really, I’m not about to put effort into cleaning the laundry room to be conceived as presentable, as Garcia-Mendoza phrases more skillfully in “Housekeeping Secrets.” “In the past sixty minutes,” Garcia-Mendoza writes, “the mother-poet/has not written a dozen lines.” Yes. Yes, to writing about the self-doubt and monotonous chores that otherwise might be brushed off or even looked down upon. Invisible burdens like these are not always taken seriously or discussed so to read great poetry that reveal and revel in these moments feels validating.

Nature is another important theme in this collection. It is intricately interlaced with other topics and subjects, and appears, in some way, in nearly every poem. Even in a poem about type 1 diabetes, nature is weaved in beautifully: “Let the pancreas’s beta cells pinecone//and crumble. Chronic the clouds. Let the blood/sugar fluctuate a flock of blackbirds.” As a suburban wildlife photographer and someone who finds comfort and awe in the natural world, Garcia-Mendoza pays close attention to flora and fauna in her work. She also gives a lot of respect to the animals she writes about. In “Frog Song,” which she dedicates to the resilience of frogs, she writes “Never mind the mud, the pondweed;/don’t apologize. Propel yourself/mouth-first into your appetites—//your every move a swish, your every cell a song swell.”

In a very human way, Garcia-Mendoza is anxious in this collection. Anxious about not being enough of a poet, mother, or wife, about the unstoppable rush of time, and that unexplained, hanging dread, among everything else there is to worry about. When she puts the baby to bed, “instead of sleeping:/set up a Google alert for how to survive a flood/and let your phone mislead you all the way/to Venice, acqua alta and a headline you misread/as A Survivor’s Guide.”  But the poems do not steep in the anxiety or ignore it. Instead, there is a natural push and pull between the anxiety that comes with living, and the undeniable joy of it. As she writes, “you can’t resist/a little still life lit with grief & wonder.” Garcia-Mendoza manages to achieve an imperfect and human balance between the two without falling into one or the other.

I also loved the honesty of modern-day living in Songs for the Land-Bound. The poem, “Lockdown Minecraft” about Garcia-Mendoza son’s Minecraft village is an excellent example of this. The poem reveals a truth about the small, everyday things we do without thinking. “My son builds himself a fortress, hunkers down, forgets/the days. He asks: How strong is concrete versus clay?/What we all want to know: what barriers will keep us safe.”  Her choice to confront these modern phenomena is something admirable. It feels important because poetry is meant to refashion the way we see the world, yet we don’t often find the larger digital world we interact with represented in poetry.

The use of images in Garcia-Mendoza’s poetry is something else I keep coming back to. Many of her poems host surprising, beautiful visuals that I want to shut my eyes and imagine when I stumble upon them. Who wouldn’t linger when told about a “ghost stitch sewn/illuminant over the scar,” or take a moment to fully believe “the body is a mansion meant for pacing,” or want to listen to the “dose/of ocean moving through these woods.” Her clever use of language and construction of imagery will encourage you to listen attentively, because you don’t want to miss any of it.

Though the collection is divided into six sections, with each portion focusing on a few different subjects or themes, it does not feel at all divided. The poems work cohesively together, and the major themes and ideas of the collection carry from beginning to end. Keeping this in mind, it’s worth noting the first section doesn’t stand out as much as the others. Although it functions well as an introduction, the wandering of the poems isn’t quite as effective since there isn’t any immediate connection between the individual poems. Once we move on from the section, that feeling fades away. Since the other sections allow us to learn more about who the poet is and what her life feels like with added context to some of the recurring themes and narratives, this understanding deepens as we read on. Garcia-Mendoza’s Songs for the Land-Bound was a treat to read. It covers a wide lens of subjects and themes but manages to feel concise and deliberate in the stories it tells. Nature, family, and modern life, and the anxiety and joy they stir up, take the main stage in this collection, but subtler themes complicate and broaden the reach of the poems. This is an incredible debut that poetry-lovers should be on the lookout for.

*SPOILER ALERT* This review contains plot details of Hombrecito.

This title was published on June 25, 2024 by Riverhead Books.

Hombrecito is a beautifully written debut fiction novel by Santiago Jose Sanchez that captures the essence of coming of age and explores the multifaceted nature of being queer. Illustrating the complexity of human connection from familial to romantic relationships, the novel follows Santiago as he journeys through various worlds in search of his identity. This journey is centered around displacement after his mother brought him and his brother to Miami from Colombia as children. In this novel, Sanchez captures the good, the bad, the beautiful, and the ugly in a way that forces readers to question what identity means in an intersectional setting.

A perfect example of coming of age, Hombrecito encapsulates the main character’s journey of self. I enjoyed how Sanchez laid out a story where the protagonist grows and experiences new chapters of his life. Santiago’s adolescence is dependent on maintaining his relationship with his family. But, as he matures, this focus changes and his identity becomes dependent on different things like his relationship with men, his home country, and himself. In each section of the novel, we witness a different side of Santiago. At the start, Santiago is a young, scared child trying his best to acclimate to the US on his own. During this section, we see him become more curious about himself and his sexuality. We come to understand the struggles he has with himself and the dark inner workings of his mind. And we watch him go from a shy little boy into somebody willing to seek answers in his own way, learning from mistakes but also understanding what it means to drown in them. This added complexity further builds out Santiago’s intersectionality in the world. It allowed me to care about his journey, and I found myself rooting for him the entire time, wishing him the best, being proud of his accomplishments, and feeling his sadness.

Sanchez also did a great job capturing the immigrant experience and how the connection to one’s homeland can be complicated, often influenced by exterior and interior factors. I was drawn to Hombrecito because it spoke to my own identity and experiences. I, like many others, want to see myself represented in the novels that I read. As someone with many immigrant relatives, including my own father, the various struggles Sanchez writes about like moving to the US at a young age, having a parent who is constantly working, and struggling to learn English, realistically reflects the life of an immigrant. As a result, most of Santiago’s journey centers around the grief he feels about leaving Colombia. With grace, Sanchez discussed what it’s like to feel detached from one’s culture and constantly look to fill that void without resorting to stereotypes or overused tropes. I appreciated how Sanchez discussed the back and forth feeling of not being American enough or Colombian enough. The experiences were authentic and honest and elevated the story.

Without spoiling too much, I loved the ending of Hombrecito. It connected the themes discussed throughout the novel for Santiago’s story to come full circle, but now ending in his mother’s perspective. We see his mother come to terms with who she is, highlighting her immigrant experience, especially as a single, working mother. This ending helped redeem her character and allows readers to create their own impression of her rather than base it entirely on Santiago’s perspective. It showed how any person, at any point, can experience their own coming of age as she attempts to come to her own understanding of who Santiago is. In particular, the ending explores acceptance, growth, regret, and all the beautiful, ugly things that make humans so complicated.

Despite all this, I do wish there were more in-depth moments that explored Santiago’s relationship with his family. The beginning and ending highlighted these relationships, but it felt like conversations were missing or readers weren’t being provided enough context. In the beginning, Hombrecito explores about the complicated relationship Santiago had with his mother and brother, but the building tension wasn’t enough. For example, the transition to Santiago’s eventual no contact with his family could have been more intentional and built-out. I hoped to read more about the conflict that led to Santigo’s decision of no contact, specifically with his brother. That lack of expansion made it feel like Sanchez was rushing through moments that could add further depth.

Additionally, Santiago’s relationship with his father also wasn’t explored enough. When it was discussed, the information about their relationship was haphazardly thrown in without consideration of how it flowed within the story. I would have preferred to see some of those moments happening in real-time rather than presented as quick background information. When conversation did occur between them there wasn’t enough context for me to feel invested in the mending of their relationship. The conversations with his father and his mother, at times, felt underwhelming and I was left desiring more.

Another underwhelming element of Hombrecito was Santiago’s coming out. This novel centers around Santiago’s sexuality and his defiance to social and cultural norms. Since family also plays a big role in the novel it would have been powerful to read how he came out to his parents. This is another example of an important moment thrown in as added context rather than a moment that should have stood on its own. This coming-out scene also would have been a great place to touch on Santiago’s intersectionality as a queer person of color. From experience, many Latinx households often have difficulty accepting queerness and can oftentimes invalidate this aspect of one’s identity.

Despite those elements, Sanchez defies the odd and plays with the emotional heartstrings of readers in this debut. They capture the essence of being human and what it means to be lost and trying to find something solid to grasp. It handles the complicated nature of family and how blood ties people together for life, for better or worse.

*SPOILER ALERT* This review contains plot details of What It’s Like In Words.

This title will be released on December 3, 2025 by Henry Holt & Co.

I finished Eliza Moss’s debut novel, What It’s Like in Words, on the same day I realized I needed to break up with my situationship. They were sweet, sexy, and spoiled me rotten, and I had to fight against every dysfunctional people-pleasing instinct in my body to even identify I wanted to leave them. But being afraid to leave–or of being left–is not the same thing as wanting to stick around. 

This is familiar emotional territory for the novel’s main character, Enola, on both sides of the equation. What It’s Like in Words explores the murky waters of love, self-doubt, manipulation, and abuse as Enola struggles to finish her novel while navigating her anonymous boyfriend’s turbulent temper. A couple’s trip to Kenya begins to unravel Enola’s long-held narratives about her own life as childhood memories resurface, making it more difficult than ever to maintain the fragile illusion of being the Cool Girl. Enola is forced to confront what happened to her father many years ago, finally facing all she has inherited from her past and gaining the strength to carve a new path. 

What It’s Like in Words fills the void left when Phoebe Waller Bridge said “no” to Fleabag Season 3–Enola is unlucky in love, low on self-worth, and full of feminist guilt. She works at a cafe in London, formerly with her best friend named Ruth–or “Roo” to Fleabag’s “Boo.” The similarities are no accident–Moss lists Fleabag as the first comptitle in the book description. 

Where Fleabag toys with the fourth wall by addressing the camera directly, Moss employs a similar method of unreliable narration, occasionally pulling back and rewriting details of the scene as if Enola had remembered them wrong. As Enola represses and curates pieces of herself, her memories are subject to alteration. The “real” scenes are often less picturesque than Enola’s first attempt at relaying the memory. The novel employs a braided narrative, switching between the past and the present day, and many scenes feel intentionally distanced; quotation marks are omitted, giving conversations a glaze of ambiguity, open to reader interpretation. These Fleabaggian nods to the audience give Moss the opportunity to play with the unreliable narrator, but they disappear for most of the middle of the book and rarely go all the way–except for a shocking split timeline near the end of the novel. 

While they share a sort of British familial frigidness, what sets this novel apart from Fleabag is its unsparing portrayal of emotional abuse. The efficiency with which the boyfriend twists innocent comments, volleys justified criticisms, and escalates minor inconveniences left me feeling as vulnerable to his manipulations as Enola. His narcissism is unpleasantly visceral, from his constant negging to his spite at the success of other writers, and I found myself wanting to argue with this fictional man. In that sense, the novel succeeded by subjecting readers to the emotional erosion of gaslighting. Enola’s self-doubt, amplified by the novel’s ambiguous style of narration, leave a vacuum of certainty that this master manipulator is more than eager to fill. 

While Enola is a relatable and sympathetic narrator, there is nothing good about her anonymous boyfriend to justify her frenzied love for him. From his introduction, he is spewing insults, negging Enola, and dropping red flags like breadcrumbs. Aside from Enola telling readers he is sexy and funny, there’s not much evidence to endear readers to him or lend credibility to her obsession with him. He starts out pretty darn awful and only gets worse. In a culture rife with victim-blaming, it’s hard to write about the senselessness of emotional abuse without making the victim seem senseless herself, for still going home with the guy holding the bright red “Abuser” sign–not to mention, all of her best friend’s unheeded warnings. The first inklings of his abusive nature could have been woven into the story with more subtlety, so that readers initially resonate with Enola’s love for him.

The anonymous boyfriend overshadows Enola’s second partner in the novel, a lawyer named Virinder–the “nice guy” to his “bad boy.” While Virinder is sweet, doting, and capable of making Enola orgasm, there’s nuance to his style of entitlement and manipulation. Moss takes her time to render both men as flawed, nuanced characters rather than archetypes. However, the “bad boy” gets disproportionately more attention, and Virinder’s storyline feels slightly truncated by the novel’s multiple timelines.

Interestingly, What It’s Like in Words takes place against the backdrop of the 2016 United States presidential election cycle, despite being a story that revolves around Londoners. Echoes of Trump’s campaign and various misogynistic scandals are peppered throughout the book while Enola contorts herself to appease mediocre men. Sexism, of all the -isms, is most lethal inside the privacy of an intimate partnership, but the reverberations of state-sanctioned misogyny ring clear across the Atlantic Ocean. The women of this novel feel the threat of misogyny, but they feel the weight of their own reactions in the face of misogyny even more. 

Enola hates both men in What It’s Like in Words yet returns to them when they dangle the carrot of emotional security over her head. She takes stuttering steps towards independence, but it’s not until she fully understands she must choose her own peace that she can leave both of them. The same people-pleasing tendencies keep her trapped with the “nice guy” just as much as with the abuser. It takes courage to realize someone being “the better option” doesn’t mean they are the one. Enola discovers the power in rewriting the narrative of her own life, of evolving from a passive character to an agent in relationships who can revoke consent when she wants to. What It’s Like in Words is the story of the self–the whole self, the uncurated self–overpowering the fear of being left behind.

*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.

*SPOILER ALERT* This review contains plot details of Divine Mortals.

This title will be published on October 8, 2024 by Disney Hyperion.

When writing within a specific genre utilizing specific tropes, an author makes a compact with the reader to deliver on these conventions, or else, convincingly subvert them in a satisfying way. This subversion was my hope for Amanda M. Helander’s fantasy novel, Divine Mortals, showcasing a premise that focuses on the soulmate trope and a summary that touts a complex fantasy world and a unique, compelling romance. While Divine Mortals has flashes of enjoyability, with fun character moments and beautiful prose, it nevertheless falls short on delivering its most fundamental promises.

Mona Arnett is an eighteen-year-old favored mortal, chosen by a god and given powers beyond a normal human or a magician. Mona’s gift is the ability to predict soulmates—even her own. To her surprise, her services are sought by Master Whitman, an advisor to King Isaac, ruler of Opalvale. The king is dying without an heir, and Whitman desires Mona’s skills to help him locate a queen before it’s too late.

Unfortunately for Mona, her reading indicates she is the king’s soulmate—though it’s the king’s advisor she’s drawn towards. And perhaps more pressing, housebound Mona has no desire to be a leader, and even less desire to consider anyone’s wants aside from her own. She will do anything to not be crowned queen, but the interference of scheming gods, a murderous blackmailer, and an irritating reborn conscience force her to confront her past and her weaknesses.

This premise would seem to make Mona an unlikeable protagonist, a flaw that female fantasy MCs often come under scrutiny for. But while Mona has her childish moments, she is ultimately a sympathetic character who struggles deeply with depression and mental health. When she responds to her circumstances with cowardice or self-absorption, it is understood this stems from her guilt and her insecurities. One of the most satisfying aspects of the book is her unlearning of destructive patterns by accepting help and taking responsibility for her own actions. Mona’s flaws and her journey to overcome them makes her feel very human and very real.

Similarly, Mona’s love interest is unconventional by current romantasy standards. Whitman is not the stereotypical rakish, charming, bristling-with-muscle Casanova, but rather a blunt, practical adult. He carries a confidence and competency well beyond his years, while still presenting a flustered and overwhelmed response to Mona’s teasing sexual overtures. Whitman’s personality showcases depth, loyalty, and aspirations beyond the romance with the female protagonist, and that is refreshing.

Overall, Helander shows great talent for creating characters that are engaging, funny, and extremely likable. Supporting characters such as Mona’s adversary turned friend, Byers, or Byers and Mona’s sarcastic and unhelpfully helpful mentor, Tasha, carry scenes with their banter and strong personalities. However, there is little exploration of their personal histories, or how it might impact them from day to day. Often, the plot is so eager to resolve itself that it spins past moments that could allow readers vital moments of intimacy with the characters. Whitman, Byers, and Tasha struggle with dark pasts that haunt their present, but these traumas are never followed to fruition in favor of the main plot/Mona. And while there will most likely be a sequel to this book, relying on a future installment to wrap up loose threads is not ideal. Feeding the reader a satisfying meal of backstory and interiority is more liable to have them return for more.

This rapid pacing also affects the romance between Whitman and Mona, and here we fall into negative tropes that tend to plague romantasies. Mona and Whitman’s relationship is primarily centered around lust, with a quick escalation on Mona’s side that never feels like it matures past her initial attraction and her eventual admiration of Whitman’s “kindness” towards her. Whitman’s main desire is to save his king and the kingdom, and this clashes painfully with Mona’s desire to protect only herself. It is not until the very end of the book that she begins to care about serving and saving others, so any common ground between her and Whitman is limited. The story doesn’t explain why a mature, self-contained guy like Whitman would fall for an impulsive, self-serving eighteen-year-old, who’s clearly struggling with growing pains. It seems, to make Mona and Whitman’s affair feel more tortured, Helander separates them as much as possible. But this just serves to make their connection feel shallow, purely sexual, and annoyingly fraught.

Another expectation of fantasy readers is a fantastical and riveting setting, and this an arena in which Helander delivers. The author has a clear rapture for her setting the “Flood” and for the magic of Mona’s soulmate readings. Every time a character interacts with magic or with this magical realm, the prose is at its best—lyrical, descriptive, and enchanting. But despite Helander’s excellent descriptions and setting, the worldbuilding behind these elements is lacking. A distinct aesthetic is invaluable for making your fantasy world memorable, but aesthetic is not enough. Readers expect the function and logic of a society and its magic systems to be explained—yet the extent and nature of the humans or gods’ powers are frustratingly murky. And not knowing the extent of the gods’ abilities makes it practically impossible to sense the “twist” of the book until it’s almost upon you, which makes it feel cheap, a deus ex machina situation where the gods can do whatever they want with magic to accomplish their ends.

But perhaps the most disappointing, failed promise of this book is the soulmate aspect, which has no relevance past the initial premise. The tagline of Divine Mortals is “A future she doesn’t want, a soulmate she can’t deny,” and yet, we never find out who Mona’s true soulmate is. It would be one thing if the lack of a soulmate was a statement of some kind, an assertion, perhaps, that love cannot be predicted or perfect. But the function of soulmates doesn’t exist prominently in the narrative. Soulmates don’t have an impact on the way society functions. They are not particularly special or valued. They aren’t guaranteed to love you back. Soulmates don’t even play into the romance between Mona and Whitman significantly, except for some minor jealousy when he believes Mona’s soulmate is the king. It leaves one wondering if the soulmate side-plot was even needed at all, or if another reason could have been written to compel Mona to the castle and into Whitman’s path. The premise of this book was strong, the ideas compelling, and the enthusiasm palpable, but the execution doesn’t meet expectations. Helander makes brilliant characters and has conceptualized a beautiful world. If she can build on this foundational skeleton with the meat of backstory, worldbuilding, and a pursuit of fulfilling the promises of the premise, her writing has the potential to step up to the next level of mastery. After all, the most effective writing is writing that makes a promise to the reader and follows through.

*SPOILER ALERT* This review contains plot details of Apastoral: A Mistopia.

Published on July 15, 2024 by corona/samizdat.

Apastoral: A Mistopia by Lee Thompson is hilarious and horrifying from stem to stern, a wildly imaginative meditation on the absurd nature of incarceration. As stark as that may sound, Thompson subverts the subject matter with magical scenarios and rhythmic language that resolves like a fable. Apastoral is gritty and harsh, at its heart is a violent crime and a very violent State, but it also contains love, loyalty, and the innocence of friendship. Thompson weaves impressionistic prose into the narrative, creating an existential point of view for a pantheon of characters. The result is a story that feels lived, rather than recorded.

In Apastoral, particularly pernicious criminals, are no longer locked in small concrete cells. State authorities have decided that the most dangerous among us are better relegated to the bodies of livestock, literally. The Constock Program (convict + livestock) transplants the eyes and brains of unlucky defendants into pigs, cows, goats, and chickens. Rather than wallow in grey dungeons, convicts roam vast, fortified farmlands—trapped still, but placated by their docile existence and environment.

The casual cruelty of the Constock program is buttressed by absurd bureaucracy and mad, giggling bureaucrats. Far from any innocent intent, the program has evolved and is fitted with uproarious live broadcast show trials, elaborate psychoanalysis/change-of-life counseling, and a civilian population making bets on convict fates—hungry for the grim entertainment of it all.

It is within this context that we are introduced to Apastoral’s protagonist, Bones, whose participation in a badly botched jewel heist has damned him to life as a wooly sheep. “You’re a wobbly table in a pub, Bones, accept it.” This observation from Bones’ Constock program psychologist represents the State’s attempt to help Bones (and society as a whole) reckon with what they plan to do to him. The extreme psychological and medical conditioning, the experimental surgery, and trapping a human mind in a farm animal are all warranted—excused—because Bones is hopeless.

Thompson roundly calls out all sides of the conflict; the brutal system’s hypocrisy and depravity are laid bare for the reader, and society’s passive and active participation in the farcical show makes the madness even more realistic—some froth at the mouth for news of the next convict transplant, while others vow to burn the whole horrifying system down. PETABBY, an ineffectual anti-Constock resistance group, provides a flawed but ethical reckoning for the program with direct action in the form of clumsy prisoner rescues.

Through PETABBY and characters imprisoned by the Constock program, Thompson illustrates the tragedy of resistance against overwhelming forces, namely that if good people/animals allow it, resistance will become the monster it sought to destroy. “…activists, they’re boring. They just spew what everyone’s been telling them. They’re no different from the lawyers and bankers and cops they make fun of.” The inmates and society as a whole are formed and affected by the Constock program: the inmates parrot the authoritarianism that imprisoned them by devolving into petty dictatorships, and the free citizenry gleefully take up their charge as deputized guards and judges.

There are no sedentary characters in Apastoral; human and post-human-livestock alike are vibrant, even when their time in focus is short. The present and recent past are skillfully intertwined throughout the tale, expanding the world and conflict without blurting out the important parts prematurely. When the reader finally gets a peek at the cause of all the trouble (Bones’ life, friends, and especially his crime), it lands as a gift, necessary at just that moment. The book’s excellent pacing is to blame.

Simply calling Apastoral dystopian is lazy. It is dystopian, of course, but it also reflects a dire reality: plenty of people already live in an absurd carceral system. You may even recognize a few elements of Constock that feel close to home. These systems vary widely at every border but are unfailingly designed to pick up certain people and leave the really big criminals for public office. Within Apastoral’s blooming myriad of moral quandaries, it murmurs from the rafters, be on guard, the absurd becomes the maniacal with a slip of the pen.

*SPOILER ALERT* This review contains plot details of In the Shadow of the Fall.

It will be published on July 23, 2024 by Tordotcom.

Tobi Ogundiran’s In the Shadow of the Fall delivers a compact yet powerful exploration of self-discovery in a magical, African-inspired world. Despite its brevity as a novella, Ogundiran’s debut excels with vivid character development and absorbing worldbuilding, offering readers a fresh twist on genre expectations of Eurocentric fantasy. The story traverses culture and identity through the eyes of Ashâke, an upstart, failed acolyte who brashly attempts to summon the orisha, gods of the West-African Yoruba religion, for her own purposes. This sets off a chain of events that plunges her into a sprawling journey to uncover the truth about the world and her place within it. Comparable to N. K. Jemisin, Ogundiran’s voice is gritty, but the narrative retains a gripping mystique. It strikes an intriguing balance between the contemporary surge in low-fantasy titles and classic tales of epic gods and mythologies, making for a fresh change of pace.

The standout gem of In the Shadow of the Fall is its African worldbuilding, which serves as the vibrant tapestry against which Ashâke’s personal narrative unfolds. Ogundiran weaves elements of folklore, mythology, and African culture to create a setting that feels authentic and enchanting. The textual communication of oral tradition in the story is an admirable feat as Ashâke learns of her heritage through song. This a transformative, spiritual experience that readers are easily able to pick up as they read along. “Jaha stepped into the circle, spread his ample arms wide, and bellowed to the heavens…The world fell away. The griots, the trees, the fire…then the world burst to colour before [Ashâke].” We are buoyed by Ogundiran’s expertise as he plunges us into a new world of vital and tantalizing images.

In the Shadow of the Fall’s magic-brimming world is paired with impactful prose, highlighted particularly during action scenes. Whether it’s a pulse-pounding chase through the forest or a retelling of a creation myth, Ogundiran renders plot beats with cinematic flair. “Several bolts of lightning fractured the heavens, terribly in their beauty…A bolt forked through the Tower. The top half shifted, teetered on its edge, then with a great groan, shattered.” His writing is bold and evocative, painting striking images that linger in the mind. In these moments, Ogundiran’s talent as a storyteller is on full display, immersing readers’ senses and leaving them hungry for more.

Through the eyes of young Ashâke, readers are introduced to a diverse cast of personalities: the eccentric Ba Fatai, the high priestess Iyalawo, and chief Mama Agba, who guide Ashâke on her journey of self-discovery. These characters are vivid and visual, springing to life in just a few sentences. Due to the succinctness a novella’s word count demands, they can at times feel tropey, although, perhaps only because Western literature has already made caricatures of these types of characters. Ogundiran’s work arguably humanizes these tropes by contextualizing them within their own culture and giving them their own motives. We know Ba Fatai and Mama Agba are meet-the-mentor and fairy-godmother-type characters. Leaning into these assumptions while giving the characters a striking visual identity orients us quickly and seeds our expectations for the role they will play. Ogundiran then promptly spring boards us into more nuanced, informed character expression—a territory into which I was more than happy to be flung. My only gripe is that I desperately wanted to know more about these characters.

There are moments where In the Shadow of the Fall’s feels constrained by the same economy of language that sets it apart. Take the description of the griot encampment Ashâke encounters after escaping the temple for example: “Eight huge boats idled in the river. Each vessel was onion-shaped, their hulls covered with brightly painted whorl patterns…It looked like a floating city.” I read this and want to know, has Ashâke heard of griots before? What kinds of whorls are painted, and what might they represent? Who fashions the griots, and from which resources? It’s important to consider that I don’t see these answers because I am unfamiliar with African history. I read the word “whorl,” and think it’s describing a shape: a swirl. It may be a culturally significant symbol, like my own koru—an indigenous swirling pattern used in New Zealand Māori art—and I am only scratching the surface of its meaning.  With a higher word count to play with, Ogundiran may have built on these frameworks and further showcased his potential for introducing an underrepresented culture to a broad audience.

The novella could also have benefitted from more socio-political intrigue. The psyops of belief is pivotal to the story’s gods, the orisha, and to Ashâke’s self-discovery. Who holds the power to control information for the masses is an important question that was not wholeheartedly answered by the book’s end. While Ashâke is sheltered and primarily concerned with her identity, this naivete could have been used as a blank slate from which to launch her—and the readers—into the subversive realm of the book’s politics and religion, giving us a broader view of the forces at play when magic meets man’s lust for power.

Qualms aside, In the Shadow of the Fall is a refreshing debut, and a testament to Tobi Ogundiran’s talent as an emerging writer. He blends intricate worldbuilding with compelling, character-driven storytelling to create a debut that is pithy, culturally crucial, and filled with mystical allure. While the novella may leave readers yearning for a deeper exploration of its world, its strengths lie in the same place—a richly imagined setting, nuanced characters, and vibrant prose. Fans of fantasy and adventure will find much to love in this captivating tale of old gods, found family, and identity.

*SPOILER ALERT *This review contains plot details of You Glow in the Dark.

Published on February 06, 2024 by New Directions Publishing.

You Glow in the Dark is Liliana Colanzi’s breathtaking and haunting English debut. This collection of speculative short stories contemplates radioactive violence, environmental resiliency, and the ghostly inheritance of colonialism through the lenses of horror and cyberpunk fiction. With its heart situated in the Bolivian altiplano, Colanzi’s stories expand our political imagination through an interrogation of a history fraught with survival and revolution.

Although my knowledge of Bolivian history only extends to the research I did in relation to this collection, as a third-generation Latina, I’m aware of the specific and chilling ways the history of colonization lingers in Latin American communities. Stories like “The Greenest Eyes,” which explores a mestiza girl’s willingness to make a Faustian deal for eyes as green of those of her Italian father’s, felt all-too familiar, but may be read by other audiences as purely fantastical.

Similarly, when the narrator of “Chaco” is possessed by the ghost of a Mataco man he killed, I’m inclined to think of it less as a “ghost” story and more as historical fiction with paranormal elements. The region of Gran Chaco in Bolivia is marred with the forced expulsion of multiple indigenous groups, wars, and conservation issues because the land is rich in oil. The Mataco man’s words echoing in the narrator’s head reveal the truth that emerges when history is not told by the victors: “The river turned to poison, the fish turned belly up and died. Hunger was great, hunger was long, and food in short supply.” This incantation also serves as a warning for what could happen if a society continues to prioritize profit and resources over the land and the environment.

One possible future is imagined in one of my favorite stories in the collection, “Atomito.” This story follows numerous characters in an Andean cyberpunk society that revolves around a nuclear power plant ironically named after Túpac Katari, a revolutionary leader in colonial-era Bolivia. Looming in the background of the narrative is an impending radioactive disaster intertwined with a mysterious and fictional Andean deity, Atomito, who is linked to an actual Andean deity, Pachamama. The prose is flavored with Snow Crash-eque irreverancy, vocabulary from the Andes and Japanese diaspora in Santa Cruz de la Sierra, and the unique ways five young adults survive in this bizarre ecosystem. I was immediately hypnotized by Colanzi’s transcendent worldbuilding and felt connected to each character’s drive, desires, and fate. My only critique of this story is that I wish it was longer—I would be thrilled to read a novel as long as Snow Crash about this world and these characters.

Speaking of radioactive disasters, I can’t discuss You Glow in the Dark in good faith without discussing the final story in the collection, also titled “You Glow in the Dark.” This story is inspired by the unspeakably tragic 1987 Goiânia accident, wherein hundreds of individuals were exposed to highly radioactive caesium chloride. In such tragedies, it is easy to see statistics and forget the humanity of the individual lives lost. Colanzi rectifies this by creating compelling and unique stories for the otherwise voiceless: from the imagined perspectives of the families directly impacted to fictional accounts of the hundreds of thousands rushed to local hospitals to check exposure levels.

The story that haunts me the most is that of Devair Alves Ferreira, who, in both real life and the story, comes across the container of caesium chloride in his scrapyard after it was sold to him. In the narrative, he discovers it glowing blue in the night, and although the eerie luminescence reminds him “of the dead, of the devil, of aliens,” he is fascinated and brings it home to show his family. As an unfortunate result, Devair is left the sole survivor of his family, and his survival is turned into spectacle: “Open your eyes, ladies and gentlemen, what you are about to see is not for the fainthearted: the glow of death, the phosphorence of sin, the man who shines in the darkness.” If this glowing substance contains the allure of Pandora’s Box, perhaps the sole hope that remains is that some of us will survive these environmental disasters—and, if nothing else, Earth will survive, as it has for centuries, as Colanzi vividly displays in “The Cave,” a condensed epic of the history of our planet.

As the back cover blurb of You Glow in the Dark asserts, despite the diverse nature of each of these stories, “all are superbly executed and yet hard to pin down; they often leave the reader wondering: Was that realistic or fantastic?” This was one factor that drew me to read You Glow in the Dark, and Colanzi deftly delivers. I’ve been longing to read more works that eschew a traditional Western narrative arc for appealing to dream logic. However, there were some moments in this collection where I found myself longing for a little more grounding to understand what was happening in a narrative. At times, I oscillated between a lingering sense of wonder at Colanzi’s boundlessly imaginative narratives or worrying that my confusion had led me to misinterpret a story.

Nevertheless, despite occasional moments of narrative ambiguity, the overall enchanting experience offered by You Glow in the Dark is undeniable. This is easily one of my favorite reads of late, as it is one of those rare short story collections that transports me beyond the ordinary yet leaves me with a better understanding of it. Colanzi’s talent to pull from the traditions of horror and speculative fiction and transform them into something uniquely her own showcases the important role genre literature can play in highlighting stories previously relegated to the shadows.

Published on February 1, 2024 by University of Notre Dame Press.

Upon discovering Jordan Pérez’s award-winning poem “Santa Tarantula,” my immediate instinct was to share it with every poetry-enthusiast I know. Pérez’s command of hypnotic alliteration and masterful weaving of technical language from the fields of arachnology, religion, and capital punishment create a haunting statement on womanhood. Her debut collection, Santa Tarantula, mirrors the themes encapsulated in its eponymous poem: the connection between women and the natural world; the oppression that occurs in Biblical narratives, patriarchal governments, and intimate relationships; and the urgent need to dismantle the legacy of silence.

Divided into three sections—”Smallmouth,” “Dissent,” and “Gospel”—Santa Tarantula guides readers on a journey of healing alongside the speaker’s search for autonomy and self-love. In the collection’s opening poem, “Smallmouth,” Pérez asserts that what is left unsaid “demands to be / known.” This becomes the central motif of Santa Tarantula, urging readers to confront uncomfortable realities. Pérez’s award-winning poem “Deadgirl” does this brilliantly through the speaker’s observation of how a brown mushroom sprouting from the soil looks like the knee of a dead girl. The rain comes and mushrooms sprout everywhere, impossible to ignore, but eventually, the mushrooms disintegrate back into the earth. Indeed, the dark underbelly haunting this collection is the way violence committed against girls is suppressed. The speaker is left with lingering silence and feels dangerously unsafe in her own girlhood, “the [same] way [she] couldn’t be sure / which house in the neighborhood held the man // who touched little girls, and so in every house / is the man who touches little girls.” The omnipresence of femicide and sexual abuse is spine-chilling and heartbreaking, yet real—this tangled web of suppressed cultural and generational trauma is the reality Pérez “demands to be / known.”

With these wounds left unhealed, the collection moves into Part II: Dissent. Women align themselves with hissing tarantulas as they warp an ode to a Cuban government that sends dissidents and marginalized citizens to work camps. Biblical women start finding ways to escape their objectified existence as fruit, “swell[ed] with sugar, / [resting] heavy in [the] unloved palms” of their God. Women starve, left empty not only due to lack of food, but by the lack of justice. However, a woman’s desire to quell her hunger does not come without consequence; in “Santa Tarantula,” women ally themselves with the tarantula once again, and both are exalted to sainthood: “Praise / the tarantula woman still alive at forty.” But sainthood rarely comes with respect during one’s lifetime: the speaker swiftly shifts from praising tarantulas to a bone-chilling directive for men who long to domesticate them: “This is how you kill a tarantula. / Cover her, and hope to God she suffocates.” Reading this line for the first time felt like a punch to the gut, and a painful reminder that women are always in danger. However, Pérez leaves a glimmer of hope in the final line: if the tarantula survives, its assailant will face consequences. Still, the speaker persists, and the final poems in this section consider different ways women successfully voice their dissent, like taking communion with open eyes.

This hope bleed into the collection’s final section, Gospel. In addition to extending the Biblical allusions, the word “gospel” urges us to think about what truths need to be shared, or even worshipped. Though an undercurrent of danger remains bubbling beneath the surface of this section, the poems overall are lighter in tone, carrying the radical power of healing, love, and freedom. In “Asymptote,” the speaker’s mother reminds her that the body is a temple, but all the speaker can think of is when “a man / is burning [a temple] in the news.” Despite this, when a man asks the speaker how she can be touched after everything she’s been through, she poignantly asserts, “I refuse / to die having not been pressed to someone / else’s heart, having not come into the fullness of myself, / having not said this is my blood. This, my body. Saying no / or yes, and liking it.” Pérez’s masterful use of enjambment in this section amplifies the speaker’s longing for autonomy: whether she refuses or accepts to be touched, the choice is hers, and hers alone.

The speaker also finds power in herself in the ghazal “I Was Named for the River of Blessings.” The ghazal, a musical form that often contemplates love, spirituality, and loss, is one of my favorite forms of poetry. Pérez chooses the words “halleluiah” and variations of the word “name” as refrains to contemplate the speaker’s origin, struggles with gendered violence, and desire to sing hymns of her female loved ones. The last couplet of a ghazal typically includes a name, usually that of the poet. Instead of explicitly providing a name, Pérez links the speaker’s growth to the Jordan River—a symbol of freedom to the Israelites escaping slavery in Egypt, and the site of many Biblical miracles and baptisms: “Bigger than I am, he touches each growing blackberry, naming / even the greenest ones. Oh, river of blessings. Oh, halleluiah, halleluiah.” These lines gorgeously portray the pure joy of healing, as the speaker experiences a symbolic baptism and flourishing rebirth.

There is much more to write about Pérez’s incredible debut, like her precise execution of form, including a subversive mixed-up sestina, a haunting reverse diminishing verse, poignant prose poems; her feminist reinterpretation of Biblical stories; and her recurring references to insect and reptilian eggs to represent the simultaneous fragility and regenerative power of womanhood. My only wish is that there were more poems in this collection exploring how the legacy of Cuban labor camps lives on in survivors, or that the poems already exploring this were more seamlessly woven into the collection. As with any themed collection, many poems explored the same motif using different forms and language, so it’s natural for the lasting impression to feel like a blended collage. Because Pérez compellingly links predominant narratives (such as those from the Bible) to the intimate struggles of women, I found myself longing for the specter of cultural trauma to linger more in my final impression of Santa Tarantula. Poems like “Mixed-Up Sestina,” “O God of Cuba,” and “Dissent,” which explore the haunting impact of an unjust government on its subjects, were some of Perez’s strongest, adding more nuance to Santa Tarantula’s project to weave a web between historical and personal traumas.

Overall, what most impressed me about Santa Tarantula is its unflinching honesty and urgency to shake its readers out of complacency. It’s a collection that not only conveys the importance of looking at the dark history humanity pushes into the shadows, but also compels us to imagine possibilities for rebirth that are grounded in radical compassion. I am surprised that Santa Tarantula is Pérez’s debut; her poetic finesse, unique use of language, and thought-provoking metaphors make this debut a poignant and unforgettable exploration of societal injustices and the resilience required to overcome them. I will never forget these poems, and I am so excited to follow Pérez’s career as a poet.

*SPOILER ALERT *This review contains plot details of Hope Ablaze.

Published February 2024 by Wednesday Books.

“I am a pent up ball of energy / I will find my escape like a cosmic explosion / all starry rays before darkness claims me, / hope ablaze.”

For Nida, a young Muslim teen, poetry is an outlet for her deepest feelings and experiences. But after her poem about being illegally frisked at a Democratic candidate’s rally accidentally wins a national poetry competition, Nida becomes embroiled in the center of a political scandal. Hope Ablaze is a young adult novel by Sarah Mughal Rana that deftly criticizes the bigotry and hate facing Muslim people in America today and empowers teens to find their own voice in a country aiming to silence them.

Books confronting social and systemic issues can be difficult to write and even more difficult to publish. What I love about this novel is its unflinching exploration of American culture and politics and how these systems continue to harm Islamic people and communities. In Hope Ablaze, neither of the two featured politicians support Muslim people, yet Nida and her community still choose to vote in hopes of creating a path towards a future that supports their people in America. In doing so, Rana highlights how the bipartisan system in America doesn’t work when both parties are against one’s very existence. I’m sure it’s difficult to write a novel like this, and I hope this story helps to pave the path for more Muslim authors to write with the support of the mainstream.

In a story that deals with heavy, topical themes, Rana did an excellent job of creating balance between the pain that comes with bigotry and systemic oppression—especially when in the public eye—and the unconditional love and support that pours in from your communities. There are numerous small moments when this support becomes evident—through characters like Aunty Farooqi and Rayan—but there are also significant moments when the power of community and solidarity becomes starkly evident. After Nida receives public backlash for her poem, especially after it is reported her uncle is in jail due to “terrorist activity,” her mother’s catering business is hit hard: customers cancel their orders, and it becomes difficult for her family to sustain themselves financially. Soon enough, however, the Muslim community bands together to support Nida’s family, and they begin receiving new orders.

The characterization and dynamics of the characters surrounding Nida were wonderfully executed. Relationships never felt forced and characters, for the most part, felt fully fleshed out. However, I did have a little trouble with Nida’s characterization throughout the novel. To me, the heart of Nida’s conflict is not that she doesn’t know how to use her voice, it’s that when she does use her voice, she is silenced.

In the beginning of the novel, Nida channels her feelings about injustice and her desire for change into her poetry. We learn that she didn’t understand her mother’s paranoia until her uncle was imprisoned for performing his poetry, which occurs prior to the start of this book. Because of this fear, Nida doesn’t voice any of her thoughts about her faith or her politics outside of her immediate community. But after she wins the poetry competition and her words are twisted in the media, Nida attempts to deal with the situation in good faith—going on news shows to share her side or meeting up with politician Mitchell Wilson to find a solution—only to realize these people are exploiting her for their own narratives. I don’t quite understand why she trusted them to begin with, especially after everything she went through with her uncle. Nida is also caught between the expectations of her mother and uncle. Nida’s mother wants Nida to stay silent to prioritize her and her community’s safety, while her uncle wants her to speak up, use her voice, and preserve her poetry as an act of creativity and tradition. All of these people talking over Nida causes her to feel silenced.

The introduction of the blue thread , which silences Nida and prevents her from writing poetry, makes sense with this context. But rather than helping her find her voice and allowing it to thrive without being twisted by others, it reveals her family’s history—something she’s already connected to—and helps her understand the importance of poetry in her family. This knowledge of family history allows Nida to understand her mother and reclaim her authentic voice.

The ending worked, because the heart of the story is about Nida finding her voice—one way or another—but the way we got to the ending felt unfocused and tangential from the conflict that existed in the beginning.

On a craft and narrative level, I also felt that there were numerous opportunities to strengthen the power of the novel even further. For example, I really enjoyed the way the narrative moves between prose and poetry. I thought it was a fun and interesting way to play with structure and a great opportunity to explore Nida’s interiority and the complex, powerful emotions she had: “Eyes cast black as crow feathers. / The British weren’t knights but hawks, / circling above / ready to pounce. // These colonial regimes / live on through history,”

Yet, other poems felt lackadaisical at times. Some seemed like they were included for the sake of narrating through scene transitions and moving the plot forward rather than being used to explore Nida’s interiority: “Mr. Wilson’s attorney sat to the right, / in an identical crisp black suit. / A costume of diplomacy. / After Zaynab’s email, Mr. Wilson’s attorney wanted to discuss our options,”

However, all these technical aspects develop with time and experience. This is Rana’s debut novel, and I have confidence this is something that will only improve with her subsequent publications. I love the vision she had for Hope Ablaze, and I’m looking forward to seeing what Rana delivers to us next.

*SPOILER ALERT* This review contains plot details about The Other Valley.

Published February 2024 by Atria Books.

In a world where the layers of time must coexist simultaneously, Odile Ozanne faces a choice that could rewrite the future or seal her friend’s fate in the past.

Scott Alexander Howard’s debut, The Other Valley, is a captivating speculative-fiction novel nuanced with philosophical questions about the delicate balance of time and the nature of free will. The first half is a coming-of-age story complicated by secrecy and moral turmoil. Odile is a clever and introverted sixteen-year-old who resides within a valley nestled amidst an array of identical, repeating valleys. To her east lies a valley twenty years ahead in time, while the valley to the west is twenty years in the past. The exclusive authority to grant passage across their guarded borders rests with the Conseil, which Odile is on the verge of joining as an apprentice. When two visitors from the future come to Odile’s valley on a mourning tour, she recognizes them as the parents of her cherished friend, Edme. Odile is left at a crossroads with her mind and heart divided. Should she keep this knowledge a secret, preserving the integrity of the timeline? Or should she risk warning Edme, whose impending doom inches closer every day? As her bond with Edme deepens, the weight of her moral dilemma grows heavier, casting a dark shadow on her destiny.

Howard’s storytelling is marked by his deft use of Odile as the first-person narrator. Narrowing in on Odile’s coming-of-age narrative, Harold seamlessly eases readers into the speculative realm of the novel. He opts for a gentle immersion that begins with mundane aspects of the story, rather than a jarring, action-packed scene. I appreciated this approach because it set the tone for a more dimensional narrative to unfold at a measured pace alongside Odile’s character growth.

The novel begins in Odile’s school as she stands at the precipice of transitioning into the workforce. The last school year marks the apprenticeship level, during which students apply to different vocations. It isn’t until her teacher, Pichegru, instructs her to write an essay to earn a spot in the Conseil’s vetting program that the speculative nature of the story comes to light. Pichegru asks, “If you had permission to travel outside the valley, which direction would you go?” This question becomes the gateway to Howard’s intricate exploration of a world where everyday citizens, despite their awareness of neighboring valleys, remain bound by cautionary folklore that deters them from venturing out. Odile’s journey slowly unveils the enigma shrouding the valleys and sheds light on the Conseil’s vital role in safeguarding reality. As she learns more about her world and strives to find a place within it, I was increasingly lured into the narrative and the mounting gravity of her situation.

I was most impressed by Howard’s remarkable talent for crafting a heart-wrenching narrative that masterfully explores metaphysical quandaries. He builds a world that lays bare the fragility of reality and identity. This metaphysical contemplation shines through the Conseil’s vetting program, where Howard’s background in philosophy comes to life in the character of Ivret, Odile’s mentor. Her eloquent explanations provide profound insight into the perils of tampering with the valley to the west. Interfering with the past does not create simple absences in the present valley, rather, whole existences and facts are undone and rewritten. Howard writes, “A person goes west, he interferes, and then time rolls over him like a wave, leaving nothing behind.”

Intriguingly, visitation to the other valleys is allowed, but gaining approval from the Conseil is difficult. Guided by Ivret, Odile and her peers grapple with a series of tests in which they approve or deny mock visitation requests. Their decisions must balance compassion for human grief while weighing the risk of the bereaved potentially tampering with the past or future. Ethical dilemmas persist beyond the vetting program, allowing the theme of morality to remain present throughout the novel. I felt the Conseil’s presence served to underscore a utilitarian perspective prioritizing the welfare of the majority over the happiness of an individual. However, Howard also evokes empathy for characters who prioritize their personal interests over the greater good. He further pushes the boundaries of morality by suggesting that those put in harm’s way through the tampering of time might be erased from existence. I found myself contemplating whether the immorality of their actions could be excused if those affected never truly existed in the first place.

The second half of the novel follows Odile in her mid-thirties. The narrative sharply shifts from the optimism of her adolescence to a more somber tone, revealing the stark disparity between the life she had hoped for and the bleak reality she faces. I wish that Howard had offered a smoother transition, as there is no immediate explanation for the position Odile finds herself in. I had to resist the temptation to peek ahead for signs of her youthful self returning because I couldn’t accept that the promising sixteen-year-old we initially encountered was gone so suddenly. I mourned the loss of Odile’s hopefulness and innocence, finding it difficult to adjust to her colder perspective as an adult. The transition, while frustrating, proves necessary to lend her character greater depth. As the novel progressed, I realized that Odile’s emotional detachment was her coping mechanism for regret and the consequences of her past choices. However, just as she begins to accept her circumstances, she reconnects with old friends and sets forth on a path that surpasses her wildest imagination.

The stakes presented in Howard’s novel are undeniably unsettling and beckon readers to ponder weighty philosophical questions. As Odile struggles with a choice that could rewrite the lives of everyone in her valley, Howard leads the reader through a narrative that compellingly explores the intersection of fate and free will. The Other Valley is an enthralling emotional and intellectual journey that lingers past the final page.