Last weekend, I ran into my friend Sara outside one of our local bookshops (I wish you could see the clouds of dork dust puffing out of my pores when I say we have more than one independent bookshop in East Nashville). It was Independent Booksellers Day, and I'd walked over to make a celebratory purchase only to find The Bookshop wall-to-wall with eager readers. Sara and I lingered outside, chatting about what her book club should read next. (I recommended Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, because it goes down easy but has the thematic heft of literary fiction, making it ripe for discussion and something people will actually finish.) Anyway, Sara suggested I post recommended reading more than once a year, and since it's been such a good year of reading so far, I'm thrilled to oblige.
A riveting, page turning retelling of David Copperfield, set in modern day Appalachia, against the backdrop of the opioid crisis. Demon is like no other character I’ve ever read; Barbara Kingsolver writes like a woman possessed. I was fuh-loored by her deft and nuanced depiction of poverty, addiction, kinship, and what it means to be home. An absolute must read.
This collection of essays is exactly as advertised: a literal book of delights, short masterful essays of observation and reflection, written every day over the course of a year. Gay is a poet and a professor too, and I found myself envying the students who get to bask in the glow of his joyful, delightful perspective.
One of the ways we dehumanize marginalized groups is by requiring them to be super human. It’s not enough for, say, disabled people to exist in a world that wasn’t built for them, we want them to inspire us with their indomitable will and endless good cheer. Fat people can walk among us, as long as they do so humbly and apologetically, while picking at a salad. Likewise, the stories we hear about undocumented Americans tend to be of two ilks: they’re criminals and rapists who are stealing our jobs or they’re the hardest working, most upstanding and family oriented people on earth! Look at this young Dreamer and all she’s been able to achieve in spite of being brown and having parents that don’t speak English (the unofficial universal language). Cornejo Villavicencio is a Dreamer. She was one
of the first undocumented Americans to graduate from Harvard. She’s in a Ph.D program at Yale. And yet this memoir/journalism/essay collection defies easy categorization and is not the glossy scholarship or hero’s journey we’ve come to expect—and demand, from “our” immigrants. It’s rough and raw and scrappy and honest and angry and true. Except when it’s not. Cornejo Villavicencio imagines endings (so beautifully) for those who died anonymously in this country. She imagines the final hours of a day laborer who became homeless because of addiction and unprocessed trauma, and the specificity and tenderness of her imagining is gut wrenching. This isn’t just a book we all need to read, it’s a way of seeing the world that we need to embrace.
What I love about poets writing prose is how adept they are at drawing parallels, conjuring symbolism, and availing themselves of double entendres. They use language as a tool and a toy. Here, Ni Ghriofa, a mother and poet, becomes obsessed with another mother and poet from centuries before, and attempts to translate her poem—an Irish keen—while researching her life and imagining the parts of her story that are unwritten.This book is peculiar and hard to categorize or pin down. It’s part memoir, part biography, part genealogy, part prose poem—a reverse haunting of sorts—that’s about motherhood, destiny, and the parts of ourselves we give away . I gave my copy away to my friend Caroline, who happens to be the poet and author of the next (awesome, awesome) book on this list.
Another gorgeous novel in verse, by one of my poet heroes, Caroline DuBois. God I loved this book. It’s about a young teenage girl named Quinn, who, in the shadow of her perfect older brother, considers herself ordinary, unremarkable, a poor student, mediocre skateboarder, and maybe partially responsible for her parents’ constant bickering. When a tornado rips through her Nashville neighborhood, Quinn’s world is upended, literally and figuratively, but through the power of poetry—she finds her way back to herself and a new definition of home.
Gordon is the co-host of the podcast Maintenance Phase, which illuminates the pervasiveness of anti-fat bias, particularly in American culture. She is SO smart. Her work is deeply researched. And if you are remotely curious about how our national discourse about weight might be impacting your thinking, you need to read this book. If you feel even slightly ambivalent about, say, fat people on airplanes and who should pay when someone in a larger body requires an extra seat, Gordon makes one hell of a case for privileging human
dignity over capitalism, which, she reminds us, “is not and will not be a source of justice for any of us.” Not only does this book address the myths surrounding fat people and diet culture, at the end of each chapter Gordon offers meaningful action items, questions for self reflection, and resources for further reading. If you’ve ever thought, “I have nothing against fat people, as long as they’re happy and healthy” or “I’m fine with other people being fat, I’m just more comfortable when I lose weight”, Gordon provides a compelling argument about how it would benefit all of us if you question your caveats and “reach for the contours of your concern.”
At first, with this kind of book, I find myself resisting the chick lit tropes (the “secret trauma”, the “smattering of freckles and strawberry blonde waves”, the workaholic woman, the GRAY EYES), and right when I’m about to throw in the towel, Emily Henry wins me over with dialogue. The woman is an ace with witty banter, and the next thing I know I am invested in the characters and need to know how we’ll arrive at our happy ending. A sweet beach read (or three a.m. can’t fall back to sleep read). I loved it.
I almost didn’t pick it up because of reader comments that the book was too long, too complicated, and had too many characters to keep track of. It is long, it is complex (in the most brilliant way), and once you settle in for the ride, the characters will make sense (I promise). This is an exercise in trusting the author to take you on a journey, one that is so cleverly and masterfully conceived, the last act will leave you a little bit breathless. This novel is adventure, fable, sci-fi, historical fiction, and contemporary fiction rolled into one, and it’s a paean to books and the power they have to connect us. I loved it.
I fucking loved this book. It’s one of those perfect novels with lovable characters and compelling storylines and clever symbolism and layers of meaning and depth. Using the world of professional video game creation as its central setting and motif, the novel is about the roles we play in each others’ lives, the power of cause and effect, and how the work we put out into the world connects us to each other. Its about relationships and creativity and collaboration and breaking barriers (while working within limitations) … I can’t do it justice. Just read it. Also? NO GRAY EYES. (Though there are two lilac ones, which is cool.)
Do you like poetry even a little? This collection is an absolute knockout. I kept taking pictures of the pages and sending them to people: LOOK AT THIS. LOOK. AT. THIS.
Like:
“I think the hardest people in the world to forgive are the people we once were, the people we are trying desperately to not stir into the recipe of who we are now.”
Or:
“How does a parent tell a 6-year-old
that gun sales spike every time
our right to bear massacres
Makes a coroner faint …”
Or:
You want to go read it,
Don’t you?
Do.
(I wrote that last one. You should go read Andrea's poems. They're better than mine.)
After Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow, I was curious to see what else Zevin had written. Turns out she’s written quite a lot—for young adults, in particular. This one is the first in a series of books se in a near future, where chocolate and coffee are illegal (GASP), water is scarce, and everything else is rationed. Anya Balanchine—our protagonist—is the 16 year old daughter of a deceased mob boss whose family business is the Balanchine Chocolate company. This is a story of forbidden love, loyalty to family, and a budding career ambition. I think I would have liked this series a lot as a kid. It was enjoyable to read as an adult, and interesting to see a master themestress (I think I just made up that word) craft a story
(albeit a less nuanced one) for a young audience.
This was a perfect chaser following Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow. It’s serious—but not difficult. The pacing is incredible—and yet, it’s all psyche, not plot. The writing and point of view—third person, but from Sam’s consciousness—is raw and real and extremely effective. It’s a coming of age story unlike any I’ve read before. I’m not going to outline the plot here, because the beauty of the story isn’t in the plot. It’s in the telling. Really, really, good.
Hoooooooooo. This story was intense and infuriating. It takes place in a dystopian version of the United States where mothers are surveilled and separated from their children for even minor “infractions”, like letting a child walk home from school (two blocks) alone. Frida, the protagonist, is an Asian American single mother (dumped by her husband three months postpartum, for a White Woman of Instagram). After a "lapse in judgment" Frida refers to as the Very Bad Day, the police take her child and Frida is sent to an experimental government program called the School for Good Mothers, where over the course of a year (separated from her toddler daughter) she must undergo rigorous training to prove that she’s been reformed. Only then will a judge decide whether to reunite Frida with her child or revoke her
parenting rights altogether. The school is bonkers. There are evil Stepford-esque teachers and robot children. But given the fascist hellscape America is becoming and government’s mistrust of parents and women in particular, the whole thing still felt entirely too real. A commentary on the insane expectations we place on mothers—and what it means to be a “good” one, the novel is designed to make you question whether you (or any of us) would measure up if your skill could be measured. This would also be a great book club pick.
I’m sure I don’t need to tell you about this. You’ve probably read it, though somehow I never had. Wiesel’s account of his experience at Auschwitz, then Buchenwald is shattering. He was a teenager when his family was taken from their home in Transylvania. They had not—could not—believe the warnings of what was to come, and so they stayed until they were rounded up into cattle cars, standing room only. Just like we are now disbelieving the intentions of the radical right who are telling us loud and clear what will befall the marginalized among us if we don’t fight like hell. I keep asking myself how this time—with the queer and trans and black and Chinese and brown and disabled communities under constant attack—is different. When will it be “time” to fight back “for real”? Our evil people are no different from those evil people. It can happen again. It absolutely can happen again.
Excellent. Highly recommend. This on would be another great book club read. I went into it completely blind and I am so glad I did. This is another novel that tackles artificial intelligence without plunking you into a completely unrecognizable and sterile world. In fact the novel read like a classic, like it could have taken place in the 20s or 40s or 50s. I have a feeling I’ll be thinking about this one for a long time.
God damn. This one was great too. My Q1 reading experience will be tough to beat. This is the nonlinear coming of age memoir of a queer, Muslim, immigrant woman. Interwoven with stories from the Quran that symbolically parallel her own, Lamya’s memoir is about self discovery and what it means to live authentically as a queer muslim woman of faith.
I don’t know about this one, man. Everyone was going bonkers for it, and it kept me turning
pages, but I didn’t love it. I appreciated all the themes at work and the way the novel plays with the complexity of guilt and innocence, but (and it's not lost on me how much what I'm about to say makes me sound like a whiny ass Republican doughboy complaining about Hillary Clinton) I found the narrator hard to relate too (wahhhh)—and at times hard to follow. I’ve never lost the thread so many times, having to go back, re-read, catch myself up. Could have been the wrong book for the moment for me, but I was glad (if a bit
unsatisfied) when it was over. (It's worth noting that literally everyone on the internet disagrees with me about this, so probably take this review with a grain of salt and make up your own mind.)
Another sobriety memoir. I actually had it in my mind that this was a follow up to Blackout—a sobriety memoir by a different Sarah (Sarah Hepola), but this Levy’s first book. She recounts a young adulthood of blackout drinking, social anxiety, and struggles with body image and disordered eating that is deeply relatable, followed by stories of early sobriety and finding her authentic self without drinking. There’s a calm and ease that comes in to your life when alcohol is off the table, and it’s always inspiring to watch it happen for someone else, especially a charming and honest writer like Levy.
This one blew my mind. So much highlighting. So much learning. It’s one I know I’ll keep going back to, as a strategist, a leader, a coworker, a facilitator of groups, and as a human on this planet, trying to channel my frustration, rage, and discontent into something useful.
Emergent strategy is about building complex systems of change through relatively small interactions. It’s a way of putting “be the change you wish to see in the world” into practice and answer to the question, “how can we make a difference, when so many people are committed to the status quo.”
I was so eager to read this work of historical fiction, after reading O’Farrell’s brilliant Hamnet, and it did not disappoint. O’Farrell writes with a distinctive and poetic urgency that I love, imagining her characters—in this case the Duchess Lucrezia de Medici—to vivid life. Another literary page turner, this novel uses painting and portraiture as a metaphor for truth, to brilliant effect.
Mostly essays, some poems, some fiction that is truer than non. A good collection of important pieces that are sometimes hard to read.
I picked up this pocket book of essays at The Bookshop on West Eastland, where I always (always) discover something new and interesting, and damn is it a great collection. Each essay answers the question, “Why Are You Committed to Vote?” In a post Trump America; and the responses are varied and powerful. Highly recommend. Also? A great stocking stuffer for your progressive loved ones (or a great hint for the republicans you're still trying to love).
A fast Saturday afternoon read that felt like watching a movie (a Rom Com, obviously). It’s about a writer at SNL (called TNO here), who falls for one of the show’s host/musical guests. He’s a smokin’ hot singer songwriter, she’s a witty and average looking comedy writer pushing 40. They meet, they part, they meet again. There’s a whole art-imitates-life-and-then-life-imitates-art thing going on here that would make for fun book club fodder. I really enjoyed the behind-the- scenes that give a glance into the grueling life of the show’s writers (though it sometimes felt like specificity for the sake of verisimilitude and not really advancing the story in any way), but the format for Act 2 was also a pleasant surprise. I won’t give it away, but I found it to be a fun, light, and enjoyable read.
A light and lovely beach read about what happens when a screenwriter who writes Hallmark-channel style scripts shifts gears and writes a true story that’s literally and figuratively close to home. If you like Emily Giffin and Emily Henry, add this one to your list. Sweet, fast, and fun.
This is a coming-of-age novel (of sorts) set in a boarding school for the deaf. It’s also a primer in deaf history in the United States, and a searing commentary on disability rights and corporate greed in this country. I was first made aware of the richness of Deaf Culture when I read Andrew Solomon’s Far from the Tree (a must read) and the debates even within the deaf community about whether deafness is even a disability. This story brings this and other issues to light—and to life—weaving in linguistics, race, parental responsibility, big pharma, and the power of protest. Weighty work for a character driven novel that manages to feel well paced and light on its feet. Thought provoking and entertaining.
If you’ve been following my book recaps for awhile, you might recall the year I became obsessed with grief memoirs. Could not get enough grief. This mainlining of other people’s tragedies was, I think (maybe?) something akin to exposure therapy, or proof that my worst fear—losing my partner or child—could be survivable. Rob Delaney has written a perfect grief memoir, which feels both absolutely true —and absolutely wrong— to say. True because he could not have brought me any closer to his grief (I hovered just feet above his precious story). And wrong because he was writing (the utterly tragic, raw and unadulterated)
truth of his life in the face of his child’s death (not trying to win at grief writing). This is a beauty and a gift and a punch.
So there you have it. Some fresh hot reading recs to consider as summer approaches. To think if I'd been growing a fetus instead of a book list it would only be as big as an avocado. Isn't this so much better?
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