This title was re-issued in May 2025 by Frontenac House.

My discovery of In the Bear’s House came at an eerily apt time. I started reading it on a plane to Glasgow, flying out of Calgary, Alberta. As I read deeper and flew further and further from my hometown, I realized I was traveling the reverse of the characters in the book: out of Glasgow, into Calgary. As I traversed the highlands on various motorcoaches and taxis these characters wandered the prairies and mountains of Western Alberta, down streets and train lines I walked myself; it was the perfect antidote to any possible homesickness that could have afflicted me.

In The Bear’s House is a semi-autobiographical bildungsroman by Albertan author Bruce Hunter. It follows two narrators, Clare Dunlop and her partially deaf son, William “Trout” Dunlop, as she attempts to raise Trout as a teen mother, and he tries to make sense of a world not particularly interested in making sense of him. Clare grows into herself as not just a parent of four, but a woman—finding work, getting an education, discovering her voice. As Trout gets older, he retreats, both figuratively and literally; he goes to stay with his Aunt Shelagh and park ranger Uncle Jack, who’s also partially deaf. On their homestead in northwestern Alberta, he truly meets the land, and its people, for the first time. Hunter explores growing up in a land and country still growing up itself, finding place, finding home, and finding self. 

Though originally published in 2009, Frontenac House reissued In The Bear’s House in May 2025, and I can’t think of a better time to do so. Calgary is changing, again. From “Feel the Energy” to “The Blue Sky City,” we as Albertans, as Calgarians, are trying to decide who we are going to be in a rapidly changing world. Albertan writer, academic, and someone I have been lucky enough to learn from, Dr. Aritha Van Herk, posits that Calgary, and Alberta, are places that don’t yet know themselves, and may never know themselves. We have no clear and recognizable identity, at least not yet. This state is one Hunter captures exceptionally well, particularly through his two narrators. Trout is a boy born in the city, but is drawn to the traditional, rural ways of the land. He finds solace chopping logs, maintaining access trails, snowshoeing with Jack, and tending the garden with Shelagh. In the wilderness his hearing aids are not overloaded; he finds a sense of independence and peace he was never afforded in the city. This representation of disability is a wonderful breath of fresh air. Hunter, who is deaf himself, recognizes Trout’s partial deafness as a fundamental part of who he is, but allows Trout to find competences, ways of knowing, and an identity beyond that. Meanwhile, Clare is initially set up as a traditional stay-at-home wife and mother but slowly sheds that role and becomes increasingly cosmopolitan and outgoing. She emerges from her shell attending night classes, befriending local Greek immigrants and a queer couple, even re-involving herself in the local literary scene after her own poetic inclinations were sidetracked by the birth of Trout and his three sisters. Her journey was its own coming-of-age story, and so often mothers in fiction, and reality, are not afforded that degree of agency. Clare is a loving and supportive mother, but is also a voracious reader of poetry, an adventurous chef and foodie, and a committed peripatetic. 

Hunter also captures the variety of this city, and this province extremely well—every one of these characters, I have met before. With Alberta, Calgary in particular, stories can become all cowboys, teepees, and oil men quickly, and Hunter appreciated those elements are only one part of the story. He highlights everything from Trout and Jack’s deafness to local Indigenous groups, to its thriving Chinese community, and even the diversity of the land. Again, Hunter hones in on the idea that the Albertan identity is patchwork but also recognizes there is no way around it. The bell cannot be unrung, so it is up to us to sort it out.

One facet I do have questions about from In The Bear’s House is how Hunter explores Alberta’s local indigenous population: the Kainai, Siksika, Piikani, Tsuu T’ina, and Stoney Nakoda, consisting of the Chiniki, Goodstoney and Bearspaw. He consulted with local elders and clearly did his research, which I commend, but I wonder about the storytelling choices made. As Trout spends time with Uncle Jack and Aunt Shelagh, he meets Carrie Moses and her grandfather Silas, based on real Goodstoney leader Silas Abraham. They invite him into their tribal traditions—the Sun Dance, the Ghost Dance, and their burying grounds. As Trout becomes familiar with their ways of living, the construction of what is implied to be the Bighorn Dam threatens their land—particularly their burial grounds—which will flood upon construction. This point never achieves resolution in the novel. From both my own research and living in Alberta my whole life, the Bighorn Dam was indeed completed, resulting in the creation of the Abraham Reservoir; horribly enough, named after Silas Abraham, who opposed its creation his entire life. I wish the Stoney were afforded some degree of closure narratively—it doesn’t have to be revisionism, but about three-quarters through the novel that arc was dropped, and I found it jarring. Interpreted good faith, it felt like the story moved on from them; in bad faith, it felt like it forgot about them.

The title of this novel is pulled from a quote from Hunter’s Great Uncle John Elliot, who served as the inspiration for Uncle Jack: “We are in the bear’s house now. Mind your manners.” To fully grasp this story, one must approach this novel in the same way. It is firmly rooted in our land, our people, and our literary tradition—some learning may be required (I recommend Robert Kroetsch, Aritha Van Herk, and Joshua Whitehead), background viewing even more required; ideally out of a car window, at the Three Sisters Peaks, or perhaps the prairie on the way to Drumheller. As I said, this re-issue couldn’t have come at a better time; as we re-appraise what to do with our land and how the people on it can live, fully and with respect, In The Bear’s House is an important reminder that we are not just the oil country, the Blue Sky City, or the home of the Stampede, but we are, first, in the bear’s house.

This title was released on July 29, 2025 by Kokila Books.

*SPOILER ALERT* This review contains plot details of The Last Tiger.

“If we forget who we are, then we can be controlled … Then let’s not forget. Let’s make them remember.”

Sibling writing duo Julia and Brad Riew’s debut YA fantasy novel, The Last Tiger, explores their grandparents’ harrowing experiences of living under Japan’s colonial occupation of Korea during the 1940s. Featuring quotes from their grandparents at the start of every chapter, The Last Tiger is more than a tale of survival; it’s a story of two people from opposite worlds overcoming hardship and forbidden romance to change their destiny amidst an empire seeking to eradicate them.

For years, the people of the Tiger Colonies have suffered under the colonial occupation of the Dragon Empire. They must ration their food and harvest minerals in the coal mines to add to the militaristic Dragon Empire’s prosperity, knowing they’ll face severe punishment if they dare to fight for their homeland. Drained of their resources and politically powerless, the citizens of the Tiger Colonies watch helplessly as their culture gets erased, starting with the death of the revered tigers that once occupied the land, until only one remains.

One night, Lee Seung, a sixteen-year-old servant boy, catches Choi Eunji, the youngest daughter of one of the elite families in the Tiger Colonies, sneaking out of her family’s compound. To keep her secret, Eunji promises to tutor Seung for the Exam—his one shot at a successful and stable future. In return, Seung introduces Eunji to a vivacious world outside of her family’s estate. The two quickly develop feelings for one another before they are separated by unforeseen circumstances. A year later, Seung and Eunji find themselves on opposite sides in the battle for the last tiger as Eunji trains in the Dragon Empire’s renowned Adachi Academy and Seung toils in the Tiger Colony coal mines.

The worldbuilding in The Last Tiger is incredible, blending a thoughtful magic system, references to Korean and Japanese culture, and vivid imagery. Enabling the Dragon Empire’s conquest of the Tiger Colonies is a magical force called “ki,” which takes three different forms based on its kingdoms of origin. Dragon ki grants the Empire soldiers unmatched strength and endurance. The warring Serpent Queendom’s Serpent ki gives the power of mind control. While the long-dormant Tiger ki focuses on the power of human emotion. Each of these forces has clear limits and balances each other out, leading to conflict between the characters and adding to the broader wartime narrative. The Riew’s also include several nods to Korean and Japanese culture through clothing like hanboks and kimonos, food like tteokbokki (rice cakes), and mythology with revered tiger and dragon spirits.

In addition to their worldbuilding, Julia and Brad Riew do an excellent job of crafting well-rounded characters suffering under colonialism. Seung portrays the struggles and rage of living in a political system designed to keep him oppressed, “Everything about the colonial society the empire has built for us—it’s all intended to keep us hoping, striving for a better life, but never quite able to achieve it.” Whereas Eunji offers an intriguing perspective of the “yangban” or Tiger Colony citizens active collaboration with the Dragon Empire to survive. Eunji eventually learns her family’s prosperity is the result of the Tiger people’s losses. Despite her wealth, she’s equally as trapped as Seung due to her gender being perceived as inferior and facing a corrupt system.

Even the side characters are well-developed and offer diverse perspectives, especially Kenzo Kobayashi and Jin. As the military prodigy of the Dragon Empire and Eunji’s arranged husband, Kenzo is a foil to Seung and an antihero with a dark secret. Where Seung is a quiet, attentive listener, Kenzo is the guy who knows “the world was built to serve boys like [him].” But when he accompanies Eunji on her quest to capture the last tiger as her “protector,” he’s exposed as a fraud when he can’t use Dragon ki in battle. Kenzo acts in his own interest to survive, betraying Eunji and Seung by turning them over to the malicious General Isao. Yet, he ultimately helps Seung and Eunji escape, revealing his morality and love for Eunji.

Jin, a Tiger Colony rebel with powerful Serpent Ki, exemplifies how “hurt people, hurt people” in her all-consuming desire for revenge against the Dragon Empire. When she was fourteen-year-old, she was tricked into sexually performing as a “comfort woman” for the Dragon soldiers. Since then, she’s been “so consumed with pain that she can no longer see the humanity” in the Dragon Empire citizens and almost kills Eunji and Kenzo. The emotional baggage of Jin’s dangerous past prompts her to teach Seung, “[Anger] is the most powerful fuel [he’ll] ever have,” and illustrates how victims of trauma may repeat harmful behaviors toward others.

Although intended for middle-grade readers, The Last Tiger’s consistent tension makes for an action-packed read for all ages while also tactfully approaching the mature themes of cultural assimilation, grief, sexism, and socioeconomics. Perhaps because the novel is intended for a younger audience, I found the authors’ voice juvenile at times with simple sentence structures and an over-explanatory tone that told was happening instead of letting readers infer for themselves. For example, Seung doesn’t like Kenzo, but instead of seeing this through his actions or dialogue, he thinks, “If I’m honest, I just don’t like him. He’s entitled, beyond arrogant, seeping with self-loathing.”

Additionally, the inclusion of an over-explanatory epilogue felt unnecessary. In the final chapter, Seung and Eunji reawaken hope, “something that can no longer be stopped,” in the Tiger People through forbidden song. The song unites the Tiger People by reminding them of their collective culture and empowers them to take a stand against the Dragon Empire.

The epilogue had a “happily-ever-after” framework which felt like a letdown after all the challenges these characters endured to save their country, and it made the final chapter less impactful. I would’ve preferred to see more snapshots of Seung and Eunji’s newly restored relationship in the nascent “Tiger Republic” than a fairytale-like “perfect” ending.

Overall, I loved getting swept into the epic fantasy world of The Last Tiger and its compelling message of hope, love, and resilience. Knowing this story was rooted in the tragedy of the Japanese occupation of Korea, and that Seung and Eunji were based on real people, added to the levels of authenticity and raw emotion prevalent throughout the narrative. The Last Tiger is perfect for fans of Mulan and other modern retellings of East Asian mythology, like Where the Mountain Meets the Moon by Grace Lin and Song of Silver, Flame Like Night by Amélie Wen Zhao.

*SPOILER ALERT* This review contains plot details of Foreign Fruit.

This title was released on May 8, 2025 by Canongate Books.

“History is too various to offer a single narrative. Life is composed of shards and glass, all slotted together to make a mosaic. No one is born complete.”

I’ve always struggled with my sense of belonging. Born in Ireland, but ethnically Asian—I was never going to fit in. Not among people who looked nothing like me, nor the diaspora I’ve failed to connect with. My parents did everything to ensure I didn’t stand out: packing me plain lunches, prioritizing Westernized cultural norms, raising me with a temperate accent. And while I’ll always be grateful for my upbringing, it feels like a part of me has been lost in that bid to acclimate. There are few words for that kind of existence; being on the very precipice of “belonging,” but always remaining stuck. After all, what is “belonging,” if not feeling at home?

Perhaps that’s why I was so drawn to Katie Goh’s memoir, Foreign Fruit. Reading its description, I immediately felt connected to Goh’s search for their heritage—tracing their lineage from Northern Ireland to Kuala Lumpur, like a long, ribboning peel. “Seen” doesn’t even begin to describe how I felt. I hoped Goh’s journey to pull back these ancestral segments, collating stories of a home they half-knew, would help me reckon with my own identity. Needless to say, it exceeded my expectations.

In her own review, Katherine May describes Foreign Fruit as “sharp-sweet”—and if you ask me, there’s no word more suitable. A mix of memoir and social history, Goh oscillates between sweet personal stories and the sourest parts of colonialism. She identifies her own mixed-race, queer identity with the orange, which, like herself, is a hybrid entity. Tracing her journey from past to present, she unravels the migratory origins of the titular “foreign fruit” as it travels through the Silk Roads towards its destiny of globalization.

Through parables, fables, and historical anecdotes, Goh peels back the orange’s rind in a poignant tell-all of its inner segments: how it became a symbol of divinity and fortune, but also death, destruction, and violent greed. Using this foundation, they confront the modern, post-COVID wave of anti-Asian hate, and the echoes of colonial history found within it. It’s during this wave that the memoir begins in medias res, the day after Goh hears of an anti-Asian hate crime:

“The morning after a white man murdered six Asian women, I ate five oranges. They were not dainty tangerines or pretty satsumas or festive clementines. These were unwieldy, bulging oranges, pock-marked and rind-covered fistfuls of flesh. I ate them all until my body ached.”

From this opener alone, this electrifying, utterly infuriating opener, I could tell Foreign Fruit and I would become fast friends. From Longyan to Kuala Lumpur, each chapter is named for a place visited in Goh’s lifetime. Some are set in the distant past, others in the near-present. Immediately, I was gripped by their vivid personal vignettes. I could feel the slick-sweat stickiness of leather seats in a cramped family van, hear the fussy clamoring of aunties and cousins. And most of all, I saw in myself the longing for connection with a culture that’s technically theirs, yet isn’t. This is one of Goh’s biggest strengths as a writer: the ability to place readers directly in their shoes. By drawing out their senses, the reader sees through their eyes, rather than the lens of an observer. All of this is done while never once forgetting they’re telling a story; much like their adult self, Goh doesn’t stay in one place. Their tale is at once one of anger, growth, uncertainty, and home. This eclectic mix is exactly what I seek in nonfiction—never skimping out on the rawest details, while moving along an engaging narrative trajectory. It’s delicious.

It’s also with this ability, however, that Goh excavates the bitter pith from humanity’s past. Woven between these personal vignettes are episodes of social and colonial history. It starts with the orange’s gentler beginnings as a signifier of luck and gradually exhumes its history as a vessel for violent colonialism. The bloody implications behind decadent Dutch still-lifes. The Indigenous blood spilled for California’s citrus trade. How the ethos behind tragedies like the 1877 Chinatown riots is influenced by this violence. How the echoes of Yellow Peril in modern anti-Asian hate have unearthed prejudices long thought to be gone. These accounts are written not to fascinate but to educate and enrage. And I will fully admit it’s uncomfortable to read. So uncomfortable, and I believe that’s the entire point. Goh doesn’t mince words in her portrayal of this ugly past; her ability to craft a scene forces the reader to confront this violence directly. It’s not subtle, and the tonal contrast with the softer personal memoirs is intentionally jarring. We are warned from the opener this is not a comfortable story. The once-blessed orange becomes complicit in colonial violence; a “harbinger of death.”

While Goh’s ability to set a scene is undeniable, I did sometimes find the novel grasped at its connections between historical and personal anecdotes. The style is rich and poignant, and I have no qualms with the tonal contrast; but the transitions between sections often felt disjointed, feeling more like sudden jumps. While the orange remains a grounding element, some parts would benefit from extra connective tissue, especially during the slower and heavier first half. “Southern California” utilizes this transitional element best, and I found myself wishing the first few chapters had the same smooth trajectory.

I sip at a lukewarm bottle of orange juice as I round up these thoughts. I think to myself: whose tired hands picked the fruit that made these? On what land was it grown? Foreign Fruit has given me much to contemplate over the origins of citrus, of people, of violence and compassion and family. Most of all, it helped me reckon with my own identity. As a diaspora child, I can’t claim the same experiences as mixed-race individuals; but I do know the struggle to “belong” is universal. The orange provides refuge from this ache, itself physically and symbolically “a hybrid creation.” By the end, Goh accepts she may never truly “belong”—and, bittersweet as it is, it’s not necessarily a bad thing. I will proudly announce that the final chapters of my copy are stained with tears. Foreign Fruit was incredible, and this book will stay with me for a very long time.

This title will be published on June 10, 2025 by Peachtree Teen.

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

“It’s less that I think there is a reason for hurt, and more that faith gives us grace to heal. To come out the other side and try again.”

Don your togas, buckle your sandals, and travel back in time to the ancient Roman city of Pompeii. Cass Biehn’s debut LGBTQ and young adult historical fantasy novel, Vesuvius, tells the story of Felix, a clever thief with a mysterious past, and Loren, a tender-hearted temple attendant plagued with nightmares of the future.

When Felix steals the Helmet of Mercury, a coveted artifact no mortal can touch, he seeks shelter in the Temple of Isis. Felix’s stay is anything but pleasant as he’s knocked unconscious by Loren, who’s been haunted by strange visions of Felix burning down the city. Together, Felix and Loren must discover how their fates are connected to prevent Loren’s visions from becoming reality and unleashing disaster upon Pompeii.

Biehn’s creation of two angsty, authentic, and well-developed main characters is excellent. Through alternating perspectives, Biehn gives Felix and Loren clear, distinct voices that serve as foils for one another. Felix is a brash and sarcastic young man who’s quick to think on his feet and constantly in motion. Loren is anxious and compassionate, often putting the good of others above himself. When Felix awakens in the temple, the juxtaposition of their personalities shines. Felix is untrusting of Loren and believes “kindness came with limits,” whereas Loren arrives with grapes and gauze and immediately offers to tend Felix’s wounds. Loren goes so far as to vouch for Felix’s honor, knowing any trouble Felix causes would fall onto his shoulders.

As the old saying goes, “opposites attract,” and Biehn uses this technique to create a slow-burn romance between the two boys without feeling too contrived. Felix grows protective of Loren, feeling seen when “other gazes skated past” him, and Loren admires Felix’s “clever mind” and how he listens to Loren when everyone else dismisses him and his visions. The thread connecting Felix and Loren is that they’re two lost boys looking for a place to belong. Thankfully, their love story is riddled with highs and lows, making it feel less like a tropey YA love story and more like a real relationship with misunderstandings and forgiveness.

The world-building is also well researched. From page one, Biehn grounds us in their rich imagining of Pompeii as we follow Felix on the run, tasting the dust from the street, feeling the warmth of the Mediterranean sun on our skin, and fearing the swift unsheathing of a sword behind us. Biehn sprinkles in plenty of historical context with the inclusion of villas and socio-economic differences in ancient Roman society, the primitive drug of poppy sap, accurate temple layouts, and Roman mythology sure to make history buffs happy.

But the strongest aspect of the book is Biehn’s refusal to hold back from exploring serious social issues like inequality and sexual abuse through Felix as he reflects, “power is under the control of the wealthy, not the masses.” An essential aspect of Felix’s character development is his past trauma and learning to find hope again through his healing relationship with Loren. As a child, Felix was raped by a priest while in the Temple of Mercury. Biehn does a nice job of showing this trauma through Felix’s aversion to physical touch. But when he’s with Loren, Felix realizes, “despite the hurts he had known, there were other things worth believing in … Touch often settled sticky over his flesh, and even gentle hands triggered his instinct to flee. But there was something different about Loren. He didn’t touch in order to take.”

While Vesuvius’s central theme revolves around trauma, survival, and healing, Biehn’s short sentences and casual writing style do a nice job of balancing the more serious moments with the comical ones. Part of this book’s charm is Biehn’s humor erupting through sentences like “Gods, youth are so mouthy these days.”

However, Biehn’s voice was a bit of a double-edged sword and got distracting at times. One of my biggest hangups was Vesuvius’s use of modern-day slang, which jarred me out of the historical setting, like Felix introducing himself as “Fuck” to the temple priest and Loren telling a guard to worry about “the state of his balls” as he attacks. These moments felt inauthentic and immature, decreasing my enjoyment of the narrative. There was also a heavy reliance on similes throughout the book, which made the story feel slightly too “authorial” than character-driven at times.

The pacing and plot were also inconsistent. The novel starts strong as we follow Felix on a heart-pounding chase and quite literally crash into Loren inside the temple of Isis. However, after their initial introduction, there’s a lot of talk and not a lot of action as several mysterious subplots compete. I wished Biehn kept their focus on one of these threads, like Felix and Loren’s backstory and the sure eruption of Mount Vesuvius, rather than adding murder mysteries and political turmoil.

Additionally, there were moments of tension that resolved too quickly. Namely, Loren’s pivotal decision to either let Felix wear the Helmet of Mercury and “learn his memories at the risk of him turning cruel” or to keep the helmet away from Felix to try and protect him from his dark past. Loren only confesses the truth to Felix about the helmet’s ability to restore his memory when Vesuvius erupts. Felix saves Loren’s life by slapping the Helmet of Mercury onto Loren’s head to protect him, ultimately destroying the magic relic and Felix’s chances of making peace with his damaging past. After all the intrigue about the Helmet of Mercury and scenes where Loren communicates with Felix’s “ghost” (or traumatized self) in his dreams, the destruction of the helmet and the boys’ safe arrival at Loren’s family estate in the final third of the book felt like a letdown. I wanted Biehn to linger more in Felix’s losses and grief. But the story rushes past all this to focus on Loren’s self-pity and survivors’ guilt rather than the repercussions of Mount Vesuvius obliterating Pompeii and Felix’s discovered identity as an heir of the Roman god Mercury.

Overall, Vesuvius is a promising debut with an intriguing concept. I admire how Biehn doesn’t pull their punches about the lingering effects of abuse and trauma while still emphasizing the importance of restoring faith and trust in humanity. Biehn’s approachable and sarcastic style makes Vesuvius a fun read and a good fit for fans of Casey McQuiston and Adam Silvera. 

Published on January 28, 2025 by Ten Speed Graphic.

*SPOILER ALERT* This review contains plot details of This Beautiful, Ridiculous City.

Stunning. As someone whose connection to graphic novels and visual forms of storytelling has weakened with age, I am so glad This Beautiful, Ridiculous City by Kay Sohini has re-introduced me to the genre. But this is not just a graphic novel—it’s well researched in the same way an academic paper is. The graphic memoir follows a woman as she considers her experience as an immigrant, a woman, a foodie, a New Yorker, and a human in the greater context of the world through an economics, literary, and psychological lens.

This Beautiful, Ridiculous City has gorgeous art panels with highly saturated colors. The leaves are not just a regular green, they’re velvety in their teal hue. The sunset sparks a pink that hovers over the street signs and casts blue-tinged shadows on the side of metal poles. An empty photo album marked with empty frames conveys absence in its portrayal of the direct loss of Sohini’s grandfather. The perspective of a pedestrian looking upwards to the NYC skyscrapers creates the sense of unlimited, boundless possibilities. The irregular shapes and pastel smoothness are deeply appealing. Perhaps it is telling enough that my favorite panels are so many in number. The memoir is a love letter to color and to art. It’s tasty. It’s crunchy.

Sodhini starts her memoir with New York City. I grew up there, and while our experiences differ, there exists a constant thread between the two of our experiences—the city itself. She writes, “There was something utterly irresistible about New York from afar-….-[because] more than a muse, it seemed to me that the city served as a fix for slightly broken people. It brought out the creativity in them, it eased their sorrows, it made them forget it, it made them laugh, it breathed new life.” And then, Sodhini explains the ways in which life has broken her, and the way New York breathed new life into her.

The world breaks Sodhini by creating cultural dissonances between her home in India in the 1990s and the immigrant experience. As many immigrants may wonder, she reflects on “how I might have become if I had not grown up in a postcolonial nation trying to find itself.” She explains, “Western cultural supremacy is a complex thing. It takes interest away from local culture, especially for the younger generations, and it is utilized as soft power. Yet I do not know how to reconcile the uncomfortable truth with the fact that this strange cultural fraternization made me who I am.” In the same way, I also, am unsure of how to contend with the way American culture has both demeaned and stolen aspects of my culture, and yet, also shaped and changed me into the “American” I suppose I am. Her lucidity and honesty about difficult concepts are refreshing and thought provoking for everyone, but especially so for someone in a similar position.

From there, she moves into food and grief. Her grandfather dies, and the food portrayed so vibrantly in earlier pages disappears. Food becomes a means of subsistence. Solely nutritional. Perhaps it is because I am in a similar position of processing grief, but learning about her experience is healing. Maybe this is my cynicism, but the grief in this section feels eternal, constant, and unavoidable. Despite this, the story persists, it continues into her past, but the reader’s future. In New York, she returns to food. Food is drawn in a vibrant juicy manner. Food returns to her. She once again eats to taste and to experience.

Eventually, we move into her immigration to New York. A map of the city with Woorijip, a cheap Korean takeout store, accompanies the city’s introduction. I’ve been there during the lunch-time rush and saw mostly office workers taking a quick lunch break. It is, unlike Nobu or Catch NYC, a nontourist, not-flashy destination, because Woorijip’s sole purpose is to serve food with convenience. A kind of cheap, tasty, homemade-in-a-store flavor for the busy “normal” people of NYC. This was the moment I realized I loved this book, because it spoke directly to me. This is not about the NYC of upper echelon finance moguls, but the NYC of the common people. I immediately understood Sodhini has truly lived in New York City and viewed it as her home.

Ultimately, This Beautiful, Ridiculous City is a love letter to herself, to her experience, to the immigrant experience, and to New York City. Sohini believes “you belong to New York City instantly or never. I remain a willing victim of the former.” I don’t agree with that. And that’s okay—we have different experiences of the city. For her, it’s a home she belongs to (without roots and all). For me, this is the place that’s shown me the world’s breaks, through experiencing COVID-19, anti-Asian racism, and elitism in many facets (racially, socioeconomically, notions of attractiveness). NYC is the birth of cynic chaos that plagues everyone’s life; it is not a place I have always belonged to. For her, NYC is the place that fights against the “relic of my twenties [that] make me wonder if I am forever doomed to love things and people whose reciprocation is fraught with contradictions.” As such, she refuses to leave the city, because she doesn’t “want [her] New York to turn against [her].” But, I have left. In college, I understood the ways NYC had been against me from the beginning, and I also learned to love it as a place to return to. Perhaps not yet a home, but that is not to say, forever not a home. Perhaps one day, NYC will no longer haunt me, and instead, I will haunt it, where the grime permeates through my skin always, not sometimes. Still, our differences in NYC does not stop me from writing this review as a love letter to this graphic memoir.

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.

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.