In my time here I have read 9.5 books, filled up two notebooks, finished a whole pack of pens, picked wildflowers, stared at clouds for hours, and took the time to write this little piece you are about to read now. It’s not a book review, it’s a bitch session, it’s merely a sweet, little tender “thing” I wanted to share. I hope you enjoy.

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xo the book bitch & her softer side

Since being at The Vermont Studio Center, I’ve been thinking about my “body” of work and about my literal relationship with my body. How I carry this body, yet I do not appreciate it enough.

I have always loved that being an artist means finding the beauty in everything, anywhere. And then that collection or series of findings is what we title as an artist’s “body of work.” And being a writer, I also fell in love with and found beauty in the literal meaning of the phrase. So, what about an artist’s physical body as “the work?”

For most of my life, I have struggled with an eating disorder and an addiction to self-harm. I have given my body to the wrong people and had it taken from me once before. I have criticized it, shamed it, exhausted it, and neglected it so many times; I’m still so amazed that it still exists, this tired body of mine.

I carry this body, yet I do not recognize its existence enough.

I have had the honor to attend several writer’s retreats, residencies, and fellowships, where I am presented as a writer. But I forget that I am a visual artist in my own way, my presentation of self is a personal representation of being an artist. To look like an artist and to feel like an artist is sometimes part of my art. It’s when I feel most at home because art has never failed me. The pressures from society to be a money-making artist have tried to defeat me, but my personal pursuits of making art never have.

I carry this body, yet I do not understand its value enough.

While in Vermont, I got into the habit of waking up early every morning (even on days when I don’t want to) to stretch and do a bit of a workout. Nothing crazy, just a light series of movements that give me the opportunity to say, “Hey! Thanks, left kneecap. I’m grateful for you, right shin. You’re a bit stiff, shoulders, but that’s alright.”

I carry this body, yet I do not thank it enough.

The first time I traveled without my parents or family was a trip with a group of poets to San Jose. I remember lying awake in the dorm-room bed thinking, “Whoa. It’s so crazy that I am here,” then looking down at my feet thinking, “And so is my body!” How wild that my mind is so capable of going so many places but my body is the only thing that has the ability to stay present. For good or for bad.

I carry this body, yet I do not see it enough.

I am still working on how to better show up for my body. The first step is to be kinder to it, and the second is to treat it like the art that it is: a work in progress with the chance of being a masterpiece. During my stay in Vermont, I have eaten so much food without guilt. I have stretched and massaged my body into shapes it’s been craving. I have even written parts of my body love letters to help ease my own judgment. To my belly, to my back rolls, to the butt I do not have but think is humble and cute! As a writer, I am doing what I know best, which is to write my way into understanding and to find beauty. That even means pointing my gaze back upon the things that scare me the most; myself. If I want to get any better than this, if I want to take anything away from my time here in Vermont, it’s my body of work; my physical body.

How grateful I am that even with its aches and pains and recent health hiccups, it is trying. It is doing its best, and the least I can do is meet it halfway. To show it the same passion and empathy I do for everyone and anything else in this world. It’s not going to happen overnight, sure. And I will have slip-ups, absolutely. But if anything, it will be my greatest work of all.

Remembering: I carry this body, and yet, it is enough.

xo
the book bitch

I love that we live in a society where seasons are labeled. For example, the “basic bitch” fall look with all the clichés of pumpkin spice, knitted scarves, black leggings, and brown oversized sweaters. And this is clearly an Odyssey summer. On an epic scale. IMAX 70 millimeter to be precise.

I am going to be so real with y’all. At first I was a bit iffy about the movie. Like, I wasn’t that impressed by the trailer or the initial sparks of hype. I was like, OK, but isn’t it just going to be another movie about another dude on another hero’s journey? Sure, fine, OK. Whatever. However…

FUCK! Damn it, Nolan. Bro, you sneaky wee bastard. You fucking got me, OK!

It was really that good. It was really that epic! And seeing that movie in a theater on a super fancy screen was so worth it. It had me in a chokehold the whole time. Was it perfect? No. But did it exceed my expectations and my typical bitch-ass hate opinions? ABSOLUTELY! Will I see it again? You bet your ass I will. And I will see it on another fancy-ass screen.

There were many things I loved about the movie. The first being that Christopher Nolan chose Emily Wilson’s translation to base his script on. I was so happy to hear he trusted her work. Second, although he’s a man who isn’t famous for writing strong female characters, he was smart enough to cast BRILLIANT, strong, incredible actresses to do the heavy lifting. (Even though the men are always going off to war, it’s the women who do all the heavy lifting in the Odyssey.)

I mean, as my mom pointed out, Nolan probably saw Wilson’s first line and was instantly hooked. She starts with “Tell me the story of a complicated man.” Shit! Nolan loves a complicated man. Of course he was drawn to this like a sailor to the siren’s song.

I’ve become so obsessed. Two of my best friends and I have an IG group chat dedicated to straight Odyssey videos, lore, and internet takes, because we’ve drunk that much of the Circe Kool-Aid.

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FOOTNOTE: I MEAN COME ON! The Circe scene alone. To make her a powerful witch, living with her bird sister, alone, and using her powers to “protect” those without powers?! That scene was so layered and deep on so many levels I could do a post on that alone. And I won’t lie… I might, haha!

All of that is to say, if you’re like me and want to get more of an Odyssey fix OR if you are someone who hated the movie (PLEASE TELL ME if you are because I would love to discuss!) and wanted something different or similar, I got you. One thing I love doing with book bitch is making recommendations. So here, my lovely bitches, is a list of Odyssey-worthy books and movies to try out.

O BROTHER, WHERE ART THOU?
Oh yes, a movie. Because here at book bitch we love movies as much as we love books because we love adaptations! There’s an art to that, and it’s tricky as fuck. For those who don’t know, this movie was a satiric take on the Odyssey. The Cohen Brothers are beloved cheeky nerds who poke fun at the Homer poem while giving it its praise. A delicious, fun, and hilarious take that I highly recommend watching or even re-watching.

2001: A SPACE ODYSSEY
I mean, this movie (and book) are a retelling, aren’t they? I was never sure as a kid, but it’s in the title for one. And also, isn’t HAL a one-eyed monster who is one of the worst and most sinister villains in cinematic history? Kind of worth rewatching or definitely seeing for the first time.

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PERCY JACKSON & THE OLYMPIANS book series by Rick Riordan
Yo! Say what you want, but this YA series slaps. I picked the first one up during the height of COVID, and I really enjoyed them all! I haven’t watched the show, but I loved the books. I recommend this to any young adult of all ages to give it a try. They’re ideal beach and plane reads.

SILENCE OF THE GIRLS by Pat Baker
First, apologies to Song of Achilles and Circe. They’re both fun books, but how THIS book got overlooked and didn’t get the praise and attention it deserves is beyond me. Silence of The Girls is a tragic, heartbreaking, breath-stealing novel that begins with the disgusting rape, pillage, and sexual slavery of the Greeks, led by Achilles. It quickly becomes a retelling of the Iliad from the perspective of one of the enslaved girls. So, basically Samantha Morton’s incredible monologue in The Odyssey, explored deeply and much further.

GLORIOUS EXPLOITS by Ferdia Lennon
I’ve raved about this book already, so you can check it out here. But what I love most about this book is how everyone I have recommended it to has told me how obsessed they have become with it. I have YET to find a hater, so if you are… respectfully, shut up, haha! Usually I want to talk, but for this one, it’s fine. I think this novel is sublime. What I loved most about it, which is also true of Nolan’s Odyssey, was the combination of poetry-speak and plain-speak. Sure, the original Odyssey is a poem. But the “real life” Odysseus would most likely be telling his dudes, “OK. let’s go home.” Simple and clear as that.

ULYSSES by James Joyce
You think I was going to do this list and not put my Irish homie James Joyce on here?! Fuck up! Of course I was. It is for sure one of the most famous retellings of The Odyssey. But what I will say is, when I first read this in high school, it was hard. I love Joyce, but homie’s writing can be a bit like a triple-chocolate cake: delicious, thick, a bit dense, and super rich. And at the time I didn’t know it was basically an Odyssey remake. What I read was a dude distracted in Dublin, trying to get home.

What I find the most fascinating about Nolan’s Odyssey and Joyce’s Ulysses is that the metaphor I find woven into both their interpretations is not the hero’s journey but the artist’s journey.

An Artist typically leaves home because it’s a difficult place. It might carry a lot of dark, difficult memories. But when they set off into the world and choose to become an artist and make art, aren’t they just doing just that? Trying to find “home?” Whatever that means.

Aren’t all artists basically just trying to be nomads, free spirits, in-betweeners, while simultaneously trying to find chosen families, build bridges, create understanding, invoke empathy, and most importantly, to find safety, to find their own kind of home?

And Matt Damon’s brilliant, subtle, brooding performance made me think of that. As artists, we thrive on being misunderstood. We’re fine with living in the unknown, but when people find connections and see us, isn’t that also such an amazing feeling? Isn’t that also why we do what we do? Aren’t we all just trying to find home? It’s why I think Odysseus wasn’t sure at first why he couldn’t or didn’t want to go home. Sure, there was the guilt of war, but going home would also mean…that’s it. The end.

It would mean he would no longer be in the search for “something.” And being an artist is constantly being on the quest, the journey, the precipice of finding. The search is the juiciest part. Because if I find what I’m looking for, what do I have to look forward to thereafter?

le sigh

Well. Fuck. I guess all I have left to say is
1. I absolutely love being an artist. It’s fucking nuts.
And 2. I don’t know man, but that movie really got me in my feels.

So that’s it! That’s my list and thoughts and feelings. I hope something hit you and you were able to feel inspired.

And of course, as always, I end each chapter with love. Nothing but endless, never-ending horizon, Odyssey-level amounts of love.

sincerely,
the book bitch

Now, as a semi-people pleaser, that doesn’t feel right. I can’t help wanting to be liked, but it’s true: not everyone is going to like you, and it’s something you have to come to terms with.

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I thought by the ripe age of 36 I would be fine with it, but obviously it’s still eating at me. Especially as I’m getting older and I am finding myself growing apart from people I once called friends. People I always believed would love and like me no matter what happens. But again, that is life.

Shit happens. Not everyone will like you, including people who were once called friends, and not everyone should. Learn from it, heal from it as best as you can, and try to move on with grace.

That’s a little tidbit of where my head is as we dive into this special edition of S.S.B.O.S. paid Substack.

With that said, here are the books I didn’t like that much or couldn’t even finish…

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My favorite cliche in the whole world, that is also super corny is, “This song saved my life.”

I don’t know why the idea of a song or music “saving someone’s life” is both cringeworthy and comforting to me. But it is.

(Footnote: “Cringe” for sure gets a bad rap. My friend JJ reminded me cringe is just another word for fun. Then we both came to the conclusion that cringe, at times, is just another word for “untapped fun.” A very awkward, vulnerable form of potential. But also cringe could also just be cringe… Like bad cringe. Haha!)

I think the reason the phrase “music saved my life” gets under my skin and soothes me simultaneously, is partly because it’s a gross exaggeration while also being so fucking true.

It’s just so goddamn relatable!

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There are countless songs that feel like they have saved me from doing some dumb shit. For instant, one song in particular that comes to mind, when I dare sit in the vulnerability of this thought, is the song “Cranes In The Sky” by Solange.

(Footnote: I’ve actually written about the song before on my other blog, the new blog on the block.)

I am currently in a very deep depression. (I mean, shit, what else is new?!) It’s a tab bit more concerning bout of depression because it isn’t just clinging to the bags under my eyes for dear life, but showing up in other physical ways. For example, I’ve lost 10 pounds in the last month. And believe me when I say; I’m not bragging. I mean shit, it is far from something I’m proud about. It’s even embarrassing to admit out loud.

There is an anxiety borrowing inside of me, gripping and twisting, and carving away at me. Once merely a metaphor, but now, it seems to be standing on two legs, staring back at me.

So here I am, depressed, trying not to self-harm, cleaning the house I’m currently house sitting when the song “Cranes In The Sky” comes on, and yes, as trite as it might sound, it literally made me stop in my tracks. And what’s so funny, I laughed.

I actually laughed out loud. Because when I was 11, a drunk once told me, “I don’t know much, but what I do know is life is fucked up and life is beautiful. Which means life is fucking beautiful.” And homie was right.

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So! Here I am laughing, depressed AND laughing, cleaning a BEAUTIFUL house in the Los Angeles hills on another gorgeous day in LA, while Solange reminds me “don’t you cry, baby…”

So I don’t.

Instead, I think about a new series for that book blog I have, the one that has provided me so much joy and freedom in the past. And then I am quickly reminded that I haven’t posted in a minute and how writing about music, depression, and books wouldn’t solve my depression, but would help it go away for a moment.

Welcome to my new series “Songs & Spines,” a post dedicated to songs that I love and the books I love that I think pair beautifully together. So if you’re like me and love the song “Cranes in the Sky,” here is a list of five books I think you should read:

“THEIR EYES WERE WATCHING GOD” by Zora Neale Hurston
A classic, like the entire Solange album. A woman lost in the love of other men while finding love for herself. Ain’t nobody hit raw nerve better than THE Zora Neale Hurston.

“HARDLY STRANGERS” by A.C. Robinson
A young girl, heartbroken and hung up on the wrong dude, has a one-chance encounter with Mr. Right… now. Love is fleeting, but at least you got to love at all.

“DRY SEASON” by Melissa Febos
A deeply sensitive and honest memoir about Melissa Febos coming face-to-face with her relationship with not just sex but the relationship she has with her own body.

“MIDNIGHT LIBRARY” by Matt Haig
A quiet and tender novel about death and depression. A young woman comes face-to-face with her own life, along with the many, many lives she never even got to live.

“THIS IS HOW YOU LOSE HER” by Junot Diaz
I honestly can’t talk about this book without breaking out in a cold sweat of anger, happiness, frustration, and jubilation. It will stir the pot while simultaneously feeds your soul.

“POST-TRAUMATIC” by Chantal V. Johnson
A slow burn of a novel. A young woman who works at a psychiatric clinic has to come to the realization that she might have to deal with her own demons before she can judge someone else’s.

And there you have it, my first Songs & Spines. I hope to do it more. Because I love music and books as much as I love a GOOD goddamn list!

And in case you were wondering… yes, I do feel a tad bit better. So thank you, Solange. And thank you, blog.

And thank you to my best friend, Dee. I want to give him a wee shout out for encouraging me to write this very post. When I clearly didn’t want to talk about what I was going through or feeling, he didn’t pry. Instead, he simply reminded me by saying, “Get back to your writing. I feel as though you have something to let out. Keep your heart, Rose.”

And always, I choose to end each chapter with love, and a reminder to keep your heart, dear read.
Keep your heart…
xo the book bitch

Why does it feel like there are two categories: good books and great novels? What does it even take to be considered a great novel? What separates a momentary book club read from timeless literature? And why does it all seem so damn daunting?!

I don’t want to be cliche and literally tell you the definition of the word “novel”(but yes, I did Google it), and even then, it still nags at me because the thing that makes a great novel doesn’t feel as subjective as other subjects like art, music, or film. I mean, if you look at any high school/college reading syllabus (in areas of the world where books aren’t yet completely banned and kids are still encouraged to read), you will very likely see the same titles over and over again:

The Great Gatsby
Lord Of The Flies
Their Eyes Were Watching God
Sula
The Bluest Eye
Catcher In The Rye
Grapes of Wrath
East of Eden
To Kill A Mockingbird
1984
Romeo and Juliet (okay, it’s a play)
The Outsiders

Which means, at some point, some group of people gathered and were like, “Yes, good sir, THIS is what it takes to be deemed a Great American Novel.” And even I have been to enough writing seminars and have read enough books to know that a good novel consists of these simple staples: a strong opening, a unique writing style/voice, sharp dialogue, a compelling story, and characters that keep you entertained.

OK, cute! But like… but what does it take to have a novel stick around for the looooong haul? How does a novel win the bewildering battle against the clock and stand the test of time?!

What sets a flash-in-the-pan NUMBER ONE HIT NEW YORK TIMES BEST SELLER novel that quickly fizzles away like the tail of a comet it rode in on apart from the slow burners that arrived timid at first but somehow tattooed themselves into the zeitgeist as “the great American novels”

Well.

As a girl who moonlights on a sex/dating podcast and has a blog called “the book bitch” I might not be the ideal source, but I am one curious fucker, so walk with me.

Now, what I believe makes something a real juicy novel is that staples list above plus a secret sauce I like to call “breathing room.”

Breathing room is actually a math equation, but hold on now! Don’t go running away quite yet; I’m awful at numbers, too. The equation is this: X amount of plain speech times Y amount of poetic beauty plus the sprawling timeline of at least 3+ years = novel gold. AKA “breathing room.”

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Fancy version: If you, dear writer, leave me, dear reader, enough room, time, and space to breathe, I will, willingly, follow you into the darkness of any forest and dive into any deep, cold sea you lead me to.

Less fancy, more formula-driven version: The writer needs to give enough space in between each of their deep, thought-provoking, painful but stunning epic metaphors, descriptions, and similes, all cut in with enough dry, plain, basic sentences, that the reader finds themself walking through the story at a steady pace. All that should happen over a MASSIVE amount of time. Decades are ideal, but honestly, 2-3 years will suffice.

Which brings me to what we are all here for: My book reviews. Or, if you are a clever one, my novel reviews.

I just finished reading three novels back-to-back-to-back. They were written by three very diverse authors, tackled different themes and subject matter, and all three had distinct styles and very different vibes.

The first was MY FRIENDS by Fredrick Backman.

The second was YESTERYEAR by Caro Claire Burke.

And the third was KIN by Tayari Jones.

All of these books have been labeled novels. One has become one of my favorite reads in a very long time. But I only think two are legit worthy of the title “novel” and yet I’m still torn about whether any of them will stand the test of time. But maybe you can resolve that argument for me.

Let’s start at the beginning. MY FRIENDS, by Fredrick Backman, is a story about—you guessed it—friends. Backman explores and captures friendship at that odd, vulnerable time in our lives… adolescence. His characters are all 14 and 15, but they’re dealing with things most adults don’t deal with until they’re in their 40s. These kids have seen it all, done it all, and are now just trying to survive it all.

The book has dual timelines: present and past. So it does check off my requirement of “breathing room.” The story spans nearly two decades, going back and forth between the now and then. Backman had me from the jump with his brilliance and wisdom. I loved how well he captured the fleeting, effortless heart of being a teenager. That relentless feeling of exhaustion and adrenaline. That cocktail of “nothing will ever happen to me” mixed with “everything happens ONLY to me.” Backman dissects the teenage brain with such precision that it’s remarkable he even grew up himself. He’s a real-life Peter Pan.

HOWEVER…since he had me by the throat from the very beginning, I thought, where the fuck can he go from there? Sadly…it’s the same place; over and over and over and over again. Backman is an extremely talented writer. There is no question about that, but oh dear oh lord oh my god, if you won’t let go of my throat, how is a bitch to breathe?!

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MY FRIENDS is about an artist who finds his people and then, later, before his life is over, finds the missing piece, that person who finally completes his band of misfits. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a very touchy, super emotional story that I did enjoy. HOWEVER there was so much colorful language! There was so much paint! SO MANY LAYERS! SO MANY poetically plastered pleas. It was so dripping and oversaturated that I was overcome by the fumes. Not repeat myself, but… so much goddamn repetition!

A wee tad-bit that might have been a factor is that the book was translated into English. Meaning, I can, without an ounce of being Ernest, blame that on my feelings getting “lost in translation.” And maybe the Swedish are better and cooler than we are, and have more words for artists. But, as silly one-track-minded English speakers, we don’t. So that became too much. So much.

So much so that, sadly, in my eyes, MY FRIENDS is not a novel. It’s a good book and a great story, and one I would totally recommend to a young person. But a novel with breathing room? No.

Next is YESTERYEAR.

I find it hard to believe that if you are a book bitch or book nerd, you haven’t heard someone talk about YESTERYEAR. It has taken the book world by storm, and I love it when that happens! I love it when something gets people excited about reading. YESTERYEAR is exciting for many reasons. For one, it’s Caro Claire Burke’s first novel. Which is so dope, so huge congratulations to her.

Second, the book is about “tradwives.” A tradwife, short for “traditional wife,” is the exact patriarchal bullshit you think it is; however, it is kind of clever. If only because you have to admire the idea for its humor. “Traditional wife?!” A woman who has the luxury of staying at home, making EVERY meal from scratch (yes, even the butter), doing all the household chores, and raising the babies?! Yeah, sure! But in this fucked-up economy where having a dual-income household is a smarter, better, more adult financial choice, that is the NEW traditional. And that’s the point! The hype and excitement about this book is because it addresses such a topical idea.

And oh! How she addresses it…

YESTERDAY tells the story of tradwife influencer Natalie. When we meet Natalie, she is at the height of her fame. She is the poster child of this “movement.” And she’s done it all “singlehandedly”…with the help of a producer, two nannies, a few amazing purchases, and the art of the spin. But yeah, she and the farm she lives on are as organic as a pack of Twizzlers.

After brief introductions, Natalie is magically transported to the 1800’s, where she is actually expected to live her life as a traditional Little House On The Prairie wife life. And guess what? No dual dishwashers, no nannies, no dryer, no cameras, and no one is coming to save you.

Premise aside, which is timely and topical, the reason I think this book caught the book clubs and summer reading lists by storm is the main character, that bitch Natalie.

So, I can’t with good faith call Natalie a “protagonist” because she is not someone you want to or will root for. But damn, she is so annoying and complex that you want to watch and see where this all goes. I know a lot of people found Natalie super unlikeable, and well, yeah, she is! That’s kudos to Burke as a writer. She captured a very complicated, hurtful, irritating, and tumultuous human. And when I found out that Burke use to be a tradwife herself, I was like, well damn, talk about having deep conversations with yourself.

It’s not that the characters you write should be a part of you, but the best-written characters have that combination of self-hate and self-love that the author feels about herself. Vulnerability is the universal language in literature, because books are something you experience and explore alone. And that shit can be scary.

All in all, I really enjoyed the shit out of this book. There’s even a part where Natalie reads her “feminist ranting, birth control taking, liberal with a bleeding heart, all men are trash” roommate to filth, and I was seething with such rage at how gorgeous and spot-on the writing was. I was SO jealous! And I welcomed that feeling with open arms.

However… I don’t think this book is a novel. I think Burke will go far in her career, but I don’t get a sense that this book hits the true definition of a “classic great American Novel.” I think it brilliantly captures a moment in our time, but it’s going to be difficult in 10 years to explain the significance of some of the social media references. I do think everyone should read it, though. Without a doubt. I mean, I even thought about buying it, but I love my public library too much.

For my last “is it a novel or just a novel idea,” I read KIN by Tayari Jones. This is Tayari Jone’s second book. Her first book, AMERICAN MARRIAGE, was literally one of my favorite books I read during the 2020 lockdown. The novel is about a man and a woman who fall in love and get married. But in an unfortunate turn of events, the man gets wrongfully accused of a crime and sent to jail. The couple tries their best to navigate marriage over such a distance. It’s touching, raw, and such a great read.

I was so excited to hear about her latest book, KIN. It’s the story of two little girls, cousins, growing up in the south at the tail end of Jim Crow, who are bonded by being motherless. Vernice and Annie grow up under their aunt’s give-no-shit-but-plenty-of-strong-love parenting style that sends them on two very different paths.

Vernice’s mother was murdered by Vernice’s father. In a fit of rage, he commits a murder/suicide, leaving baby Vernice without either parent. Annie’s mother, not knowing who Annie’s father is, just gets up one day and walks out of her life. This creates a crack in their lives from the jump, and the girls spend the rest of their lives trying to make sense of it.

KIN is a touching, very complex story of love, blood family, chosen family, and the scariest word of them all… codependency. What I love about KIN is how well it captures the South and its ugly side (its dark history), but also celebrates and highlights the South’s unique and unexplainable magic. How everyone is on a journey at that time in that large place, and how miracles get mislabeled as coincidences and vice versa.

KIN to me, without any doubt, is a novel. And I have this nagging feeling that readers might not see that until much later. But hey! Better late than never, right? I think Jones should get her flowers for writing such a touching, heartfelt, and beautifully tragic story. Although the book is not perfect, I think it captures America just as America deserves and needs to be captured.

So there you have it, people! Three books that may be novels, or somewhat novels, or maybe not novels at all.

Either way, I hope you start your summer reading list with these books and, as always, I end this chapter with love,

xo
the book bitch

And not to mention, May is damn near over… so fucking crazy. And here I was thinking 2025 wanted nothing to do with us as humans, but now it’s beginning to feel like either does 2026.

All of that to say, I have some REAL reviews coming out soon. In the meantime, I wanted to drop a line to tell you all I’m alive (barely), and that I’ve been reading (a lot).

I was also invited to a book club, which was super cool! But… of course, I missed the first meeting because I am directing a short film I wrote at the end of this month. This isn’t my first time directing; I directed a short film in high school that won the SIFF FutureWave award in 2008. I know, head trip! And a few music videos for homies and friends. But this is my first “adult/big girl/Hollywood hustling” project, and this shit is hard.

I am really lucky to have an incredible group of friends and fellow peers helping me out, but damn, people keep asking me questions, and I’m like, “Why are they asking me this… Oh! Wait. I’m the adult! They are asking me because I’m supposed to know… Ooops! My bad.” So, as you can imagine, the impostor syndrome is STRONG with this one.

But for more information on the project, all the links are below.
Called In A Favor
”very boring, very fast” Instagram

And if you would like to help donate or help out, those links are here!
Donate to “very boring, very fast”
Venmo for Called In A Favor

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Now, despite having to juggle three jobs, writing my own shit, and producing this short film, my ass LOVES a distraction, so of course I’m reading a lot. I’ve even had time (Ha! “have time?!” Bitch who I’m playing… I have NO TIME yet here we are…) to come up with my reading list for the remaining hours of spring and soon-to-be summer days.

And maybe we have some crossover…

“LOST LAMBS” by Madeline Cash

“MOTHER MARY COMES TO ME” by Arudhati Roy

“FEARLESS AND FEAR” by Josephine Baker

“1929” by Andrew Ross Sorkin

“ELECTRIC SPARK” by Frances Wilson

“BETH IS DEAD” by Katie Bernet

“SAID THE DEAD” by Doireann Ni Ghriofa

The last little tidbit I would like to leave y’all with is this: finish, start, or do whatever you’ve been avoiding or left on the back burner. The time is… now.

Like right now.

Still! Like now-now.

If you are one of those people who need a sign, I offer you this as a sign. And if you are one of those people who need permission, I am giving you permission. I found tangled in a lemon tree outside my house. I think it might belong to you.

Just make the damn thing. Start the damn thing. Do the damn thing.

Because I have googled “ways to get out of making a short film” a lot this week, and even “how to fake your own death” enough times, I’ve probably ended up on some list. Yet no matter what, no matter how much I try to fight against, there is always and still always the smallest, tiniest, wee percentage that tells me not to give up.

To see it through. To get to the end.

Like this very post. And as always, I like to end every chapter with love,
xo
the book bitch

We pull back the curtains, roll back the shoulders, dust off the dust (sneeze a little, of course), stretch out what’s feeling stiff, shake off the winter frost, and embrace the fresh and new. And what better way to do that than with a good book? So here’s a quick update of what I’ve read since we last spoke.

In March, I read “BEING MORTAL: Medicine and What Matters in the End” by Atul Gawand. A great non-fiction book about the last years of living. Death feels like the opposite of spring to me, but then again, isn’t birth its cute younger sister? Either way, I found the book profound, deeply thoughtful, and encouraging.

In April, I read and finished “NOTHING SERIOUS” by Emily J. Smith, “STRANGE HOUSES” by Uketsu, “CARELESS PEOPLE” by Sarah Wynn-Williams, “STRANGERS: A Memoir of a Marriage” by Belle Burden, “ALL MY FRIENDS ARE SUPERHEROES” by Andrew Kaufman, and “A GOOD WOMAN: A RECKONING” by Savala Nolan.

“NOTHING SERIOUS” was a silly, quick read that I wanted to give up on at first because it felt so cliché; a girl is in love with her best guy friend and pretends she’s not. But then the twist happens. A girl falls in love with the new girl her best guy friend is dating, THEN new girl dies mysteriously. Did the best guy friend have anything to do with it? And was he even a good guy to begin with? Ideal beach read, but for sure check it out from the library.

“STRANGE HOUSES” was, for lack of a better word, a strange novella about a strange house. A writer comes across the floor plans of a very mysterious, creepy house and then becomes obsessed with it. Enlisting his architecture buddy, he goes on a little quest for some answers. What they find is even more fucked up than the writer could make up.

“CARELESS PEOPLE” was and is probably the MOST INSANE book I’ve read this year, and I cannot tell enough people to read it. It’s the true story of Sarah Wynn-Williams, a woman who sought out a job at Facebook because she felt she could change the world for good. Well, you can’t do that if you work with terrible, awful, selfish, careless, asshole people! And that’s everyone who works at Facebook.

I’ll probably write more about CARELESS PEOPLE, but what I will say is that Wynn-Williams starts the book with the story about when she was attacked by a shark when she was a teenage girl. And you think to yourself, “da fuck! This woman’s life couldn’t get any crazier.” WRONG! Her bosses were Mark “fuck-face” Zuckerberg and Sheryl “super slimy” Sandberg.

But for this post, I want to focus on one book in particular: “STRANGERS: A MEMOIR OF A MARRIAGE” by Belle Burden.

One: There is something about springtime that makes me think the most about love. Maybe it’s the idea of the “spring fling,” the scent of nostalgic adolescence in the air, or maybe it’s just that spring brings new things. Like flowers and trees. Nature gets freaky, so maybe humans do too.

Two: I want to write about it because it’s the freshest on my mind since I just finished it a few days ago.

Three: My feelings towards the book have been nagging me. So I need to write about it. It’s how I process. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, dear reader, but sometimes my writing is very willy-nilly. It’s not very polished, most def has a few grammar and spelling mistakes, and truly is a one-sided conversation because I can talk myself in and out of points with little or no assistance.

And four: You might have noticed I have yet to say anything about the last book I read this month, “A GOOD WOMAN: A RECKONING” by Salavan Nolan. Oh! Don’t you worry. I have my thoughts, and plenty of them. It is a collection of essays that cover similar themes to Burden’s book.

The only difference is that I hated Nolan’s book. Like the fire that was sparked within me when I read that book. Oh wee! I can’t tackle it right now. BUT! I WILL! for my S.S.O.B.S. readers…

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In the meantime: watch me flex.

“STRANGERS: A Memoir of Marriage” is just that, a memoir about a… wait for it… marriage. I was housesitting my lovely lawyer’s house and started reading her copy. I had heard buzz about the book, but honestly, I went in fairly blind. I had absolutely no clue who the author was, nor did I have any context for what the book would be about, except for a very simple, straightforward, subtle memoir-style book about someone’s marriage.

I quickly learned (and so will you in literally the first five pages) that the book is a true story about a woman by the name of Belle Burden (oh my god! She has the same name as the author… how strange!) being told—days into a global pandemic—that her husband has been having an affair with another woman. When she confronts her husband about this accusation, he comes clean and even doubles down. He wants out of their marriage, no longer wishes to have anything to do with Belle, doesn’t give a damn about their home (or the TWO APARTMENTS they own - so context, these are rich folks), and if that’s not enough, he doesn’t even want custody of their three children.

But sure! He’ll hang out with them every so often (on his terms, of course) and occasionally grab a Thursday dinner with them. I’m sorry, but are you a dad or an uncle Nicky visiting town because he has a fucking timeshare he needs to take advantage of?! Like da fuck! People are really out there just becoming parents like it’s NOTHING.

So anyways, back to Belle. As you can imagine, she’s destroyed. Distraught. Devastated! Downright sad. All the other D words plus a few more. But the one D word she did not want to be was divorced. Well! Doesn’t matter, because her wack-ass husband makes it very, very, VERY clear that he wants to DISAPPEAR.

OK, so hear me out, this is where I’m going to sound crazy. (Like I don’t already!) I get the book was going to be a memoir about a marriage, and in this case, a marriage ending, but part of me figured or hoped maybe, just maybe, it was going to be, I don’t know…a bit more.

Belle Burden does sprinkle in a few memoir tentpole classics: childhood trauma, weird discoveries about adolescence, and early memories that probably felt insignificant to everyone else but meant the world to the author. When some merely heard a mosquito, the writer miraculously remembered hearing the swarm.

Burden even does the clever trick of bringing in other people’s marriages. Something I didn’t think uber-super-rich people were allowed to do. I thought they kept all the shit swept under a deeply textured hand-woven wool rug or 60,000 thread count sheets. Uh-uh! Not our girl Belle. Naw, she’s straight airing out her family’s laundry. But not all of it.

Yeah, see, that’s the thing. At times, I felt like Belle was holding back. It’s going to be wild for some people who have read the book to read it. But to me, the book felt like a woman always on the brink of crying but never letting the levees of her tear ducts break. The book reads like a heavy welling of eyes, but never once did it feel like a release.

But! I’m getting ahead of myself. I want to circle back to her corny-ass husband, or as you can figure out very quickly, ex-husband (Sorry! But that’s not a spoiler.) When I think of stories like this, or books that breach this topic, typically the author approaches the matter like a mystery of “what went wrong in our marriage?” Which is a question Belle does bring up. However, her approach is better because the secret to this entire book is in the title. Strangers.

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Belle’s book asks the question, “Who is this man?”

“Who the hell did I marry?! And why the fuck is he doing this?!”

Something I found myself internally screaming while reading the book. I could physically feel my shoulders hunching to my ears and my hands white-knuckling the book. But this wasn’t my marriage. And thank god, this wasn’t my man.

So I’ll give Belle that. Her writing, although simple, was deeply effective. I found myself caught up in the whirlwind of her sorrow and confusion. There were times I wanted to physically shake the shit out of her or Cher-in-MOONSTRUCK slap her, yelling, “Snap out of it!” Absolutely.

There must have been an editor who read this memoir a lot, because sprinkled throughout the book is a collection of her stories of being a pro bono lawyer working on immigration cases for people seeking asylum in the United States. She gives us as detailed a background as she legally could about each case and then always adds something along the lines of, “…And hearing of a mother running from a country where she was almost sold into sex trafficking pulled me out of my own white-woman misery and woe.”

OK, she never said that last part, but you and I get that’s what she was going for.

Although I thought those sections were smart and useful and helped humanize Burden’s uber-rich lifestyle, I did not think it was enough. She either needs more of those stories or none of those stories. It was a semi-odd number, and it didn’t flow as well as she might have thought it would.

Yes, that is me being nitpicky. But hey! I pay myself to do that.

All in all, I’m happy I read it. Did it help reinforce my semi-crippling, deep-rooted intimacy issues about marriage? Hell, mother fucking yeah. However…

Not as badly as “A GOOD WOMAN: A RECKONING” did. That shit? Damn right made me want to burn the institution of marriage and motherhood to the ground. BUT ALAS! That, folks, is for another post.

And as always, I end this chapter with love.
the book bitch

Oh wow. What a wild month it has been since we last spoke! And in all that time, not one review. My bad. Truly. I don’t know how it’s already March, and I went one month without posting and two months without a review.

Wait. That’s a bold faced lie! I know EXACTLY why I’ve been MIA; I’ve been depressed! And was in the throes of a manic phase. A hangover from one of those can-be-so-bad it knocks me out of my routine for weeks, and is such a gaslighting head trip, it convinces me that none of this matters. Which is a lie within itself because this does matter because I care about it. And more importantly, you dear reader, you care. I appreciate you and your support.

Someday, when I’m not in recovery mood, I’ll break down my mental health a little more. I even use literary metaphors; everyone is either a Virginia Woolf, Sylvia Plath, or Ernest Hemingway. I promise, it’s not as dark a story as you might think; it’s me after all, so there is some (dark) humor.

But! Let’s get to the good stuff, shall we?

I have read 12 books so far this year. I am both impressed and slightly annoyed by this because the bulk of that reading took place in January, when I read 9 books (again, deep depression), and I started off STRONG! The first four books I gave FOUR-STAR ratings AND I the five were FIVE-STAR books. Pretty impressive, right? Great way to start the year.

However…

Downside? Ugh! So much pressure! Because that is a hard act to follow. I found myself starting and stopping so many books following my high-star novels. Then I read my first 1.5-star book, and then read another that was beautiful but so painful and difficult to read that it made me pretty sad.

And then I just kind of stopped. Gave up hunting for my next read. Which made me even sadder. I love books! I love escaping into one when I need to get away from my current life. But the inertia was missing. The get-up-and-go feeling had vanished.

So I stepped away for a bit, journaled a lot more, poured myself into the pre-production phase of directing my first short film, and waited until I felt the itch come crawling back. And thankfully it did.

I was able to read two books in February and one book this month. But most importantly, I gave myself the breathing time that got me back to you! My lovely, faithful readers who come visit me in my silly corner of the internet. Hello! How are you?! I hope you’re doing well and taking care of yourself. Did you drink some water today? Did you do some good stretching? Did you thank your body for existing? And most importantly, have you read any good books lately?

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With all that said, I would like to tell you about the books I’ve read so far.

KALA by Colin Walsh

DISCONTENT by Beatriz Serrano

CAPE FEVER by Nadia Davids

EXIT WEST by Mohsin Hamid

WORRY by Alexandra Tanner

HEART THE LOVER by Lily King

BUG HOLLOW by Michelle Huneven

HALF HIS AGE by Jennette McCurdy

EMPEROR OF GLADNESS by Ocean Vuong

NIGHT PEOPLE by Mark Ronson

BLUE LIGHT HOURS by Bruna Dantas Lobato

Now, since I just trauma dumped on y’all, I figured we should focus on the good for this post! Only the Four-Star reviews. So let’s get the good times rolling…

KALA by Colin Walsh
It’s been really nice to discover new Irish writers, and I’m happy I found Colin Walsh. He’s Tana French with a twist of Martin McDonagh. KALA tells the story of a group of once inseparable, now estranged friends brought together when their “once was only missing but now found dead” friend Kala’s body is discovered. The news creates new riffs but also miraculously mends old wounds. I will always have a soft spot for novels about friends being tested. And Walsh does a really good job of making each friend seem so unique and justified in their actions. In one chapter, you’re rooting for Joe, the next you’re hoping Mush punches him in the face.

I read this very early in the year, but since it’s just around the corner, I think this would be a fabulous summer beach read!

DISCONTENT by Beatriz Serrano
I’ve read a lot of books about people trying to capture the brain rot and burnout that my generation is facing as we enter our 30s and 40s. Most of the time, I think the novelist is too “in it” and can’t seem to get their own head out of their ass. However, Beatriz Serrano is brilliant at capturing the millennials’ never-ending emotional burden.

She does it by using the driest humor I have ever read. So dry, I almost gave up a few times, but then something happened when Marisa, our main character, kind of goes…crazy? I don’t know if that’s the word, but there is a moment where she just combusts! I use that word because it’s not quite a crack, not really a break, and nothing like a boiling over. It’s a fireball of confetti of personal unfulfillment and discontent. I felt deeply seen and deeply satisfied.

CAPE FEVER by Nadia Davids
This novel was a weird one. It was almost too many comps, but somehow I felt she pulled it off. When I describe this book, I tell people it’s MEXICAN GOTHIC with a pinch of Guillermo del Toro’s CRIMSON PEAK but also a lingering scent of JANE EYRE (without the hidden wives, but there is something hidden) while simultaneously leaving space for an element of GET OUT.

Too many comps, right? But it’s like when you go to the movies, and you buy the largest soda (because it’s only 25 cents more, so might as well), and you make a graveyard drink. And for those who don’t know, a graveyard drink is when you do a little bit of everything: Sprite, root beer, cola, orange soda, etc, etc. AND SOMETIMES! You get it right. CAPE FEVER was kind of like that.

EXIT WEST by Mohsin Hamid
What’s hilarious is that someone recommended this book to me and said it was kind of a fantasy. And I couldn’t disagree more! But maybe that shows you where my friend and I stand on our beliefs or understanding of reality. I found EXIT WEST to be a very grounded and honest take on lovers who are bonded by trauma. Just because you lived through something so terrible and awful, does that mean true love doesn’t stand a chance?

Or what new love does it create in return? I think Mohsin Hamid is a very kind and thoughtful writer. He’s not a show off, but he is very skilled with language. He’s very particular about telling a solid good story first, meaning, each word leads to the next, and then a sentence is formed. Every so often, though, he sneaks in a gut punch of some poetic lemon juice, and the tartness is so refreshing.

NIGHT PEOPLE by Mark Ronson
If I’m being honest with you, was this the best-written memoir ever? No. Did he have help writing it? I’m actually going to say no because it really sounds like him. Which is exactly why I liked it. Most the time when it comes to the celebrity memoir, you can tell if they’ve worked with a ghost writer. With Mark, this book was very much him and in his voice. I could be wrong, but he pleasantly surprised me.

I was deeply entertained and LOVED hearing all his insights, thoughts, rules, tips, tricks, fears, mistakes, and anecdotes about New York City nightlife in the 90s and early 2000s. Do I wish he had talked more about Amy Winehouse? Absolutely! But maybe that’s another book. I loved this book because it was a love letter to misfits, nerds, outcasts, goonies, pricks, punks, bimbos, and rebels who don’t care about anything at all EXCEPT… music. It’s all about the music, man.

NOW! There was only book that was FIVE WHOLE STARS. I know. Wild! It was only February, and I read my first five-star book. But I loved that novel so much, I will give it its own little post to shine.

Until then, as always, thanks for coming to check in on me. I’ve missed you.

I end this chapter with love,
xo
the book bitch

Alright, alright, alright! I know, I know, I know. It’s been a minute. So many minutes, it’s become almost a month now. I promise I will have a few new reviews very, very soon. So far, I’ve already read 11 books so as you know, your girl has some thoughts.

In the meantime, I thought I would give y’all a list, a list of… Bookstores!! One of the greatest place in the world.

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As my Instagram states; “Born & raised in Seattle. Pay rent & dues in Los Angeles.”

I’m very lucky to call these two cities home. And super lucky since both of them are big literary cities. Now, I know what you’re thinking, “Los Angeles? A literary city?!” Yes, bitch. It is.

What do you think movies are if not story telling and writing?! (But, yes, sadly, I do know a lot of TV/movie writers who don’t read, but I don’t trust those hoes.) But Los Angeles goes beyond the sound studio when it comes to great writing. Some of the greatest writers have found incredible inspiration in this fair city.

And Seattle? My beloved home town is a super literary, artsy fartsy, academically friendly, writing well of knowledge. I use to joke because it rains so much Seattle’s main exports are chefs, writers, and serial killers. And usually one becomes the other because it failed at the first thing.

Anywho! On my post about my reading habits, tips, and tricks, I mentioned how much I love a local bookstore. So I figured I should share MY personal favorite bookstores in Seattle and Los Angeles. So, please enjoy!

Seattle:

Clara’s Books - Columbia City (South Seattle)

L.E.M.S. Bookstore - Columbia City (South Seattle)

Third Place Books - Seward Park (South Seattle)
Third Place Books has several locations but this one is my FAVORITE location.

Estelita’s Library - Central District

Elliott Bay Books - Capitol Hill

Ada’s Technical Books & Cafe - East Capitol Hill

Haunted Burrow Books - East Capitol Hill

Nook & Cranny - East Capitol Hill

Left Bank Books - Pike Place Market (Downtown Seattle)

Lamplight Books - Pike Place Market (Downtown Seattle)

Madison Books - Madison Park

Mercer Street Books - Queen Anne (North Seattle)

University Book Store - UW (North Seattle)
Hot tip; if you ever happen to be in a city that is famous for being a “college town” I HIGHLY recommend you check out the universities’s bookstore. Another great way to get to know the city as well as what the youth are up too.

Ophelia’s Books - Fremont (North Seattle)

The Secret Garden Bookshop - Ballard (North Seattle)

Phinney Books - Phinney Ridge (North Seattle)

Los Angeles:

The Last Bookstore - Downtown Los Angeles

Book Soup - West Hollywood

Skylight Books - Los Feliz

Stories: Books & Cafe - Echo Park

Children’s Book World - Palms

La Libreia - Midcity

Reparations Club - West Adams

Village Well Books - Culver City

The Ripped Bodice - Culver City

Chevalier’s Books - Larchmont

The Iliad Bookstore - North Hollywood

Octavia’s Bookshelf - Pasadena

Diesel, A Bookstore - Brentwood

The Salt Eaters Bookshop - Inglewood

Small World Books - Venice Beach

Also! Do you know a spot?! Let me know and please share!

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And as always, I end this chapter with love,
The Book Bitch

I have not gotten over this, sorry, it’s just in my nature, but a while ago, a friend told me she thought I “hated” too much. And my sensitive ass was very hurt by that comment. Because it’s not true. I don’t hate everything, and I don’t hate freely. Things need to earn my disrespect the same way they need to earn my respect. I always have good, valid reasons and well-thought-out, personal logic for why I don’t enjoy certain things. On top of that, I’m not a “judger” of other people’s hates. Meaning, if you like something I don’t like, I respect that! I’m not here to change anyone’s opinion. I am not here to yuck someone’s yum.

Not to mention: If my hatred of something deeply affects you in any way, well, damn. You’re giving my thoughts and opinion way too much value.

Now, with that disclaimer out of the way, shall we get a wee bit bitchy?…

I am very happy to report that in 2025, my “hated read” list is in fact a very, very short list. Coming in at Number Four as my most hated book was…

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I always find it so odd when people do their wrap-ups in the beginning or the middle of December. Like, don’t do December like that! The year isn’t over yet! There’s still time and ripe opportunity for you to find your new favorite best hate of 2025.

Then there are people who planned on writing and publishing a “2025 Wrap-Up” post already by January 1st (January 5th at the latest), but then got too tired or low-key forgot and were too distracted by life to even post it. Then suddenly it was like “Fuck it, still do it. Who cares if we are halfway through January?”

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So without further ado, please, take a moment with me as we travel back in time to the year 2025. (Yes, I know it was a terrible, shitty year, but I promise this will be just highlights, from the sweet to the bitter.)

As some of you know, I keep track of my books in three ways: Fable, Goodreads, and a handwritten list I keep in my notebook. But there’s no need for both Fable and Goodreads, which is why I’m dropping Goodreads in 2026. It wasn’t my favorite app to begin with. But I will always keep a physical list because, I don’t know, I like the way it looks written out. It makes me feel a bit more productive and like the wee little librarian of my own world.

Oh! And while we are on the subject of “productive”…

I have not been. Since my last post, there have been at least 7 books I did not blog about. Sadly, in that amount of time, I’ve been sick, exhausted by work, doused in filthy water when my job was flooded by a busted pipe above us, had a spell of depression, got lost in the holiday shuffle, and bogged down by many, many other distractions. But that’s so last year!

With that said, here is a rapid fire of those missing seven books I read:

”Y/N” by Esther Yi
A strange, wild novella about a woman’s obsession with a member of her favorite K-Pop Boy Band. So if you are someone who loved K-Pop Demon Hunters but wanted to experience it as an awful fever dream, I’ve found the book for you.

”The Dry Season: A Memoir of Pleasure in a Year Without Sex” by Melissa Febos
UGH! Oh! How I worship at the altar of Melissa Febos and all her proses. The title tells you everything you need to know, but of course, it is also super layered. And the magic of books is that it came to me at such a perfect time. What I loved most is how it caught me to not only reimagining my relationship with sex but with my own body as well.

”One Day, Everyone Will Have Always Been Against This” by Omar El Akkad
Stop reading my blog, get in your car, go support a local bookstore, buy this book, read this, then tell everyone about this book… Yeah. That’s pretty much it.

”Women” by Chloe Caldwell
A novella about a young queer woman trying to grapple with the idea that her relationship, although a deep and passionate one, it might be actually be very, very toxic.

”Glorious Exploits” by Ferdia Lennon
Two best friends, living in 404 B.C., decided to put on a play about Medea. Their cast consists of the POWs captured in the war they just won. I promise you, this book is actually very, very funny.

”Love, Sex, and Frankenstein” by Caroline Lea
Before she was Mary Shelley, author of Frankenstein, she was just a teenage girl named Mary. In this stunning novel, we learn about her first love (Percy), her difficult and complicated relationship with her half-sister Claire, and finally, her real love: writing.

”I, Medusa” by Ayana Gray
We all think we know the story of Medusa, but we know her as a woman, a goddess, a monster, a cautionary tale? And wasn’t she once a young girl? Didn’t she have dreams, hopes, fears, and wonder? This retelling explores Medusa’s younger years and gives a very interesting take on how she became the Medusa we know today. Of course, she’s still alive. She’s immortal!

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NOW! Let’s get into that speed-round wrap-up, shall we?

Every year, my goal is to read 50 new books. And I am very proud to say that I met and surpassed my goal by reading 68 books. Which is SoOOOoOOoo much better than previous years. (In 2024, it was only 19 books, and in 2023, it was 41.)

My Favorites and Standouts were:
”Love, Sex, & Frankenstein” by Caroline Lea
”Harriet Tubman: Live In Concert” by Bob The Drag Queen
”So Far Gone” by Jess Walter
”The Life Impossible” by Matt Haig
”Body Work” by Melissa Febos
”Crush” by Ada Calhoun
”James” by Percival Everett

But what were my top five favorite books of this year? The Five-Star masterpieces that everyone should read, physically own, and have live on their bookshelves are…
(Drum Roll please…)

drum roll

drum rolling…

drum…..

roll….

TA-DA!

”One Day Everyone Will Have Been Against This” by Omar El Akkad
”Glorious Exploits” by Ferdia Lennon
”Martyr!” by Kaveh Akbar
”Doppelganger” by Naomi Klein
”The Dry Season” by Melissa Febos

See! That list has TWO books I read in December that became my favorites. Could you imagine if I were one of those people who cut my list off mid-December?! How absolutely rude that would be to Omar El Akkad and Ferdia Lennon.

I did start Omar El Akkad’s book in June, but I won’t lie, it is not an easy read. It’s a fairly slim book, but its harrowing accounts ran parallel with a lot of the fuckery that’s been happening in the world currently, so, of course, from time to time, I did have to put the book down.

Omar is an incredibly thoughtful and sharp writer. I applaud and admire him deeply. He is what feels like the last real journalist. He keeps to the facts, he doesn’t sugar-coat anything, he takes a stand (which is OK for a journalist to do), but he does not let emotions derail him. Meaning, he can hear both sides and still know that one side is speaking absolute bullshit. However, he has empathy for those who are brainwashed by trauma and fear. He is a man who knows both worlds all too well.

And this book is a result of (in my humble, simple, silly opinion) a damn near perfect piece of literature. A shining example of the power of writing and the importance of writers.

On a slightly lighter note, but it deserved a shout-out, is my second favorite book this year:”Glorious Exploits” by Ferdia Lennon. I might be a wee bit biased because Ferdia is an Irish writer, but he’s also VERY talented! And trust me… I don’t like all Irish writers. There is one I have a personal, quiet feud with. (They, of course, are unaware of said feud because they are famous and I am not.)

Anywho, ”Glorious Exploits” is a fantastical, over-the-top, weird story that captures the essence of an Irish writer, which is dark humor. Ferdia is also part Libyan, another culture that I think has a unique and unusual relationship with death. Ferdia’s writing is hilarious and deep. Heart and humor. And honestly, this book has the absolute best portrayal of male friendship that I’ve read in a really long time. He is a writer to look out for. I can not wait to keep reading his work!

Would you look at that! We are out of 2025 and now in the current day. How fun was that? Just a quick dip in and a faster dip out.

I am aware I am the self-proclaimed “book bitch” so yes, there are a few books I absolutely hated. Like TRULY hated. And if you are at all interested in that list, well, you might want to be an S.S.O.B.S. I’m still working on getting us jackets…

And to 2026: I have hope for you. I think this is going to be a glorious year of great art, and I can’t wait to consume it and share it with you all.

As always, I end this chapter (of 2025) with love,
the book bitch

Since it’s the end of the year, I am not reading books like I usually do. Instead of my typical routine of rotating between a bunch of books, I’m becoming a one-book-at-a-time kind of woman right now. Very intentional, oddly romantic, and the closest I’ll get to participating in cuffin’ season this year.

With that being said, my last two lovers, Oh, I’m sorry, I meant my last two books, had London in common. And the comparisons kind of stop there. It was merely a funny coincidence. What I enjoyed most was how both books treated London like a character, because cities can be people too! They can be main characters, have feelings, create vibes, be emotional, and go through phases, just like us. For example, experiencing heartbreak in Los Angeles is going to be different from experiencing it in Missoula.

The first book I finished reading was EVENINGS AND WEEKENDS by Irish writer Oisin McKenna, a very promising and brilliant new writer. And this book is a strong debut novel. (Besides all the sex that goes on in the book, I bet his ma is very, very proud of him. OR! He’s lucky and has a cool mom.)

What I will say off the bat: this book could easily have been titled LONDONERS because it feels like a modern take on James Joyce’s DUBLINERS. And as every Irish writer knows: Joyce is the Holy Spirit in the way that Yeats is the Father, Beckett is the Son, Edna O’Brien is the blessed (non)Virgin Mary, and Oscar Wilde is the wee donkey.

Well, actually, Wilde is for SURE more of a Mary Magdalene.

What I loved the most about McKenna’s writing is that it’s obvious who he was drawing inspiration from, but it isn’t a carbon copy. He’s adding to the conversation and making really bold and beautiful observations. The reason DUBLINERS is such an influential and prolific novel is that it has complex layers and is rich with language, but at its core, it’s so simple: everyone out there is merely just trying to get home.

And home is entirely up to interpretation! For some people, home is a place, but for most, it’s a person, a feeling, a cup of tea, rock bottom, or the back alley behind the local pub. And McKenna does his civic duty by keeping that theme alive throughout his novel.

EVENINGS AND WEEKENDS follows a young gay professional, Phil, and his newly pregnant best friend Maggie during one of the hottest summers in London. The two are trying to make sense of their lives and of the lives that weave in and out of their own.

FOOTNOTE: A few weeks ago, I was in a car with my best friend JJ, and we were driving back into LA from an event out in the desert. As we were driving through a very small suburban area (I took a wrong turn), JJ said, “All these people are the stars of their own lives.” And that is the brilliance in McKenna’s book. How skilled he is at capturing THAT feeling!

We really are the stars of our own little stories. We are all silly, fleshy beings full of emotions, thoughts, and experiences, just trying to get home.

Typically, I would have been annoyed by how much McKenna crammed into one book, but he takes his time. He built each character with care; he gives everyone a moment to shine, fuck up, be loved, fail, and then be forgiven. He even manages to break down the tension that still exists between the English and the Irish. And he’s clever about it! Subtle enough that it won’t turn anyone off, but just on the nose, it highlights, sadly, that not much has changed. Again, another nod to his ability to bring London forward as a character with its own storyline.

The reason I fell so hard for the book was the tenderness and care McKenna pours into exploring complex male relationships. He examines the tricky land of questioning one’s queerness, and he handles it with such care that I couldn’t help but get emotional and let my heart swell. He shows how unrequited love is probably the most challenging type, but then makes it trickier by having a gay person and a closeted one try to navigate that world. And fuck! McKenna dissects the shit out of that!

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All in all, EVENINGS AND WEEKENDS at its root is also a love story, which is kind of funny seeing as I’m unconsciously in my lover-girl book era because the second book I finished reading was a rom-com: LOVED ONE, by Aisha Muharrar.

Muharrar is a TV writer who has worked on some of my favorite shows (PARKS & REC, THE GOOD PLACE, HACKS...), so I was so excited when I heard she had written a book. I also got excited when I listened to the plot: two friends turned lovers, turned friends again, hook up after some time apart. The girl thinks the guy ghosted her, which he kind of did because he well... died.

I’m sorry?! My two favorite subjects?! Love AND death. Duh, sign me up!

I said Muharrar is a TV writer, right? Well, maybe it’s just me, but even if I didn’t know that going in, I could tell, write (thanks, Joyce) away she does. There is something about a TV writer turned novelist or a novelist turned TV writer that seems so apparent to me. I can sense it! Smell it on the page because the book reads like a TV show.

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The timing, the way things are revealed, the pacing of emotional hits a character takes, the set-ups, the way chapters end, and how LA and London both felt like characters. All the tell-tale signs that Muharrar is a TV writer first. This is NOT a bad thing! It just made me giggle to myself because I could totally see her trying to pitch this as a show or mini series, and after enough passes, she thought, “Fuck it! Producers love IP; I’ll make my own IP.”

So she writes a book.

The highlight of her talent is her writing about London and Los Angeles, as she is a very visually driven storyteller. I felt the rain and gloom of London. And, but not just because I live here, but I could feel the sun and see the pastel sunsets of Los Angeles.

What I will say is that, even though I think Aisha Muharrar is a very talented and bright writer, and I loved her ambition and ability to plot out a story, I was not crazy about this book. I felt like she lost traction in the middle. It felt a bit saggy, and I could feel myself skimming a bit as I read. Also, and again, because I had my TV brain on, I felt like I could guess where the story was going. And I was right. This is not a brag, but a call for help because I consume too much TV.

I’ve heard rumor that this book might be turned into a show. And I would 100% tune in, but I would really, really, REALLY hope she rethinks the ending. If only for this reason: (I promise this is not a spoiler) What from the list does Julia get to keep? What is Julia TRULY allowed to grieve? I thought she kept bending at the knee for all these white women and their grief. But where were her needs and wants being met? If this was a book about the performative nature of grief, then how did Julia change from who we met at the beginning to who she is at the end?

Both books were entertaining to read. And yes, I will always have a soft spot for any story that makes a character out of the setting. It’s a very clever writing device because if you find yourself stuck in your writing, remind yourself of your story’s setting.

Because! Setting solves all problems!

It causes you to remember why you chose to have your characters break up publicly rather than in the privacy of their own home. A character will make a VERY different series of choices depending on whether they are performing for an audience of one or for a full restaurant.

With that, I’m about to set off to the worst setting of them all, my overnight shift at work. However, like a true Irish girl, I will make my journey home afterwards.

Oh, my home, my tiny week home. How we are all just looking for home.

As always, with love, writing from home,
the book bitch

Last Sunday, my fairly goddaughter Aja and I went to the movies. It was hard to land on a movie neither of us had seen yet, so we ended up going to see NOW YOU SEE ME, NOW YOU DON’T. The third installment of “magicians are the new superheroes” movies. And the movie was terrible. So bad, like super bad. But! Fun, mindless entertainment that was worth getting out of the house during an epic Los Angeles rainstorm.

Afterwards, still in our seats, Aja and I were inputting our Letterboxd reviews, because yes, those matter, and she asked me how I reviewed movies. I review movies the same way I review a book. When I sit down to read a film or watch a book (flip that if you want :), right off the bat, the novel or film gets five stars because you know how hard it is to get a movie made?! Do you know how difficult it is to get a book published?!

FOOTNOTE: As you may know already, I don’t fully subscribe to the typical “5-Star” rating system. But for the sake of argument and because apps like Fable and Letterboxd require users to use them, I’ll play the game.

So, out of the gate, everything starts with five stars. Then it begins: as the story unravels, characters are introduced, the stakes are revealed, the rules are set, and the “stars” either stay, are lost, or are earned back, WHICH IS WHY, to me, endings are SOoOooOooO important. If you can stick a landing?! Oh! I’m jumping my score for sure—case in point, the Paul Thomas Anderson film PHANTOM THREAD.

Honestly, PTA is always a hit-or-miss for me. He’s so strange that way. But let’s not get distracted. I absolutely HATED with a fiery passion PHANTOM THREAD. Until… the last 15 minutes of that film. The mushroom scene.

Oh my god. I audibly scoffed in the theater because that “twist” was so random, hilarious, and ridiculous that I couldn’t help but love it. PHANTOM THREAD went from 2 stars to a solid 4.5 in a span of seconds. That’s the power of art.

With all that said, please keep that in mind and stay advised.

I’m a broken record when it comes to this, but I love to read multiple books at a time. There are two books I happened to read and finish at the same time. One is a small, tender, quiet, intimate, modern romance. While the other is a dark academia, body-horror thriller, feminist rage manifesto. The two couldn’t be more different. They weren’t sister books. Heck, they weren’t even from the same family tree or the same city. POLAR OPPOSITES! (No, that’s not a book title; that’s all-caps emphasis.)

The books were HARDLY STRANGERS by A.C. Robinson and GIRL DINNER by Olivie Blake.

I really don’t want to use the word “pit,” but I feel like I am low-key pitting these two books against each other, not only because I just finished them at the same time, but because my reactions to them were SO jarringly different that I thought it would be fun.

Because one, I gave 4.5 stars. I was wrapped up in the story, and the other started strong, made some strong choices, but had an ending SO BAD and so infuriating, I LITERALLY threw the book across the room and gave it 1 star.

Actually, let’s take a breather real quick. For you wanna play along at home? Which one do you think I gave 1 star to: the love story by A.C. Robinson or the horror/mystery by Olivie Blake?

*cue jeopardy music*

…

*cue jeopardy music*

..

*cue jeopardy music*

.

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DA! Da, da, da.

If you guessed 1 star going to GIRL DINNER by Olivie Blake - Ding ding! Treat yourself to a nice coffee and a full meal! Because honestly, with my full chest, and since I’m writing this during the height of my period: fuck that book.

But you know what? Let’s not start with the bad. I want to tell you about the one I loved: HARDLY STRANGERS by A.C. Robinson.

My good friend Ashley got me a gift card to one of my favorite bookstores in Los Angeles, Reparations Club. And before I headed into the store, I wanted to browse the website a bit, and I stumbled across HARDLY STRANGERS. Set in Los Angeles, our hero, Shera, has been waiting for this night, the night she gets to go on a date with her crush. But is it a date? Is he even her crush…? Who knows?! Men are confusing, and LA men are even more confusing, like an all white Sunday crossword puzzle.

Either way, Shera wants, scratch that, NEEDS to get back in the saddle. She has come to the end of her rope with grieving her last relationship. So she sets a plan in motion that turns into a commotion. Shera runs into Max King. THE Max King. In this story, he’s an alluring, just the right amount of mysterious, and charming (because bro has an Irish accent) famous singer of a band.

FOOTNOTE: After you read this book, I highly recommend falling down the rabbit hole of Booktalk, as well as Goodreads, on the conspiracy theories of who people think Max King is based on. Most people say Hozier. I think it’s a wee bit TOO obvious, but who knows.

ANYWAYS… Shera ditches her “crush” and is like fuck it, follow the handsome Irish man to his Airbnb. And then the night becomes something neither of them expected…

What I absolutely adored about this book is how I pretend that I’m not a hopeless romantic, but book bitches, I am! I might be heartless at times, but I do believe in love! And I crave chance encounters and random opportunities of fate. In fact, that’s why I loved the book. Living in LA, I know so many people who have had moments like this, a brief connection with a semi-famous person. I had one once with an underground rapper and remember telling the guy, “What’s hilarious is I honestly didn’t listen to a lot of your music because you were my ex’s favorite rapper.” To which he graciously laughed and then sweetly offered to block my ex on social media just to fuck with him.

Nice offer, but I didn’t take the bait. But! I think about that night and him from time to time. (The rapper, not the ex.)

I enjoyed how AC Robinson invites us to have a beauty “for one night only” love affair with Max and Shera. These two heartbroken humans who choose to throw sanity out the Uber window and just surrender to an evening (and early morning of) dramatic, slightly cringe, openly tender, rare, magic. I mean, come on?! What person doesn’t want that?! What human wouldn’t long for such a deep, fast connection? Even if only for a night!

Of course, since I fell in love with this book so fast and so hard, I did what every Stan does: I told anyone who would listen to stop what they were doing and grab a copy. So, yeah, do that!

But wait… finish this post first. THEN go do it. Because now, we are about to turn up the heat because we started with the sweet. Ready to see how bitchy and bitter this book bitch can be?!

First off - bro, fuck Girl Dinner and the horse she rode in on. Not just the book, but the concept that became big on social media a few summers ago. The idea was mostly girls, preparing what was basically a lunch-sized meal or individually crafted charcuterie boards. When, in actuality, it was basically excusing and gaslighting eating disorder-like behavior. Like, bitch, you ain’t fooling me.

Anyways, I have a feeling Olivie Blake (who is a very talented writer in the other books she has written that I have enjoyed) heard the phrase, thought it was timely and clever, but also a cash cow to milk for a book idea. But this book was non-fat milk. It was not fully formed, and I felt it needed some more fat on its bones.

Without giving too much away, Nina is a student and Sloane is a professor. Nina is struggling to find herself being away from her twin sister for the first time, as well as trying to understand her identity as a woman of color. So she joins a sorority. Sloane, a new mother who is trying to keep every plate in the sky spinning, is slowly losing it. She is coming to the realization that maybe she can’t have it all, but also perhaps she doesn’t need to have it all. So, to add to her already exhausted day, she becomes the faculty advisor to the same sorority Nina is pledging.

Shocker! There is something fishy happening at the sorority. I promise I won’t spoil anything, but the book’s back cover does say it’s about cannibalism. In this world Blake has created, she has set a few rules about this belief and the rituals that happen around her character’s version of cannibalism. The only problem is that Blake breaks the MOST pivotal rules, and I’m honestly more surprised that an editor and publisher let that slide. And ooooOOooh! How that shit deeply frustrated me.

I was really going to give the book 1 star and lose no sleep over it. Still, I did appreciate that, below the dark academia “professor-who-sleeps-with-students” trope, and even past the flesh eating, Blake makes some interesting commentary on the current state of feminism. HOWEVER! And this is where I begin to get mad again, just THINKING about it: I strongly believe as an author, as a writer, fuck it, as an artist, you have a responsibility when you create art. You birth this thing and release it into the world for others to have, hold, and make as their own. But even before it gets to us, it’s all yours first. So YOU GET THE LAST SAY

Meaning, for Blake to finish and blatantly make the conscious choice to have such a disgusting, reprehensible, and deeply disturbing ending as that was, naw fam. That was godawful. I instantaneously lost all respect for that book. It left me exhausted and frankly icky.

I hated that book, and it all boils down to the fact that she couldn’t land the plane.

But that 1-star review remains because at least the book made me feel something. Although not the most delightful feeling, it at least shook me and distributed me enough to be left for a constellation prize of reflection. Sure, it turned up bile, but I see it as more of a healthy purge.

So there you have it! Two extreme emotions you have to fully surrender to being a fan of art: love it or hate it. The good and the bad. The recommendation and the burn-it pile.

I hope it sparks you to read a book you think you’ll hate or maybe be open to falling in love with a book at random. You never know what you might find.

As always, I end this post with no hate and nothing but love
the book bitch

I like to make every book feel special, whether or not I liked it or hated it. But unfortunately, I’ve been swamped working one of my many jobs: retail, podcasting, freelance writing, and/or nannying. And after working super long, jam-packed days, that stretch out to be weeks of this kind of schedule, I get home and I’m tired. And then that tiredness makes me depressed. I’m really lucky to have found reading to be a very healing act. Although I haven’t had the brainpower to sit down, reflect, and write about my reading, I am at least getting it done!

So this post will be a tad bit different. You’ll still get my witty thoughts and lightly scrambled but very delightful thoughts, but this time around, it will be a bit of a quick, rapid-fire, fast, easily digestible review.

If this snack-pack review list leaves you wanting more, please leave a comment below, DM me here, or hit me up on Instagram. Please let me know which book you’d like to hear more about, and I’ll send you a voice memo.

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OK! So! Let’s begin, shall we?

“THE PAYBACK” by Kashana Cauley

I don’t know why I feel bad saying this, but I don’t have college debt.

I mean, I’m broke, but that’s by my own fault. Anyway, I don’t have college debt, but it still scares me. I see and hear about my friends who are gasping for air when it comes to fears about their looming debt and ridiculously high interest rates. And I’m baffled by how they can sleep at night. To which I’ve learned: most of them don’t.

Thankfully, we don’t live in a society in which there is a police or ICE-like enforcement groups that are designated as a debt collectors who run like a wild pack of loan sharks, hunting people down at work, at home, grocery shopping or at the funeral of their recently deceased lover… to beat the shit out of them as they rob them of everything they own to get them to pay off their college debts.

We aren’t there…yet.

Kashana Cauley does a brilliant job of painting the world because of how skillful she is at capturing the mundane reality of working a retail job or just trying to get dressed in the morning. That’s why, when her over-the-top, dystopian, and terrifying militant debt collectors begin showing up out of nowhere to terrorize the main character, it’s not too big a jump.

However, as the book progresses, it does get a wee bit off the rails and starts to unravel at a pace that was not believable to me. But she’s a very talented writer. And the way she writes about fashion and how clothes influence a person was so captivating that I forgive her for the typical flaws that most debut authors struggle with.

I have a feeling that she wrote this book to be a pilot for a TV show, or she’s hoping someone will adapt it into a movie or series, maybe in hopes of a paycheck so big that she can pay off their debt. And who can blame her?

I first checked out the book from the library, but I immediately fell in love with the way she wrote about working in retail; those passages are too real and oddly emotional, so I bought a physical copy. It’s a great satire, a dark comedy, and it has an Ocean’s 11 heist that was laugh-out-loud funny. But grab a paperback copy; we could all save a little money.

“WHEN THE GOING WAS GOOD” by Graydon Carter (& James Fox)

Have you ever wondered where the joke about Trump and his small hands originated? I mean, I can’t stand that godawful disgusting human being, and I hope he gets impeached (AGAIN) and stops destroying our country…

Ummm anyways…

If you were wondering, that random, funny bit about his tiny hands was started by journalist Graydon Carter. Don’t know who Graydon Carter is? Honestly? That tracks. In fact, I bet he’s totally fine with you not knowing who he is. After reading his memoir, I think he’s kind of that guy who wants you to think he’s a “nobody” that all the cool people know. So even if you don’t know who he is, you are familiar with his work.

Graydon Carter was an artist, a writer, a visual talent, an editor, and a tastemaker in the 70s and 80s. His resume is a CVS-length receipt; he’s worked at or had his work published in LIFE magazine, TIME magazine, The New York Observer, The New Yorker, Esquire, Interview, and Vanity Fair. And now, in his “retirement,” he is involved with the newsletter and publication Air Mail.

These are my favorite type of memoirs: nobodies that your favorite somebody knew and loved. Because to me, these people are the real backbone of history. They actually lived Forest Gump’s life without knowing it. Reading a Cher or Barbra Streisand memoir will be entertaining, but I expect them to have salacious, spicy, and scandalous stories that are dripping with celebrity names.

It just hits harder when someone like Carter tells the story about the time he spent following and interviewing some wack job named Trump, and then wrote an article about how cruel, conniving, and shady Trump and his business practices were, ONLY to have Trump write back, “My hands aren’t that small!”

To which Carter, a former cartoonist, took the higher road and drew a cartoon of a suit with two hands, three sizes too small, sticking out, and mailed it back to him.

Like that shit is hilarious to me because, who is that guy?!

I recommend this book if you like Hollywood gossip and high society, miss your own days of sitting around cafes shit talking, and you want to feel like you went to an Ivy League school without taking on the underlying racism or giant tuition cost. For sure, it’s a library checkout. Or even a fun audiobook.

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“BETWEEN FRIENDS & LOVERS” by Shirlene Obuobi

My dear friend Angi recommended this book to me, and at first, I was super reluctant because, absolutely no shade to romance books or the annoying sub-genre “chick lit,” those books aren’t usually my cup of tea. And…

They still aren’t.

I did not like this book; HOWEVER, that is no shade to Angi. She’s incredibly good at recommending books I will like. I mean, she was the one who told me to read CRUSH, and she was so spot on with that one. Reading Between Friends and Lovers, I knew precisely why Angi suggested I read this.

My two favorite dating tropes are friends to lovers (like WHEN HARRY MET SALLY) or fake dating (like SHE’S ALL THAT or 10 THINGS I HATE ABOUT YOU). This book is like those two tropes, but leans more towards friends to lovers. Or lovers who learn to become friends and then have to learn to become friendly with their lover’s ex-crushes. Which was something that was so wild to me, and I could not do myself.

What I really enjoyed about the book, and what became the only reason I didn’t give up reading it, was how Obuobi does a great job of balancing the dueling perspectives that can occur in the early stages of a relationship through the two dueling POVs. For example, when you are reading from Jo’s perspective, she does something with the intention of getting result A, but a few pages later, reading from Malcolm’s POV (her new love interest), he sees it as result B, C, and D.

The cringiest part, but so fucking relatable, was when Malcolm tells Jo he is going to take her to a fancy, very exclusive place for dinner. Jo gets dressed to the nines only to show up at a cooking class. While eating the dinner they had to cook (both of them at least able to bond over being bad at that), Jo thinks she’s being so cute with her flirting, but Mal feels like Jo is testing out military-level interrogation tactics on him.

Oh dating! What a shit show it is. And like the 80s poet Pat Benatar once said, “Love… Love is a battlefield.”

If you’re a fan of sweet, cute, easy-to-read, mindless entertainment that makes you blush, check it out. However, I would either try an audiobook or check one out from the library.

“THE BEWITCHING” by Silvia Moreno-Garcia

Two novels helped me survive 2020. The first was Hamnet by Maggie O’Farrell; I saw the movie recently, and I bawled my eyes out! It’s my favorite movie of the year. The second novel was Mexican Gothic by Silvia Moreno-Garcia. Both books were timely, given the experience of living through COVID-19 and the pandemic. Hamnet was set during the Black Death, so that connection is pretty obvious. But Mexican Gothic was about Noemí, a young girl who finds herself trapped in a mansion in the hope of saving her cousin. It was also right on the nose. I loved both and would recommend them to anyone to read or listen to.

And although I did really enjoy The Daughter of Doctor Moreau, Moreno-Garcia’s other novels, including Velvet was the Night, Silver Nitrate, and The Seventh Veil of Salome, didn’t hit the same for me. UNTIL THIS ONE!

The Bewitching has that same secret special sauce that was slathered all over the pages of Mexican Gothic. It was also the perfect book to read right around Halloween because it was the right amount of spooky but not TOO scary for my punk ass. I also loved how it was dark, slightly twisted, creepy, and even a little sexy. My one issue with the novel was keeping the THREE story lines together. Technically, four, if you count Minerva’s grandmother’s storyline, which was woven into Minerva’s chapters.

And since there are three storylines, Moreno-Garcia has to repeat information because each character must learn the same information at different times. So that was a wee bit repetitive.

I really liked Moreno-Garcia’s take on witches. Because these witches are not Sabrina or from Eastwick. They are more hot, greedy, vampires types.

All in all, I recommend this book. If you’re a fan of sexy, spooky, historical fiction that leans toward magical surrealism and has a mystery that is easy to solve, I think this is for you. For sure, a library checkout, though.

Well! That’s it for now, folks. I might do these again, I might not, who’s to say. Let me know if you miss the single posts or if this was a format that you preferred. I love to hear from you. Also! Tell me - what are you reading?!

As always, I end this chapter with love,
the book bitch

Recently, we were talking about my dating life, and well, I came up blank. “What dating life?”

Right now, there isn’t one. Between the stresses of my industry, rent-paying jobs that drain me, and the world being on fire, I have not even tried to dip a toe, let alone think about the dating pool. So my dating life is bleak. Nonexistent. Empty. Dull. Drab. Dry. Downright ugh.

So I thought I wanted to switch gears, and I saw this idea on TikTok a long time ago of learning to have a crush on your art. A crush on my art?! What an intriguing idea! What an exciting concept! What better use of my time and energy! Instead of getting hung up on dudes that I’m not even really feeling that much, direct all that energy to my creativity. In fact, why not go deeper?! Why only have a crush on my art, when I can date my art!…

Cute! Fun!…

Cool idea on paper, tougher idea in execution. Because fuck. How does one start?

Well! I went to my own bookshelf! I recently did a long over due purge of my closet and was in the middle of sorting through my books. On top of the “keep stack” was a copy of Melissa Febos’s book BODY WORK. I have had this book for YEARS! But I’ve always sworn by the belief that books are magical, and they always come into your life right when you need it most.

Now, I typically avoid books about writing because sometimes they can be a bit too preachy and can cause more harm than good. For example, EVERYONE and their mom is always recommending SAVE THE CAT when it comes to screenwriting. Yes, it’s a good book for teaching structure, but I won’t lie, I find people lose their sense of creative freedom because they are trying so hard to fit the mold that the book tells you to follow. It can be a Hollywood trap! And look, Hollywood is not looking too good for a reason… So, my advice is to use any book about writing as a guide, not a bible.

What won me over in the first few pages of BODY WORK is that Febos basically kicks off by saying something along the lines of, “Look, I don’t know shit. What I do know is that between these pages you’re holding is an array of habits, tips, tricks, and habits that have worked for me. Take it or leave it.” And that, folks, is an attitude I can get behind.

The book is slim and a fast read. I finished it in two sittings because it’s that easy of a read and because it was so difficult to put down. I let it devour and I loved every second of it.

Febos’s first essays is her case in defending “navel-gazing” or, more so, having us, the reader, re-examine our relationship with navel-gazing. For some odd reason, we as a society in literature have accepted male-centered stories as being “universal” and not being navel-gazing. When in actuality, most of those stories are the MOST self-absorbed and the least self-aware novels. As a teacher, Febos was sick and tired of her students thinking they shouldn’t talk about their bodies in their writing. She grew frustrated and was sadden that her pupils didn’t think sharing their sexual assaults or desires was deem “worthy.” And Febos is like fuck that. Give me your tired, your exhausted, your wet, your sweaty, you horny, your good, your bad, your fleshy, your raunchiest truth. We are all the product of sex, most of us have sex, we see it everywhere else, why not add your two cents?

Reading, I was struck with how silly it is to feel shame when we talk or write about sex. I have many people in my DMs trying to shame me about what I say on the podcast all the time. But do you know how many shows and podcast that are out there that praise and are about murder?! I mean where’s the shame in that?! Why is it we feel more shame in sex than in death? And, in an odd way, aren't the two linked by the same notion of “desire.” Both birthed from a feeling of a want, a need, a urge of “I have to have!”

Febos is no fool, though. She knows what she is asking of her students isn’t easy but it is doable. She admits to her own struggles. When she was just a wee baby writer, her writing teacher told her to stop writing as other people and write a memoir. Febos was 26 at the time and thought, “That’s too young!” But Febos had already been a sex worker, a runaway, survivor of sexual assault, a drug addict, and a dominatrix. The woman has lived many, many wild lives. She was 26 going on 106.

One of the many reasons I couldn’t put the book down is the whole thing reads like a conversation and not a lecture. With every paragraph, it was as if Febos could feel my next burning question, and she goes on and answering it on the very next page.

I admired her ability of using herself as an example without coming off as a know it all. Instead, it created a sense of safety. She was also open about her failures (a whole chapter about writing about real people and the real-life consequences of that). She also wasn’t being preachy! She was willing to admit when she got it wrong and wasn’t asking you to do anything she hadn’t already tried it out for herself first. Since her writing style is so earnest, never once did she try to sell anything as being the gospel or holy scripture.

YET SOMEHOW in being so chill and nonchalant, she made me a believer. Turned me into a monk at her temple. And all because she truly comes from a place of raw honesty. It was hard NOT to take her essays as messages or a sign from a higher power.

FOOTNOTE: Now, this could all be because of where I was mentally reading this book. Because I can’t stress it enough to you people: I fucking needed this book right then, right now! BUT! My dear friend Arianna, who first told me to read the book, felt the same way. So at least I’m not alone in the cult of the Febos.

It’s her last essay in this book that got me, and I can’t stop talking about it. It’s all about falling back in love with your writing and making a type of worship and holy tradition about your craft. As a re-tired Irish Catholic myself, I am a sucker for a church metaphor and one that makes me a believer again.

BODY WORK made me believe in myself again as a writer. It made me realize that ANY attempt at writing is an act of god or a tiny miracle. That in my own personal creation there should always be a sense of brilliance and a sense of fear. Two strong polarizing forces that shouldn’t cause an internal battle but instead create balance. And by staying as true to the middle of these two feelings is where the magic happens.

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I have a very short list of other books about writing that I think are actually useful (this post has inspired me to share it soon), and this one book has been added to that very exclusive club. I enjoyed my time (although too brief!) with this book and know that it will be something I revisit constantly. I’m also very grateful for this book because it’s helped me find my first step on my new journey of “dating my art.”

Step One: Falling in love with your body will lead you to fall in love with your body of work. We are our art after all, and we should act accordingly.

As always, I end this chapter with love,
the book bitch

Well, first off, this book was difficult to read. It legit gave me a panic attack. But let me back up a bit and not give you one…

The novel tells the story of Nicholas, a teenage boy, being a teenage boy doing teenage things. However, Nicholas begins to have panic attacks that consume his day-to-day life. Panic attacks are so powerful that he feels as though he might be losing his mind.

And I get it. The first panic attack will leave a lasting effect on you.

For example, I was 7 years old when I had my first panic attack, and it was right after watching the movie WHAT’S EATING GILBERT GRAPE. The following sentence is a spoiler alert; the film ends with their mom dying. Her kids, releasing the burden of having to take care of her anymore, burn her and the house they lived in. I didn’t think much of it until the thought hit me so hard it felt like someone sucker punched my solar plexus, “Oh my god, my mom will die one day.”

I was consumed with this overwhelming sense of dread, agony, and a crippling fear. Suddenly, my mind was racing so quickly that I forgot how to breathe. So I started to cry, which didn’t help with the whole not-breathing thing. I felt as though someone was squeezing my head like it was a grape, and my blood was becoming hot, thick lava.

My parents saw what was going on and quickly jumped in to calm me down.

My mom rubbed my back and calmly told me to focus on my breathing, nothing else. She went on to assure me that everything is fine. I am fine, she is fine. No one is dead, no one is dying… yet.

I started to panic again! She did her best to calm me down again. She assured me that these feelings I am having are normal because, although death is scary, it is a very normal, typical thing. There is nothing to fear about it, and it might seem scary, but I am OK. It will be OK. Yes, my mom will die one day, but that worry and dread will cause more harm than anything. I had to calm down! Stay in the moment and focus on your breathing, in… out… rubbing my back in a circular motion.

In… out… rubbing got slower and slower. My heart soon matched the pace of my mother’s hand.

NOW! My father, god love him, does not remember this next part, but I do. And that’s the funny thing about memory. My mom said, “It’s OK that I’m going to die one day. That day will be sad, but you will be OK. You can and will survive anything.” To which I REMEMBER MY FATHER SAYING one of the funniest things ever, and it really knocked the panic attack out of my body. My dad said, “Well, we don’t know if I can die.”

I’m assuming my mom gave him a look of, “Charlie! That’s not helping.” But my dad kept going, “Sure, they say we are all going to die one day, but it’s not proven that I CAN DIE. What if I’m the one person who could live forever, you know, Roseanne, I could live forever.” I don’t think my mom found that to be amusing in the moment—understandably so—but I thought it was hilarious. In fact, I went from crying to laughing.

FOOTNOTE: I know everyone will pass on eventually. But… what if my dad IS right?! What if he is that one person who could live forever?!

And that, folks, is what a panic attack feels like. You know it’s happening and will eventually end, but sometimes you get that baby fear of, “but what if this is the panic attack that stays forever?!” Yes, I know, a terrifying and vicious cycle.

Anyway, back to our boy Nicholas and his problems.

His problems are not about death. In fact, it’s really unclear what his “problems” are. He starts having these panic attacks. He is sent to live with his estranged, very absent father for some reason, but it’s never explained why. He has a little brother who gets mentioned so late in the book that I thought it was a typo at first. But all in all, Nicholas is your typical run-of-the-mill teenage boy trying to survive high school.

He has a best friend that he begins to drift away from. He has a crush on a girl who has a crush on someone else. He even begins to become friends with the wrong people, knows they’re all bad, but stays because they have a super sick barn in the woods (not a single parent or guardian in sight) and access to weed. The bones of the story are weak; however, the writing is what kept me going.

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I can’t stress enough how much stress this book created. Clune’s writing had me reading as quickly as Nick’s racing thoughts. I was holding my breath along with Nick, my palms were sweating, and I found myself white-knuckling the book twice. None of that was enjoyable, but that highlights Clune’s skill as a writer. He understands every inch and edge of a panic attack.

One of my favorite lines was when Nick describes the sensation you feel after a panic attack as “the air that lingers after missing a potential fatal car accident. The promise of impact without the result of any collision.” Yeah, that’s it. That feeling of ALMOST getting into a car accident but missing it. A game of inches.

I also enjoyed Clune’s writing on the etymology of the word “panic.”

panic /păn′ĭk/

noun

1. A sudden, overpowering feeling of fear, often affecting many people at once. Synonym: fear.

2. A state of extreme anxiety, such as that involved in a panic attack.

3. A state of frantic activity, usually accompanied by extreme concern or anxiety.

adjective

1. Of, relating to, or resulting from sudden, overwhelming terror.

2. Of or relating to Pan.

Now, who’s the one relating to Pan, you might be wondering? Well, Pan is like the OG of the word panic. The “pan” in “panic” is derived from the Greek myth of Pan, who was half man, half goat. His specialty was being the god of basically party music, of terrifying people who encountered him in the wild for fun, and randomly screaming for no reason. So yeah, I mean, I don’t know if you’ve hung around any teenage boys lately, but Pan sums them up pretty well. He’s an idol mascot.

When our young hero Nick learns about this, he begins to build a small church in his mind dedicated to Pan, as a way of dealing with his panic attacks. Of course, like in any church, prayer can only get you so far, and miracles don’t last forever. Nick has to learn a better way of dealing with things.

But does he? Honestly, I do not know. The book ends. Nick is back home with his mom after two years. Oh! With his little kid brother too, who again, felt like such a weird add-on. Biggest take away: I didn’t hate this book, but I didn’t like it either. A library book if anything.

HOWEVER! Michael Clune is such a talented writer, if someone was a young boy (teenager or older) and wanted to get into reading and, for some reason, couldn’t find a copy of CATCHER AND THE RYE, I would actually recommend this book to them.

If you do not fall under that category, then you’re doing fine living your life without the world of Nick and his false god Pan.

As always, I end this chapter with love
(and today a splitting stress headache),
the book bitch

Sadly, no thunder or lightning, but maybe rain? Not where I am, which is Los Angeles, but where you are. Ugh! How I miss the rain. My Seattle heart swells with it in this Los Angeles fall heat. See LA’s fall begins at 8 PM and goes until 8 AM. Which isn’t the same, but I make do. Anyways…

Welcome to Vol 2 of The Secret Society Of Bitchy Subscribers! For this installment, I thought of doing something a little different…

Since this is a book blog and I’m a writer, I decided to switch it up with something *SUPER special* and give y’all a little desk tour! To me, a writer’s desk is almost as important and personal as their own journal.

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And oddly enough, yes, I want to know more.

That’s all because I am a writer who loves to read. Which means I am a nosy bitch, constantly on the hunt for “Why?!” Why does anyone do what they do? Why are people like “this”? And why are men so goddamn miserable right now?

And yeah, sure, “not all of them,” but honestly, enough that a “male loneliness epidemic“ has entered our zeitgeist and has become a mainstream pop culture touchpoint. I saw a video on TikTok of a girl saying, “Men can’t be that lonely and struggling silently with it if all I do is hear about it.” Which, I won’t lie, made me kind of giggle. However, that doesn’t cheapen the seriousness that I believe this subject warrants. I do actually have concerns about the idea of “Are the boys really alright?”

And, oddly enough, TikTok is where I found the perfect book to read!

I came across a video of Richard V. Reeves with a group of boys, asking them about themselves and why they think the modern male is struggling. The video evoked a range of emotions for me, with the top two being discomfort and sadness. I was uncomfortable because these young men were saying something I found deeply troubling. Troubling because I know men, and I sometimes fear men. I fear what they are capable of, and I fear that they don’t care to change. However, I remain hopeful, which is why I also feel a sense of sadness. A deep sadness that comes from a place of empathy because, as a feminist, I believe men and women should be treated equally. Unfortunately, I think people forget that this is what feminism is at its core: the betterment of ALL people. Feminism is the demand for better rights, pay, respect, and protection for all women, while simultaneously reminding men that they do not lose anything in the return of these things.

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Oh, someone might be thinking, “Power! Men would be giving up Power! What about Power?!” To which I say, WhAT AboUT PoWer?! You mean that made-up thing that the patriarchy made up to make men feel safe? Yeah, you won’t be losing that either because, honestly, it was never yours to begin with. Power is a false sense of reality and safety. Don’t believe me? Well, women have been living without it for centuries, and yet we are still here.

But! I digress… back to the video! Watching the video of Richard and the boys, I could sense their own untapped, unexplored sadness.

I use words like “untapped” and “unexplored” because I have always had this inkling that men, sadly and purely because of society’s fucked up pressures, are only allowed two emotions: happiness and anger. One more would make men “emotional,” which we all know is a woman thing, right? And any other emotion, like sadness, is “inappropriate” or “unmanly.” I mean, even certain shades of happiness are intensely scrutinized because if you’re “too happy,” that’s borderline “gay.” (And we all know that’s not a bad thing at all because no one knows happiness, pride, or parties better than the gays.) The “happiness” I am referencing is the type that falls in the safe zones of being happy about sex and sports. Happy you got laid. Happy your team won.

Anger is an emotion that, unfortunately, has been railroaded by masculinity. Anger means to be the most manly man ever. It means to be strong, quick, fast, and able to fight. To start wars and scream whenever you want to win an argument.

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Now, don’t get it twisted. I don’t think ALL men are like this, and I don’t believe ALL men are only capable of the “two emotional states.” In fact, I believe the opposite! I think that all men should be able to express all the emotions freely. I’ve just noticed in my life that those who haven’t done the work aren’t willing to change, are victims of patriarchy themselves, and fall under this theory.

For example, I had a boyfriend who was the poster child of my theory of “two-emotion state.” He was only “happy” or mad. He told me depression wasn’t real and that women don’t think it’s hot when men are sad. He’s obviously an ex now, and as you can guess, wasn’t actually that happy. But I do hope he gets the help he needs to heal, and if anything, I hope he reads Richard V. Reeves’s book OF BOYS AND MEN.

(SIDEBAR: I write a few SIDEBARS in my posts, and it just dawned on me that this is a book review blog, and I’m like bitch! Why aren’t I calling these moments FOOTNOTES?! Hello. So moving forward…)

(FOOTNOTE: Aw, that’s so much better… Anyways… This book was also on Obama’s reading list! So look at me being all presidential and shit. Anywho…)

I am really, really glad I read this book. I bought it and destroyed my copy. And off the bat, my theories and speculations were somewhat correct. Not to brag or anything…

I deeply admire Reeves’s views and this book for many reasons; for one, he offers actual solutions. He’s not just dropping stats, showing carts, and blowing out hot air. He has well-researched plans of action and ideas that would help combat the current state of boys and men. The one I loved the most was HEAL.

‘HEAL’ is a term he coined that stands for health, education, administration, and literacy. He writes, “’HEAL’ professions will do for men what STEM did for women.”

The second, Reeves believes that you can hold two truths at once. Like I stated above, he thought, yes, women’s issues are still significant, and we still have a long way to go. However, issues that affect men are not restricted to what the women’s movement is fighting for, but fixing one can help the other. Hence, the reminder that feminism is not about hating men, but rather the fight for equality.

Another idea that Reeves has is “red shirting,” where he suggests holding boys back one year in school. That chapter was deeply fascinating! And again, my homie Reeves did the research, has the facts that, if put into practice, could have a positive outcome.

Reeves is white and British. However! He addresses both these facts immediately in the book. Since he is white, he does know that Black men in America experience a different life than White men in America. So, he conducts the research and dedicates a section of the book to the Black male experience. And since he is British, he is fully aware that his views on America may be somewhat skewed. However, he has clearly done the work.

I know it’s a small gesture to point out something so obvious, but I appreciated him not pretending those factors didn’t matter in the writing of this book. Because honestly, it doesn’t matter! His not doing that would have pissed me off and maybe even made me hate the book. But that’s the brilliance of Richard V. Reeves as a person; he is genuinely a dude who cares. He has a whole section of the book dedicated to what the Left is getting wrong about young men and what harm the right is doing as well. And for that, I applaud him because he might be one of the last true journalists alive. Meaning, he does not pick a side; he is merely doing the job of delivering the pure, raw data and facts to you, the reader. I do enjoy that he does sprinkle in a few personal stories about his own life.

OK, but let’s get to a brass tacks real quick; you know I love y’all readers, and I always want to be 100% real with you. I will not lie, there were several moments while I was reading this book where I could feel the rising tide of my defenses swelling up. I could feel myself feeling a bit smug, almost prickly, and most certainly frustrated because women have been dealing with the bullshit of a male-created society for fucking centuries, and we had to grin and bear it. And now men are realizing that the patriarchy comes for everyone. YES! EVEN THEM! AND NOW MEN are feeling what it’s like to be a victim. They now know what it’s like when they don’t express their feelings, how it can lead them to feel depression, anger, loneliness, and isolation. BUT they get to do mass shootings, get away with rape, hit women, be the reasons why so many people are in jail, get to start fights, yell, scream, misbehave, and NOW it’s a problem! NOW PEOPLE CARE?! NOW WE HAVE TO FIX IT?!

….

OK.

….

*deep breath.* 

So, yes, those feelings happened a few times while reading this book. But hey! Never once did I claim to be perfect or professional.

But I kept reading, and I’m glad I did, because, and I say this partly as a joke but partly because it’s true, I am a woman, and I know how these dudes feel. Women possess a multitude of superpowers, and one of our strongest abilities is empathy. And who agrees with me? My new homie Richard V. Reeves.

So yeah, despite moments of feminine rage (women get angry too!) I really, truly enjoyed reading this book. It was like having a great conversation over dinner with one of my dad’s cool friends. And a line that really stuck with me was when Reeves writes, “…Too many people say, ‘Men don’t have problems, men are the problem.’ And if we continue to see men as problems, rather than also having problems, then it’s going to be a challenging time for all of us for the next few years.”

This got me thinking that the real or even BIGGER problem is that we are too busy fighting over whose problems to solve first, instead of realizing and remembering that we can solve multiple issues simultaneously. The patriarchy is excellent at creating distractions and leading us to believe that everything has to be executed linearly, when in actuality, problems can be solved from multiple directions and at the same time.

FOOTNOTE: I do want to add OF BOYS AND MEN is not a book book. It’s a lengthy research paper that is exceptionally thoughtful and exquisitely well-written. And sometimes, after very lofty or heavy poetic novels, my brain likes to dip its toe in the reality of statistics in pie charts.

All in all, EVERYONE should read this book, which means all of the boys and the girls and the men and the women and non-binary hotties in the world.

As always, I need this chapter with love,
the book bitch

I believe one of the most incredible adaptations is writer/director Sarah Polley’s take on Miriam Toews’s novel WOMEN TALKING. If you’ve ever read WOMEN TALKING, you know it’s rich in metaphor, beautiful poetic imagery, and some heart-wrenching violence. But oh my god, what Polley did was a feat of cinematic brilliance! I mean, I’m not alone, she did take home the Oscar for BEST ADAPTATION! So, like, she did the damn thing.

Now, as much as I love movies, this blog isn’t called Movie Bitch, however, talk about a great spin-off. I’m here to tell you about reading Miriam Toews’s latest book, A TRUCE THAT IS NOT PEACE.

Miriam Toews is a deeply fascinating human being. For one, she grew up in a very similar religious group as the women in her novel WOMEN TALKING did. Meaning, Toews has seen and experienced a lot of crazy shit. Which is what this book is. It’s technically categorized as a memoir, but reading it felt like breaking into someone’s diary.

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Basically, what happens is, the real-life Miriam is hit with the VERY LOADED question, “Why do you write?” Which low-key sends her into a baby spiral. Not a big one, but like a baby one. Which, honestly, I get. As a writer myself, I don’t think I could answer that right away or provide a satisfactory answer. Are all my filled notebooks and all my blogs not reasons enough?! I write because well… I need to write.

The memoir then jumps around. It begins to read more like the research notebook of someone trying to draft a novel than a finished novel. It has paragraphs and parts of cool observations that are then abruptly cut off by quotes or other random thoughts. There isn’t really any lace or threading, just a big old messy ball of yarn that, as a reader, you’re asked to take apart.

And I mean, I won’t lie, I was frustrated at times, but I was also wildly entertained because she had collected some cool shit! There were these extraordinary yet simultaneously simple sentences that took my breath away—leaving me in a state of wonder and fulfillment.

Because I love it when a book makes me feel like I’ve discovered the meaning of life, and this book has a lot of those moments. The “aha!” Slap the forehead - everything finally makes sense in those moments. Pure and classic.

The deeper you follow Toews on her journey to answer the question, “Why do you write?” the more you get a sense that this book is also a reflection of the stages of grief. Toews lost her father and only sister to suicide. And both times, she had to be the one to break the news to her mother. Meaning, she had to be the strong one. A reflection she makes very clear in the book, a task put upon her, but not a job she signed up for. So, yes, like the book, grief is messy. It’s not linear, it’s not a straight line, and it doesn’t care about your silly little writing deadlines.

I appreciated the wildness and randomness of this book; however, it lacked some gravity. It lacked hum and was all buzz. It was all flight, neon, bright, fast, look over here, no over there, now here, now listen, now tell me about you, wait, just kidding, what were you saying? Look at these flowers! No, now these bees! OK! But look! A bird. OK! So, I read about a really cool thing!

Exhausting? Yes. I’m not saying the book will put you to sleep, because it is overall super fascinating, but it will at least make you tired.

I physically bought this book because Miriam Toews is one of my favorite writers of all time. And, like I said, the whole thing reads like Toews’ personal notebook, so it’s jam-packed with lots of juicy, inspiring bits and pieces. I’m just giving grace to those who think this is your typical memoir. Well, if you’re familiar with her work, you already know Miriam Toews is not your typical writer. This book is a visit to her brain.

And what a visit it will be.

As always, I end this chapter with love,
the book bitch xo

Pippo is a monkey from a beloved children’s book series called “Tom and Pippo” by Helen Oxenbury. The stories were all about Tom and Pippo’s adventures together. Going to the store, going to the beach, the first day of school, and the one that really stuck with me was called “Tom and Pippo and The Washing Machine.” Ugh! Still haunts me to this day.

The story was about how Tom had to “give up Pippo” so his parents could wash him. I mean, absolutely traumatizing! Tom was all alone, and poor Pippo had to live through the rinse cycle. Although the story ended happily, Tom and Pippo were once again reunited, Pippo freshly washed. It was quite the harrowing story.

When I first got him, Pippo had a red scarf, Velcro hands that stuck together, and red and white striped overalls. Pippo still has his signature red scarf, but sadly, I lost his overalls a long time ago. And his hands no longer stick together. My mom has had to mend his hands and feet over the years with patches. But when I was little, she used to say it was because he had eczema just like me, which gave me such comfort.

I still have Pippo to this day. In fact, he is currently on my bed with me and my dog Batz as I write this very post. I still sleep with him, and I travel with him. If you’ve ever been on a trip with me or met me at a writing conference, you have met Pippo. He has been to Ireland, France, Cuba, Mexico, Germany, Italy, and Maine. He once hung from a chandelier at the Louvre, rode shotgun in a 1956 Chevy in Havana, and even attended a mathematics seminar at the University of Cambridge.

He has clearly outgrown his adventures with Tom, and he is obviously more than a stuffed childhood toy. Pippo carries stories and meaning. He has seen so much and has seen me through so much more. And I always wonder about the tiny little spirit, which is why I truly enjoyed reading Mona Susan Power’s novel A COUNCIL OF DOLLS.

A COUNCIL OF DOLLS tells the story of three generations of Dakota women (a mother, a daughter, and a grandmother) and the dolls that helped them along the way.

In Part One, we meet Sissy. She lives in Chicago with her father, Jack, who is a profoundly tender man who was shaken by the Korean War, but despite what he saw, he has a big heart. Sissy’s mother is Lillian. Lillian is hot and cold. She is troubled and quick to anger; however, she is an activist with deep roots in her community and is always willing to stand up for her people. However, a haunting follows Lillian. She is disturbed and can’t seem to tame her monsters. Sissy fears and loves her mother in equal parts; her doll Ethel knows this. Ethel does her best to protect Sissy at all costs.

In the second chapter of the book, we are reintroduced to Lillian. But she is not the Lillian who is a mother; she is the Lillian who is a young girl, living on the Dakota reservation with her family. Lillian is a young girl who can’t do anything but watch as her family gets destroyed by her abusive and alcoholic father. In the hope that this will protect her, Lillian’s mother, Cora, sends her to boarding school. Lillian’s doll, Mae, tries to soothe her, but there are some scars even the greatest hugs can’t heal.

In Part Three, we meet Grandmother Cora when she’s a young girl, with her doll, Winona. Unlike Lillian, Cora is forced to attend a boarding school. The terrible nuns who run the place try to take Winona from Cora, but some bonds can’t be broken.

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We end the novel with Sissy, except now she goes by Jessie. Jessie is older now, a successful writer who is stuck. She is trying to heal from something. But something magical happens; somehow, she has come into possession of all the dolls that tried to help her mother and her grandmother survive.

This book made me cry. I had to put it down several times because it was a bit much. Intergenerational trauma is one of the most powerful energies in the world. It is something we have absolutely no control over. It is merely passed down to us, like our genetic traits, without our permission. This book was a reminder that cycles of abuse and anger can be broken, but it won’t be easy, and you can’t do it alone.

I applaud and admire Mona Susan Power tremendously. Her ability to share the brutal, horrific, and tragic stories of those who were forced to attend those White Christian-led boarding schools. Stories that happened to her actual family members could not have been easy to write and relive, but she did it. She got the truth out there. She gave a voice to those who could not speak.

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Now, if you know nothing about these monstrosity institutions, then I highly recommend you grab this book, like ASAP! Because A COUNCIL OF DOLLS is an incredibly moving book for many reasons, but Power bringing awareness to the inhumane treatment that these indigenous children had to endure was some of the best writing I have read in a long time.

If you couldn’t already tell, this book will not be easy to read. There are large chunks that will make you sick to your stomach and cause your skin to crawl, but I’m telling you to stay. I’m telling you to sit in it and listen to these girls tell their stories. It will be worth it, I promise.

Since the last section of the book is dedicated to Jessie talking to the dolls and collecting their points of view, there is a lot of repetition. Which, at first, I did find to be a little irritating, but then, after a while, I gave into it. I understood why Power did that. I needed to take my own advice to sit and listen to the dolls tell their story.

Because lord knows, if Pippo one day just started talking to me and started retelling me ALL the adventures we lived through together, I would be stunned into silence. As I should be! Because Pippo and the dolls in the book did wait a very long time to be heard finally. The least we could do was kindly shut up and listen.

And all of this is to say; being a child is both a scary and magical thing. The world around is so big and so brand new. We do our best to navigate through all these tricky situations and try to make sense of the chaos we are born into. And if we are so lucky to be gifted a companion to help us along this journey, their existence is real because we make it real. And it might sound crazy to you but our toys and our dolls do have hearts and souls and thoughts and opinions. Power’s novel reminded me of that simple thought; if you show something love, you give it life.

And oh, how that resonated with me, dear reader.

On that note, as always, I end this chapter with love,
the book bitch