Ballyhoo #4: BELLY UP by Eva Darrows

Ballyhoo

Ballyhoo: “an excited commotion” or a blog feature? Both, obviously!

Ballyhoo is an on-again, off-again feature where I chat about an upcoming release I’m particularly excited about. Today I’m featuring Belly Up by Eva Darrow, a YA novel that features a lot of representation that’s dear to my heart: bisexual and queer rep, Latinx rep, fat rep, and teen pregnancy rep. All that is wrapped up in a great premise that seems fun and heartstring-tugging by turns. Let’s dive in!


Belly Up Cover

Belly Up by Eva Darrows

Goodreads | Amazon | Barnes & Noble | IndieBound

Coming April 30, 2019

When 16 year old Serendipity Rodriguez attends a house party to celebrate the end of sophomore year, she has no intention of getting drunk and hooking up with a guy she’s just met, let alone getting pregnant. To make matters worse, she has no way of contacting the father and she and her mother are about to move to a new town and in with her grandmother.

It’s hard enough to start your junior year as the new kid in school, but at 5-months pregnant it’s even harder. So when Sara meets Leaf, who asks her out and doesn’t seem to care that she’s pregnant, she finds herself falling.

Juggling the realities of a pregnancy with school and a new relationship are hard enough, but when Jack, the father of her baby, turns back up, Sara’s life goes from complicated to a complete mess. With the help of her overbearing mother and grandmother, Sara will learn to navigate life’s challenges and be ready for anything, as she prepares for the birth of her baby.

It’s hard to avoid Juno comparisons when you’re talking about a teen pregnancy story, and Belly Up is already getting plenty of comparisons to Juno. That’s not necessarily a bad thing–Juno is one of my favorite movies, in part because of the “corny” teen dialogue everyone seems to hate–but I’m most excited for Belly Up because of the unique spins it puts on your average teen pregnancy story.

First, check out the cover of the novel! How often do you get to see a teen girl who looks both fat* and totally badass and confident on a book or movie cover? Pretty much never. That would be enough to get me intrigued about Belly Up on its own. (Especially because most of the world seems to forget that fat people do, in fact, go on dates, have sex, and get pregnant, including in high school.)

I love seeing a book that is comfortable conveying that its main character is fat without making it the center of the story. (It’s not even mentioned in the blurb.)

Next, Serendipity “Sara” Rodriguez is clearly written as Latina (she’s apparently biracial)–and yet, similarly to her fatness, that part of her identity is being treated as important without being the only important thing about her. I have nothing against “issue novels” about latinidad that get into complex questions about identity and belonging; I’ve read a great many of them. But I love seeing Latinx teens get other kinds of rep where they face other kinds of problems, too.

Lastly, this book is SUPER queer. It was featured on Book Riot’s list of 2019 bisexual YA books because of its “bisexual, biracial, fat, and ace representation.” I’m going to use these next couple paragraphs to talk about the “bisexual” and “ace” part since I’ve already covered the other two.

It’s truly amazing how far queer rep and acceptance among teens has come in the past ten years or so. I’m only 24, and I distinctly remember how nerve-racking it was to first come out as a lesbian to my friends when I was 16-17. I didn’t fully come out till a semester or two into college, when I was 19 or 20. And even that is so much earlier than many lesbians of previous generations got to come out.

Now, many teens are out of the closet before they’re even in high school. (The idea of the “closet” is itself starting to seem like a silly idea!) Queer teens still face immense challenges–especially transgender teens–but I’m delighted at how much brighter the queer future seems now than it did when I was 13, especially when it comes to representation. (See: the rest of that Book Riot list.)

That’s why books like Belly Up seem so precious to me. Sara’s relationship with Leaf seems so far from the simplistic coming out narratives that dominated when I was a teenage book blogger. I don’t recall ever reading a book that even touched on ace (asexual) identity until I was in my late teens, and maybe not even then. Maybe I’m just projecting my real-life experiences with my ace peers into a book I wish had existed. Who knows!

My point is that Sara seems like an awesome, multidimensional heroine dealing with a tough situation as best she can. How exciting that today’s YA is big enough for stories like these. I can’t wait to read this one, both for the book-loving adult I am now and the starved-for-rep, book-loving teen I was not so long ago.

Do you have your heart set on Belly Uptoo? What’s your ballyhoo this week? Let me know all about it in the comments–I’m always looking to add to my TBR list!


I prefer to use the term fat rather than a euphemism like “plus size” or “curvy” because “fat” should be no more an offensive term than “thin” is. The word “fat” merely describes bodies. (The bodies of most of the American population, in fact!) It is a morally neutral adjective and I treat it as such on this blog, since I myself am a fat person who cares deeply about destigmatizing fatness. Just thought I’d share my rationale in case the term bothers some of my readers!

Friday Bookbag (plus a personal story), 2.8.19

FridayBookbag

Friday Bookbag is a weekly feature where I share a list of books I’ve borrowed, bought, or received during the week. It’s my chance to buzz about my excitement for books I might not get the chance to review.

But first, story time: As some of you may know, I had a pretty major surgery yesterday. (A total hysterectomy, in order to treat my endometriosis and related pain.) I’m happy to say that the surgery was a major success. I’m extremely emotional about it, because even though the post-surgery pain is not fun and I’m too weak to sit up without help right now, I actually feel better after surgery than I did before. I literally felt better as soon as I woke up. It’s incredible.

I’ve been suffering with this condition for years and had pretty much lost hope I’d ever get relief. I still have a long recovery ahead and there’s a strong possibility I will continue to deal with some endometriosis pain in addition to my everyday fibromyalgia pain, but both conditions should be much improved now. (The endometriosis was triggering fibromyalgia flares and vice versa. That should no longer be the case.) I’m praying that this hysterectomy closes the book on the worst pain and illness I’ve ever experienced in my life. My doctors are hopeful it will, so I’m hopeful, too.

Here’s to more reading, writing, and blogging in the future. And PSA: if you’re suffering debilitating menstrual pain, I implore you to take that shit seriously. It’s not normal to be vomiting with pain during periods. It’s not normal to be laid up for 2-3 (or 4-5) weeks out of every month because of your periods. It’s not normal to be too weak to eat or walk or think or take the bus by yourself because of your periods. Please take your pain seriously and fight for the care you deserve. I’m so glad I did.

/end story time. Now, back to the books! This week I’m featuring three exciting reads by Black women authors: two new ones I bought recently, plus an old favorite that’s just gone on deep sale. Happy Black History Month!


How Long ’til Black Future Month?: Stories by N.K. Jemisin

How Long Til Black Future Month Cover

Goodreads | Amazon | Barnes & Noble | IndieBound

the premise: From Goodreads:

In these stories, Jemisin sharply examines modern society, infusing magic into the mundane, and drawing deft parallels in the fantasy realms of her imagination. Dragons and hateful spirits haunt the flooded city of New Orleans in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. In a parallel universe, a utopian society watches our world, trying to learn from our mistakes. A black mother in the Jim Crow south must figure out how to save her daughter from a fey offering impossible promises. And in the Hugo award-nominated short story “The City Born Great,” a young street kid fights to give birth to an old metropolis’s soul.

why I’m excited:I’ve been dying to read N.K. Jemisin’s critically acclaimed work for years, but the timing’s never seemed to work out. I’ve also been dying to read more sci-fi short stories, especially with recent work like “Say, She Toy” by Chesya Burke and “Welcome to Your Authentic Indian Experience” by Rebecca Roanhorse knocking my socks off.

It’s like N.K. Jemisin read my mind and combined my sci-fi wishes into one awesome package in How Long ’til Black Future Month?. Every single story mentioned in that Goodreads summary sounds fascinating to me. That cover is gorgeous. And during a Black History Month that’s already been pretty miserable for Black Americans, I love the idea of immersing myself in a Black Future Month instead.

The Mothers by Brit Bennett

The Mothers Cover

Goodreads | Amazon | Barnes & Noble | IndieBound

the premise: From Goodreads:

It is the last season of high school life for Nadia Turner, a rebellious, grief-stricken, seventeen-year-old beauty. Mourning her own mother’s recent suicide, she takes up with the local pastor’s son. Luke Sheppard is twenty-one, a former football star whose injury has reduced him to waiting tables at a diner. They are young; it’s not serious. But the pregnancy that results from this teen romance—and the subsequent cover-up—will have an impact that goes far beyond their youth. As Nadia hides her secret from everyone, including Aubrey, her God-fearing best friend, the years move quickly. Soon, Nadia, Luke, and Aubrey are full-fledged adults and still living in debt to the choices they made that one seaside summer, caught in a love triangle they must carefully maneuver, and dogged by the constant, nagging question: What if they had chosen differently? The possibilities of the road not taken are a relentless haunt.

why I’m excited: You all already know how much I love the books that bridge the gap between YA and adult fiction. The Mothers looks like it will do that, and be tremendously complex and interesting to boot. I love that it seems to take teens’ issues seriously. I’m genuinely excited to see a love triangle between a “beauty,” “pastor’s son,” and “former football star” in a critically acclaimed literary fiction novel. Yessss! I think the current array of typical literary fiction protagonists is incredibly limited, and I’m looking forward to spending some time with Bennett’s characters in contrast. Also, teen pregnancies are so often flattened into metaphors or deuses-ex-machina, but I trust The Mothers will do much better. (Its gush of positive reviews seems to suggest that, anyway.)

Also-also, that cover is gorgeous. I want it on a poster on my wall.

Bonus Round:

9780544786769

This Is Just My Face: Try Not to Stare by Gabourey Sidibe is currently on sale for $2.99 on Kindle. (If you’re a Kindle Unlimited subscriber, it’s available to read for free through that service, too.)

I reviewed This Is Just My Face last year and really loved it. Reading Sidibe’s memoir is like going to the coolest, funniest, realest sleepover of your life. She writes in a conversational, down-to-earth, self-deprecating (but also self-loving) style that’s the antithesis of what you would expect from a typical celebrity memoir. She’s lived a genuinely interesting life full of interesting stories (like her parents’ green card marriage, her summer stuck in Senegal with her brother, and her time as a phone sex operator and how it prepared her for acting).

You might know Sidibe best from the movie Precious or the shows Empire and American Horror Story: Coven, but I actually love her presence as a writer and social media personality the best. If you haven’t read it already, This Is Just My Face is definitely worth picking up during this sale.


What’s in your bookbag this week? Do you have any exciting weekend reading plans? Let me know in the comments, and feel free to link to your own book reviews and blog posts!

Book Review: THE GIRLS by Emma Cline

The Girls was a massive critical and commercial success upon its release in 2016, and it hardly needs my voice chiming in on its behalf. Still, I wanted to write about this historical novel–set in late ’60s California, loosely based on the Manson Family and their infamous murders–because it stirred up such a complex array of emotions in me. With Cline’s prose being so luminous that it practically burned into the back of my eyelids, and The Girls‘s electric premise, I should have absolutely loved this novelinstead I only liked it. As its title implies, The Girls is a lovely novel about girlhood, but I have serious reservations about its myopic focus and the liberties Cline takes with historical events. Despite the novel’s raw power, its plot curdles instead of coheres.

You can read my full review below.


9780812988024

The Girls by Emma Cline

Goodreads | Amazon | Barnes & Noble | IndieBound

  • publisher: Penguin Random House
  • publication date: 2016 (hardcover) and 2017 (paperback)
  • length: 368 pages (paperback)

It was the end of the sixties, or the summer before the end, and that’s what it seemed like, an endless, formless summer. The Haight populated with white-garbed Process members handing out their oat-colored pamphlets, the jasmine along the roads that year blooming particularly heady and full. Everyone was healthy, tan, and heavy with decoration, and if you weren’t, that was a thing, too–you could be some moon creature, chiffon over the lamp shades, on a kitchen cleanse that stained all your dishes with turmeric.

But all that was happening somewhere else, not in Petaluma…

–from The Girls by Emma Cline

The Girls stars one girl, Evie, who is fourteen years old. Her parents have recently divorced; she lives in her mother’s mansion in Petaluma and is acting out against her mother’s boyfriends, though you quickly get the impression that her strife with her mother runs much deeper than the divorce and new beaus: Evie is ignored and smothered by her nervous mother in turns, never quite in the Goldilocks zone of affection. Her father lives in a distant apartment with his former secretary (and new lover), rarely seen. On top of all that, Evie’s best (and seemingly only) friend spurns her. It seems things can’t get worse.

Except they can. It’s the summer of 1969, Evie is terribly lonely, and that’s when she falls in with the girls. Plural. The Manson ones.

Or they would be the Manson ones, if Cline hadn’t created a somewhat scrambled analogue of the infamous cult “family” for this novel. The Girls‘s cult leader is Russell, not Charles. The Family has a run-in with an apparently famous musician named Mitch, but his band goes conspicuously unnamed (it was actually Dennis Wilson of the Beach Boys). They’re in San Francisco, not Los Angeles. Cline creates four composite victims here in place of at least eight real ones.

I’m being pedantic here, I know. But I list these details because Cline is working with the freaking Manson murders here, literally one of the best-known crimes in American history. I wish that Cline had either fudged more details or fewer, because the way she writes about the summer of 1969 in this novel left me cross-eyed, like my glasses weren’t on right. The Girls‘s historical details are always distractingly in the middle distance, even as Cline gets the muggy, dizzy vibe of the thing just right.

It’s unfortunate, a little like if an Investigation Discovery reenactment was suddenly given the auteur treatment. (No disrespect meant to ID, but we all know those reenactments are the pits.) Cline is a gifted auteur, and I loved to watch her work, but I could never forget I was watching her work. The Girls never feels real, too much art and too little life. It’s good art, but it can’t escape an uncanny valley.

If you know nothing to very little about the Manson murders, then this critique is pointless. Go in and love this novel, because there’s an awful lot to love. But I don’t even know that much about the murders–most of what I know comes from Stuff You Should Know’s twopart podcast about them that was released last year–and it was still a strong enough dissonance to bother me. Your mileage may vary.

And I’ll add, in a small and self-justifying voice, that I think Cline’s composite artistry also damages the plot. It leaves Evie’s moves feeling a little too planned, leaves her feeling always in the right place and never quite under her own power, meaning that even when I knew she was in danger, the danger never compelled me. (This novel is not very long, but took me two whole weeks to get through. It’s not a slog, just somewhat impenetrable. I could only give it short bursts of my time before losing interest.)

After all that, let me talk about what The Girls gets right, because there’s an awful lot that it gets right. I promise.

First, The Girls gets girls right, and in that way, the novel’s unreality almost works in its favor. Girls are girls, whether it’s 1969 or now, most of their challenges the same. The novel’s framing device is that Evie, now an adult, is staying at an old friend’s beach house when that friend’s college-age son and his girlfriend Tasha stop by. The menacing gender dynamics Evie witnesses between the boyfriend and Tasha take her right back to 1969, when those same forces pushed her into the cult and kept her there. She narrates the story from there, with brief interludes from the present throughout.

I had a (positive) visceral reaction to the way Cline writes about Evie’s loss of innocence, and the observed loss of innocence of other girls, especially Tasha’s. Evie’s circumstances are extraordinary, and yet her arc is terribly mundane and familiar. At one point, she observes that young girls know instinctively that they are objects to be judged, that whatever opinion they have of themselves is subservient to the opinions of others (i.e., men). It’s such a simple observation and yet it hit me like a heart attack. I shivered. It was otherworldly in its potency, sort of like the “Cool Girl” speech in Gone Girl.

Which leads me to the second, perhaps best thing The Girls gets right: the prose. It’s so good I got a high of sorts. I re-read some pages many times just to marvel at them. Cline writes with a manic intensity that is just right for this material. Every scene was supercharged with detail and energy, especially the ones at the cult ranch. Green potatoes foraged from dumpsters, musty girls’ clothes shared from a trash bag, and the scumminess of an unmaintained pool all take on intense significance here. The drugged-up eyes of the other girls at the compound are at one point described as “bright berries.” That lingers.

There’s a constant contrast between the innocence of Evie’s whitewashed Petaluma life, which she hates, and the drugged-up depravity of the cult’s lifestyle, which she also hates, but models herself after anyway. It’s a contrast that becomes interestingly muddled as the novel goes on, less of a choice between two things than an inevitability. She moves from the first to the second as if there’s no way to move, as if growing up were the same as decaying.

And like Evie, I’m left of two minds here. I like the experience of having read The Girls. I love that its images and observations are now bouncing around my mind. But I can’t get over the fuzzy, somewhat numb experience of actually reading it. It’s long stretches of nothing punctuated with mind-blowing moments. On one hand, I admire The Girls’s single-mindedness, and on the other, I feel a little cheated by it. Focus does not require myopia, and yet in its focus on the girls, this novel feels myopic.

It’s worth noting, to that point, that this book does not mention race at all. To my understanding every single character in it is white. The more I think about it, the weirder that is. Evie certainly lives a fairly wealthy, spoiled, insulated life in Petaluma, but it’s 1969 in California. Near San Francisco. Near Oakland! It seems odd that there isn’t even a throwaway mention of race, especially given that the real Manson murders were considered by the lead prosecutor as attempts to frame the Black Panthers and spark a race war. (Some people today think that isn’t true, but it’s still such a huge part of the case that it’s strange to leave it out entirely, even in its made-up version.)

I’m white, and the narrative of white girlhood that Cline presents here resonated powerfully with me, but it’s very much a story of white girlhood. No novel needs to include every human experience (or even most of them), but in the case of The Girls, it feels like yet another important detail elided or muddled to suit the story’s ends. It makes the scaffolding of this novel feel too visible, though I love the structure beneath.

The Girls is a powerful experience. (A real trip, if you will.) I recommend it, and am glad I own it, since I’ll likely revisit it again. I just wish Cline had channeled its raw, cathartic energy into something that flowed just a little better, felt just a little more well-thought-out. Moment by moment, The Girls is astonishingly good, but its connective tissue falters. ★★★★☆

Books you might also enjoy:


I purchased my own copy of The Girls and was in no way compensated for this review.

Friday Bookbag, 2.1.19

FridayBookbag

Friday Bookbag is a (semi-)weekly feature where I share a list of books I’ve borrowed, bought, or received during the week. It’s my chance to buzz about my excitement for books I might not get the chance to review.

This week I’m skipping over the whole pile of books I’ve bought since the last time I put up a Friday Bookbag (in October! Whew!). Instead I’m spotlighting a couple of short story collections I’ve received for review recently. Let’s dive in!


White Dancing Elephants by Chaya Bhuvaneswar

Goodreads | Amazon | Barnes & Noble | IndieBound

White Dancing Elephants Cover.jpgsource: a copy from the author

the premise: Says the back cover:

A woman grieves a miscarriage, haunted by the Buddha’s birth. An artist with schizophrenia tries to survive hatred and indifference in small-town India by turning to the beauty of sculpture and dance. A brief but intense affair between two women culminates in regret and betrayal.

It’s a collection of seventeen stories that centers on women of color, especially queer women of color, trying to survive in a violent world.

why I’m excited: I’m a lesbian, and as much as I love happy portrayals of women loving other women, I’m also a sucker for more complex stories about queer women in the world. White Dancing Elephants promises to be that kind of complex, interesting, diverse read–diverse both in the shorthand sense of not white, not straight and also diverse in the way short story collections are always diverse: an assemblage of different perspectives and approaches to a theme. Where a novel digs deep, a short story collection can go wide. I’m excited about this one.

Mothers: Stories by Chris Power

Goodreads | Amazon | Barnes & Noble | IndieBound

Mothers Cover.jpgsource: a copy from the publisher, Farrar, Straus & Giroux, won in a contest

the premise: From the inside flap (can you tell I’ve given up trying to summarize short story collections on my own? there’s just too much much in them):

Ranging from remote English moors to an ancient Swedish burial ground to a hedonistic Mexican wedding, the stories in Mothers lay bare the emotional and psychic damage of life, love, and abandonment.

It’s apparently “braided through” with overarching stories about Eva, “a daughter, wife, and mother, whose search for a self and a place of belonging tracks a devastating path through generations.”

why I’m excited: Well, everything I said about short story collections above still applies here: I just love the experiments with language and storytelling they enable. For another, I love stories about mothers and daughters. That’s not the entirety of the collection, but it’s obviously a critical portion, given the title and repeated stories about Eva. And as I’ve written about extensively before, I prefer to read stories about women. Those will always be the most interesting, precious stories to me, given how often they’re sidelined. I’m curious what Power’s approach will be to this collection, given that he’s a man writing a very feminine-coded book (the cover’s even pink!). I’m curious how he will treat his characters. It could go wrong, or it could go very right! I’m excited to find out which it is.


What’s in your bookbag this week? Do you have any exciting weekend reading plans? Let me know in the comments, and feel free to link to your own book reviews and blog posts!

Book Review: SADIE by Courtney Summers

Sadie is a high-concept novel with a gritty punch. 19-year-old Sadie’s younger sister is murdered in a small town, and then Sadie herself disappears. A true crime podcast investigates the crime. (Or is it crimes?) Sadie feels both meta and granular, delightful and discomfiting, a story that uplifts forgotten teen girls without ever sinking into naïveté or blasé go, girl! empowerment. Courtney Summers’s prose is blistering and urgent, her tenterhooks-plotting a tour-de-force. This book is unforgettable.

Oh, and I don’t usually offer content warnings, since everyone’s triggers are different, but Sadie has some big ones, so:

Content warning: Sadie has graphic scenes of child abuse, rape, molestation, and pedophilia. If those are triggers for you, I’d recommend leaving this book on the shelf.

You can read my full review below.


Sadie Cover.jpg

Sadie by Courtney Summers

Goodreads | Amazon | Barnes & Noble | IndieBound

  • publisher: Wednesday Books
  • publication date: September 4, 2018
  • length: 320 pages
  • cover price: $17.99

Restless teenage girls, reckless teenage girls. Teenage girls and their inevitable drama. Sadie had survived a terrible loss, and with very little effort on my part, I dismissed it. Her. I wanted a story that felt fresh, new and exciting and what about a missing teenage girl was that?

We’ve heard this story before.

–from Sadie by Courtney Summers

The first thing that struck me about Sadie was its intense sense of reality: how perfectly I could hear each line of dialogue, picture each setting, hunger for a luscious slice of apple pie, tremble with icy fear at memories that weren’t even mine. I don’t always read for reality–in fact, I often avoid it–but when a fiction author is so gifted at capturing the real world on the page, as Courtney Summers is here, magic happens. Reality becomes as vivid as CGI, as immersive as a first-person video game. Background becomes foreground. You learn the world all over again, like you fell through the looking glass last night as you slept.

Sadie is no fantasy, but reading it is fantastic.

Sadie’s lived her whole life in Cold Creek, a small town rich in natural beauty and poor in just about everything else. A high school dropout who lived for her younger sister, Mattie, Sadie’s world flies to pieces when Mattie is brutally murdered, the killer never caught. And then Sadie disappears, too.

Frustrated with local police’s tepid reaction, Sadie and Mattie’s grandmother calls in a true crime podcaster to investigate, and that’s when the novel begins: Sadie is told in alternating perspectives between the fictional podcast’s transcripts and Sadie’s own first-person narration. We’re always one step ahead of the podcast, trailing Sadie as she flees Cold Creek and seeks vigilante justice against a mysterious abuser. (Perhaps killer.)

But it soon becomes clear that Sadie isn’t telling us everything, even when she’s the one doing the telling. The tension between podcast and girl is a perfect deployment of unreliable narrators: ones that work in service of the story as well as in service of Sadie-the-novel’s brutal meta-commentary on the disposability and forgettability of girls and women.

This novel just…seethes. That’s the word that was on my tongue the whole time I read. I found that weirdly soothing, though. It was nice to be met with the same kind of feminist fury I’ve been feeling my whole life. Sadie‘s violence is relentless, but in it, I found tenderness, too. There’s tenderness in telling the truth.

Again, Sadie is fiction. But it’s remarkable how much it feels like it’s not.

So many stories of sexual and sex-based violence, especially pedophilia-related ones, are either innocence-lost stories or stories of facile revenge. They’re binary stories of either dis- or re-empowerment that place the onus of said empowerment on each girl and woman in isolation.

Meanwhile, Sadie, despite the fact that it’s named for one girl, never loses sight that Sadie is one of many girls. She’s never in isolation. You know from the first page that even if Sadie’s story ends happily (a big question mark!), hers is only one story. It would be her happy ending, not a happy ending. There are so many more. And that makes the novel burn much hotter and brighter.

It’s hard to overstate or overhype the skill Summers displays here. When half your novel is a podcast transcript, having an ear for pitch-perfect dialogue is mission critical; she nails it. (Sadie has a stutter, another detail that could have sent the dialogue awry, but it’s written flawlessly.) It’s almost hard to single out particular things Summers gets right because everything is so damn right, from characterization to plotting to her creative decisions around Sadie‘s risky, courageous ending.

I loved this book. It was the first I read in 2019, so I’m hoping that means something: for the quality of the books I’ll read this year, and also for my hopes for a world where Sadie might feel less urgent, less sharp, less real. It got 2019 off on a feminist, furious foot.

Someday I hope the message of this book will feel obsolete, but I’m certain its remarkable craft and storytelling never will be. ★★★★★

Books you might also enjoy:


I purchased my own copy of Sadie and was in no way compensated for this review.

I’m a Wikipedia source now, apparently! (And other miscellany.)

It’s been awhile! Since, uh, November, in fact. This is unfortunately the longest hiatus I’ve ever had on Maggie Reads, and if you follow me on Twitter, you might have gleaned that it’s for health reasons…again. Oy vey.

The bad news is that I’m not up to writing or reading much more than 280 character snippets at the moment. The good news is that I’m getting surgery in February that should help a lot. It’s going to be a long road back to normal, but I’m hopeful that normal is, indeed, waiting for me somewhere in 2019. I hope you’ll stick around till I get there!

In other, more charming news, I saw that I had an influx of traffic from Wikipedia today and did a little digging. Turns out that my blog post about the Future Library Project was used as a source for Wikipedia’s article about the Future Library Project!

Wikipedia article screenshot

How cool is that? It’s not even one of those weird stub articles that’s written by someone with an axe to grind. It’s a very professional-looking, well-rounded Wikipedia article. I’m honored to be included, though who knows if I’ll last till the next edit.

In other news, I celebrated a lovely Christmas with family and got to both give and receive some fantastic books. My wishlist this year was pretty much entirely cookbooks and my loved ones gave me some terrific ones. Salt Fat Acid Heat by Samin Nosrat, The Sioux Chef’s Indigenous Kitchen by Sean Sherman and Beth Dooley, Now and Again: Go-To Recipes, Inspired Menus + Endless Ideas for Reinventing Leftovers by Julia Turshen, and an Instant Pot cookbook were all on the menu. I can’t wait to give them a spin. (Especially Salt Fat Acid Heat–like everyone else, I adored Samin’s Netflix series.)

My cousin also gifted me The Wasp Factory by Iain Banks and There There by Tommy Orange. I’m excited about both but especially about There There since I had it on hold at the library last month but was unable to pick it up because I’ve been so sick. I was crushed to miss it because it’s literally a 4-to-6-month-long wait for it in my local library system! That’s a loooooong time when you’re excited about a book, but now I don’t have to go back to the back of the line (or be back in line at all). Great timing, cuz.

As I said, I also gave a bunch of books for Christmas, with the help of NPR’s 2018 book concierge, which gets better and better every year. (It’s a giant widget of book recommendations that you can filter by all sorts of criteria.)

Here are some of the books I gifted this year:

Bad Blood: Secrets and Lies in a Silicon Valley Startup by John Carreyrou, for my dad: A book about Theranos, a disastrous startup that lied to lots of people about their blood test results and was generally a terrifying/wacky/out-of-control company. The book is written by the journalist who initially broke the story for the Wall Street Journal.

Emergency Contact by Mary H.K. Choi, for my brother who just left for college: A college romance (it’s a YA novel) that takes place mostly through text messages. My brother’s gay and unfortunately this romance is m/f but he loves the premise and promises to forgive me. (LOL.)

Orphan Monster Spy by Matt Killeen and Warcross by Marie Lu, for my high school-aged brother: These are the only two books that I read before deciding to gift them. They are two badass YA novels that, to me, showed how rich and diverse the YA category is becoming. OMS is about a Jewish teen undercover at a Nazi boarding school and Warcross is about a teen hacker who hacks a futuristic Fortnite/World of Warcraft-style video game. Both totally awesome and (I hope) right up my brother’s alley.

Dactyl Hill Squad by Daniel José Older, for my middle school-aged brother: This one’s about a group of orphans banding together and fighting bad guys during the Civil War, except they all have dinosaurs. How cool is that?!?!?! It also has the coolest cover ever:

Dactyl Hill Squad Cover

Best. Cover. Ever. Right? I hope my brother thinks so too!

So, those are all my bookish updates. I hope you’re all having a peaceful end of the year, and if you’re not, I hope you at least have some good books to get you through. I’m not sure when I’ll be back on the blog, but I’ll definitely be back. See you soon!

(And if you’re so inclined, please continue to cite me on Wikipedia, okay? It’s very flattering!)

Book Review: CROSS HER HEART by Sarah Pinborough

In Cross Her Heart, Lisa is a mother and career woman who’s just starting to open up after decades-old trauma she refuses to speak about. Ava is Lisa’s daughter, a frustrated teen who’s desperate to get some independence from her smothering mother. And Marilyn is Lisa’s best friend and coworker, a kind, generous woman who seems to have it all. Of course, this novel is a thriller, which means all of them are hiding secrets that threaten to tear them apart.

Cross Her Heart is a well-plotted thrill ride written in no-nonsense, clear prose that’s fun and easy to read even through the twistiest of turns. Unfortunately, I found a few of its tropes grating, and thought it was a tad too long, leaving me liking it but not loving it.

You can read my full review below.


9780062856791

Cross Her Heart by Sarah Pinborough

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  • publisher: William Morrow (an imprint of HarperCollins)
  • publication date: September 4, 2018
  • length: 352 pages
  • cover price: $26.99

I was lonely for a long time. In some ways, I still am. I try to be kind to lonely people now. I’ve learned that kindness is important. What else is there, really?

Cross Her Heart, page 9*

Cross Her Heart moves at breakneck speed from the very first page, when a mysterious man identified only as Him in the chapter header discovers a note from the woman who’s leaving him. Bitch, he thinks. And with that, Cross Her Heart establishes that this is a story about the cruelty women endure, mostly at the hands of men, but sometimes at the hands of each other.

It alternates between the perspectives of three women (with a few additional perspectives thrown in here and there): mother Lisa, daughter Ava, and Lisa’s best friend Marilyn. Each is obviously holding something back, but Sarah Pinborough manages the withholding deftly, unspooling the plot just fast enough to keep you flipping pages. She writes each perspective in an open, first-person style that feels disarming in a thriller. From that disarmingly open quality comes the thrills.

Pinborough is an eminently talented writer. I was in awe of the lightness of her prose compared with the darkness of her subject matter and the density with which she needs to keep throwing us clues and red herrings. She’s written over 20 books between pen names, so it’s clear she knows what she’s doing. This was one of the first twisty-turny books I’ve ever read where I think I was able to keep a handle on the plot the entire time–that’s a good thing, since being surprised is a good feeling, but being confused is not.

Unfortunately, despite the quality of the writing and the obvious care with which the plot has been drawn, the actual events and characters of Cross Her Heart didn’t grab me, and in some cases, actively pissed me off.

First, Cross Her Heart has a sordid, mushy, nastiness to it. There’s a lot of unpleasant sex, vicious abuse, slimy office drama, incompetent cops, and opportunistic, cruel paparazzi. These details are the spice to a lot of successful thrillers, but in Cross Her Heart they feel not quite repellent nor fun enough to drive the plot. They clunked leadenly across the page, making me feel sad and bored instead of interested.

Cross Her Heart also has a strong bent of female empowerment to it that is at times glorious, but more often struck me as hollow and almost silly. The close female friendship between Lisa and Marilyn veers from cliché to interesting and then back to cliché; Ava is at times a believable teenager who’s understandably struggling to live with her mother’s strange moods, and at times a sullen kid who makes terrible, horror movie, don’t go upstairs, what the hell, are you kidding me!!!!-type decisions.

I think that while Pinborough excels at plot, she’s less good at characterization–at least in this novel–and that results in characters occasionally doing things that are wildly out of character for the sake of the next move in Cross Her Heart’s chess game.

At least the female characters feel at least little bit real, whereas the male characters range from cartoonishly evil to a cartoonishly good-hearted deus ex machina. It’s an intriguing flip from the usual thriller problem of terribly characterized women and just-okay men, but that doesn’t make it good writing.

Next, I’m going to give some very light spoilers in the paragraph below, because they’re important to my lukewarm reaction to this book. Skip if you’d like to go in totally cold.

Most frustratingly of all for me, towards the end of Cross Her Heart, there’s a distinct tone of lesbian panic, which fully spoiled the “girl power” qualities of the book. I’m not going to go into details, but when your gayest character is also the most evil, it’s going to rub me the wrong way. (Looking at you, Disney movies.) It’s not that you can’t have a queer baddie, but Cross Her Heart’s baddie seems to be evil partially because she’s queer and sexually frustrated, which, ugh.

/spoilers.

Lastly, Cross Her Heart is just slightly too long. It could definitely have done with a twist or two edited away; my nominee would be the final reveal, which removed some intriguing moral ambiguity and made it less satisfying. The pages still flew by, but the excessive length made Cross Her Heart‘s flaws more noticeable.

It’s silly to ding a book for following genre conventions; I love thrillers, Cross Her Heart is a thriller, and sordidness is a key element of thrillers. The taboo is part of the thrill. But I was frustrated at the particular sordid buttons Pinborough decided to push here. As competent and enjoyable as Cross Her Heart is, it lacks the spark that makes dirty secrets fun instead of just dirty.

I’m glad I read Cross Her Heart, but I just didn’t love it. I’d recommend it for people who are true thriller fans, but if your experience with the genre is primarily through crossover authors like Stephen King and Gillian Flynn, you might have a harder time with it.

For all its twists, Cross Her Heart still feels like a train on a straight track. Its thrills come from its breakneck speed and Pinborough’s obvious skill as a conductor, but there’s nothing truly special about the ride. ★★★☆☆


I received a copy of Cross Her Heart from the publisher in exchange for an honest review. I received no other compensation and opinions are entirely my own.

*Page numbers and quotes came from my advance reader copy, which is an uncorrected proof. These may be different in the final version of the book.