Book Review: IN THE DREAM HOUSE by Carmen Maria Machado

For a memoir about gaslighting and nightmarish domestic abuse, Carmen Maria Machado’s In the Dream House has a shockingly lucid, powerful core. Told through small chapters that each explore facets of “the dream house” (the home Machado shared with her abusive female partner), this book pushes the boundaries of real and unreal, personal and archetypal. By talking openly about her experience of queer abuse, Machado forwards a new and necessary concept of queer humanity: one where we finally find a middle ground between viewing queer people as only deviants or only saints. (Speaking from my personal lesbian experience: we are neither.) In the Dream House scared me and soothed me, educated me and entertained me. With this book, Machado sets ambitious goals for herself as a writer and knocks every single one out of the park. In the Dream House is an instant classic. Don’t miss it!

You can read my full review below.


In the Dream House Cover
cover description: A gothic-style illustration of a woman staring out from the attic of a dilapidated house. A shadowy figure stands on the porch.

In the Dream House by Carmen Maria Machado

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  • publisher: Graywolf Press (distributed by Macmillan)
  • publication date: November 5, 2019
  • length: 272 pages

I enter into the archive that domestic abuse between partners who share a gender identity is both possible and not uncommon, and that it can look something like this. I speak into the silence. I toss the stone of my story into a vast crevice; measure the emptiness by its small sound.

–from In the Dream House by Carmen Maria Machado

As a kid, I hoarded books of fairy tales from all over the world, reading and re-reading them, horrified and enthralled, until the pages fell out of the binding.

In my adult reading life, no book I’ve read has been more reminiscent of the primal experience of reading fairy tales than Carmen Maria Machado’s In the Dream House, her memoir of her abuse by another woman–the first woman she’d dated since coming out as bisexual.

Like magic, Machado weaves her specific story into an archetype, referencing Thompson’s Motif-Index of Folk-Literature in the footnotes. (These footnotes are one of the greatest pleasures of the book, in fact.)

The titular dream house is the house where Machado and her abusive partner lived together–or is it? At times it seems to be something much larger and more liminal, terrifying.

Machado comes at the dream house from dozens of tiny angles chapters, each named after the motif she explores within it:

  • Dream House as Not a Metaphor”
  • Dream House as Lesbian Cult Classic”
  • Dream House as Haunted Mansion”

The story unfolds at a dreamy pace: the lush, erotic early days of the relationship, the sour terror when it started going wrong, the shattered and isolated feeling of recovering from something so many people refuse to believe exists.

The myth of queer people as perfect is a poisonous side effect of the fight for LGBTQ rights: in order to correct an image of our community as lascivious, predatory, and emotionally stunted, a funhouse mirror image of purity, benevolence, and emotional competence was created.

Unfortunately, the new image was just as unrealistic as the old one, and it has left queer people like Machado with nowhere to turn if another queer person harms them. To talk about abuse is to harm our community, the thinking goes–except, as Machado points out, that those victims of abuse are just as much a part of the queer community as their abusers.

About halfway through the book, Machado writes:

Fantasy is, I think, the defining cliche of female queerness. No wonder we joke about U-Hauls on the second date. To find desire, love, everyday joy without men’s accompanying bullshit is a pretty decent working definition of paradise.

That dream of a queer woman’s paradise, “punctured” (as she puts it in the next paragraph) by the reality of abuse, haunts the entirety of In the Dream House. Though I don’t share Machado’s experience of queer abuse, I’ve bumped up against the limitations of that dream myself so many times in other ways. Queer people will never be seen as fully human until we can be understood as flawed in the way that all humans are flawed.

In the end, after surviving the abuse, Machado did fall in love and marry someone new and wonderful, a fairy tale happy ending to match her fairy tale trials. The glimpses she gives us of this loving future/present make In the Dream House as cathartic and satisfying as it is painful and difficult, a Cinderella story with teeth.

I don’t know if I’ll ever stop thinking about In the Dream House; there’s simply nothing else like it out there right now. Please, please read it. ★★★★★


I purchased my own copy of In the Dream House and was in no way compensated for this review.

I publish book reviews every Tuesday and Thursday.

Book Review: THE TESTAMENTS by Margaret Atwood

The Handmaid’s Tale is such an iconic sci-fi novel that I’m surprised it took this long to get a sequel. Despite the decades Margaret Atwood has had to think over what Gilead might look like after the end of Offred’s story, I found The Testaments to be underbaked, full of interesting ideas (and interesting imagery, especially) that don’t blend all that well. Unlike The Handmaid’s Tale, which was narrowly, almost claustrophobically focused on Offred’s story, The Testaments sprawls across the lives of three new characters: an Aunt, a privileged Commander’s daughter, and a Canadian teenager who’s only dimly aware of the horrors of the totalitarian state of Gilead.

I think I would have liked The Testaments more if I had liked The Handmaid’s Tale less. Is it worth reading? Yes. But it’s significantly blunter and messier than I had hoped. Where The Handmaid’s Tale was a scalpel, The Testaments is a machine gun, crude and loud.

You can read my full review below.


The Testaments Cover
cover description: A minimalist illustration of a woman in a bright green cloak and white bonnet against a navy blue background. The opening of the cloak is stylized to look like a woman wearing a ponytail, her arms extended toward the sky.

The Testaments by Margaret Atwood

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  • publisher: Nan A. Talese (Knopf Doubleday)
  • publication date: September 10, 2019
  • length: 432 pages

You have asked me to tell you what it was like for me when I was growing up within Gilead. You say it will be helpful, and I do wish to be helpful. I imagine you expect nothing but horrors, but the reality is that many children were loved and cherished, in Gilead as elsewhere, and many adults were kind though fallible, in Gilead as elsewhere.

–from The Testaments by Margaret Atwood

Novels are not a visual medium in the way that TV and film are, so it’s notable that The Handmaid’s Tale spawned so much iconic imagery, even before the TV adaptation came to Hulu. The red and white Handmaids’ costume, the shops with pictures on their signs instead of words because women are no longer allowed to read, Offred rubbing margarine into her hands instead of lotion, because she is no longer permitted the luxury of lotion: I can picture all of that (and more) so clearly, despite how long it’s been since I’ve read the novel.

The Testaments is just as visually iconic as The Handmaid’s Tale, full of new visions of oppression and totalitarianism that will haunt my nightmares. But its underlying substance is significantly less memorable.

Though The Testaments is set in the universe of The Handmaid’s Tale, it feels surprisingly much like a rehash of The Blind Assassinthe novel that just barely beats out The Handmaid’s Tale for the title of my favorite book by Atwood.

There are three central characters in The Testaments: a powerful Aunt and architect of Gilead, a young daughter of a privileged Gilead family, and a Canadian girl with only a distant awareness of Gilead’s atrocities.

All of them have ties to the original novel (some of them wincingly obvious despite being framed as a “twist”), and all of them reminded me in some way of the protagonist of The Blind Assassin, Iris. There are even maids, called Marthas, who are reminiscent of Iris’s nanny Reenie, right down to making dough people for a privileged but heartbroken young girl to play with after a tragedy.

It’s not just that it shares themes with The Blind Assassin. That would be fine! Authors with an output as vast as Atwood’s tend to come back to the same wells from time to time. It’s that the parallels to The Blind Assassin are so obvious and so oddly self-plagiarizing that they repeatedly pulled me out of the story.

In fairness, the story of The Testaments is so sprawling and dense that it’s not hard to be distracted from it.

What I admired most about The Handmaid’s Tale wasn’t the worldbuilding of Gilead, despite that worldbuilding being extraordinarily good. What I admired most was Atwood’s laser focus on Gilead’s impact on Offred. The way that Offred’s life becomes so critically important to the reader even though she is just one tiny, literally anonymous part of this terrifying totalitarian regime rings true to the way real life totalitarian regimes swallow people whole and disappear them.

The Testaments shifts that focus from individuals in Gilead to the systems fighting to uphold it or undo it. It’s a bird’s eye view when I wanted a close-up, and it leaches all the urgency and terror out of Gilead. Maybe that’s the point! Maybe it’s supposed to feel hopeful, especially now that the real America feels closer to Gilead than ever. But it left me a little cold.

This loss of momentum and stakes is most obvious at the end, which uses the same device as the ending of The Handmaid’s Tale: a far-future academic conference on Gilead Studies. But where the ending of The Handmaid’s Tale felt chillingly open-ended and detached, The Testaments’ ending feels winkingly obvious and overwrought.

If you love The Handmaid’s Tale, you likely won’t be able to resist reading The Testaments, nor should you. There’s plenty of interesting stuff here that makes the novel worth reading. I especially loved the character of Agnes (a Commander’s privileged daughter), whose slow disentangling of her sincere religious beliefs from the poisonous spiritual abuse she experiences in Gilead is genuinely heartbreaking.

But in its attempt to satisfy readers’ curiosity about Gilead, The Testaments stifles it with too much detail instead, replacing an open door for our imaginations with one that firmly shuts. It’s a shame. ★★☆

Reviews and books you might also enjoy:


I borrowed my copy of The Testaments from a friend. I was in no way compensated for this review.

I publish book reviews every Tuesday and Thursday.

Book Review: DREAM SEQUENCE by Adam Foulds

Dream Sequence is a thriller about a British actor whose star is on the rise and the broken-hearted, obsessive American fan who stalks him–at least, that’s what the jacket copy would have you believe. Unfortunately for readers expecting a sharp new take on Misery that skewers American anglophile fan culture, Dream Sequence is maddeningly muddy and dull. There are two electric and memorable scenes, but they don’t come close to compensating for the rest. I don’t recommend Dream Sequence at all.

You can read my full review below.


Dream Sequence Cover
cover description: Red and pink lipstick prints on a white background. The lipstick prints are in the rough shape of a face.

Dream Sequence by Adam Foulds

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  • publisher: Farrar, Straus and Giroux (distributed by Macmillan)
  • publication date: June 11, 2019
  • length: 224 pages

Lion, little Lionel who loved her, had given her Spiderman one day without telling her. Spiderman had become a crucial part of the story. It all added up. Kristin picked up the remote and flipped on an old episode. When Henry appeared, she thought she would tell him about the wind and the snow and about what Laurie had said about seeds in winter in her next letter. She would start on it later. Letters flew past all that electronic noise and went straight to his hands.

–from Dream Sequence by Adam Foulds

Dream Sequence is a weak character study built onto a more interesting thriller’s skeleton: it follows Kristin, a recently divorced woman who fixates on the star of a British costume drama, and the actor himself, Henry. It’s instantly clear that Kristin’s fantasies about Henry will come to fruition in some awful way, but instead of capitalizing on that tension, author and poet Adam Foulds squanders it spectacularly.

Dream Sequence is a pastiche of the worst parts of both the thriller genre and the literary genre: it’s unpleasantly lurid and gross (there is more than one nauseating description of semen!) as well as boring and snooty.

The action in Dream Sequence is driven entirely by Kristin’s character–Henry is obnoxiously passive–but it doesn’t seem to care much about her. Instead we get an interminable 150-or-so page middle section about the inner life of Henry, who’s a douche and a milquetoast, terrible and boring.

The exact moment I fully loathed Dream Sequence came almost at the end, on page 194, when Henry (who is white and British) is shown a picture of his brother’s biracial children (their mother, Henry’s sister in law, is from Hong Kong):

‘Aren’t they beautiful?’ Henry’s mother asked.

They were. They had that refined, intelligent looking beauty of Anglo-Chinese children, dark eyes, sweetly geometric hair. There were two pictures, one in which they both looked serious and one in which Chloë’s head was tipped back and she was laughing, showing her tiny teeth.

I hate that section for two reasons: one, because “refined, intelligent looking beauty” is such a bizarre and stereotypical way to talk about Asian children, and two, because it’s a perfect example of Foulds using two or three adjectives when one or none would do, perhaps the worst sin of a novel full of sins.

It’s possible to write about an awful character without your whole book becoming awful, but it requires a strong point of view, which Dream Sequence never develops. It’s the difference between watching security footage of a bad person’s life and watching a skillfully made documentary about them. This is security footage.

Dream Sequence is already quite short at 224 pages but could have easily been cut down by two thirds. The amount of words Foulds wrings out of such an underdeveloped plot is mind-boggling.

There are two truly excellent parts on offer, however.

The first comes near the beginning of the novel, after Henry auditions for a dream role with an auteur director and desperately follows him to an art museum afterwards. The dialogue in the scene is pitch-perfect; the way Henry’s yearning for the director’s respect mirrors Kristin’s slavish adoration of Henry is subtle but effective.

The second great scene comes when Kristin seeks out Henry’s agent in the final pages. The two women have a conversation that’s so vivid and vulnerable and tense that it made me second-guess my by-then-solidly negative opinion of the book.

Had I simply misunderstood the parts I hated? Did Foulds have a solid hand on the reins of this novel after all?

I re-read the worst pages just to be sure. I hated them just as much the second time.

Despite its intriguing premise and a couple of tantalizing flashes of brilliance, Dream Sequence thuds. ★★☆

Reviews and books you might also enjoy:


I got my copy of Dream Sequence from the library and was in no way compensated for this review.

I publish book reviews every Tuesday and Thursday.

Book Review: MY LESBIAN EXPERIENCE WITH LONELINESS by Nagata Kabi

After years of debilitating mental illness and insecurity, manga author and illustrator Nagata Kabi had never had sex or her first kiss. Desperate for connection, she makes an appointment at a lesbian escort agency…and the result is this book, a very funny, frank, and moving manga about exactly what it sounds like: her lesbian experience with loneliness.

This is a lightning-fast read (I finished in a short sitting) that will stick with you. I wish the ending had been a little less abrupt–we don’t get a good look at what comes after Nagata’s titular “experience,” which would have made the arc more satisfying to me–but that’s a minor quibble with a fantastic book.

You can read my full review below. Please note that this book has vivid descriptions of what it’s like to live with mental illness (including eating disorders), so if that’s a trigger for you, please read this review and this book with caution.


My Lesbian Experience with Loneliness Cover
cover description: A manga-style illustration of two women sitting on a bed facing each other. We see the back of one woman, who is confidently posed, and the front of one woman, who looks disheveled and nervous.

My Lesbian Experience with Loneliness by Nagata Kabi (translated by Jocelyne Allen)

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  • publisher: Seven Seas Entertainment (distributed by Macmillan)
  • U.S. publication date: 2017
  • length: 152 pages

Here I am, twenty-eight years old. I’ve never dated anyone, never had sex–and on top of that, never had a real job. It’s June 2015, the middle of the day. And I’m face to face with a woman from a lesbian escort agency.

–from My Lesbian Experience with Loneliness by Nagata Kabi

I first noticed My Lesbian Experience with Loneliness when it appeared in NPR’s 2017 book concierge. I don’t read much manga (I don’t read many American graphic novels and comics either), so I set the recommendation aside. But after finally making the time for it, I can state definitively that–even if you don’t like manga–if you like heartfelt and funny stories about queerness and/or mental illness, you’ll love this.

The manga starts right in the middle of its faux-lurid inciting incident: the author in bed at a love hotel with a lesbian escort. But Nagata Kabi quickly turns the sexy image on its head by zooming in on her trichotillomania-induced bald spot, her cutting scars, and extreme nerves.

She’s not a pornographic idea of a lesbian, or even the less-fetishized but still idealized version of a lesbian that typically appears in media. She’s awkward and messy and very, very real. This isn’t surprising on its own terms, since Nagata is telling her own true story, not writing fiction. But it is surprising given how little cultural room lesbians (and other queer women) are given to be anything less than stunningly beautiful and perfect.

It’s not that there’s anything inherently wrong with images of sexy queer women or power femmes or badass butches. (My love of Charlize Theron’s character in Atomic Blonde is proof!) Straight people have loads of idealized standards around sex to live up to, too.

But because there are so few representations of lesbians to begin with, this kind of offbeat and specific (rather than archetypal) representation is especially important.

My Lesbian Experience with Loneliness is packed with jokes (including plenty of the visual gags manga is known for), but there’s a strong undercurrent of sadness in all of them. Nagata has dealt with debilitating mental illness since leaving high school, and her experiences not being able to get a “real” job and feeling like a disappointment to her family were so relatable it hurt.

As much as My Lesbian Experience with Loneliness is about, well, lesbian experience, it’s just as much about disability. And this disabled lesbian appreciated that very much.

Like I said at the top of this review, I don’t read much manga, so it’s hard to place this in the context of genre conventions around length and arc. So, those of you who do read manga, please be gentle with me if I’m missing the point here. But my one complaint about this book is the abruptness with which it ends.

I didn’t realize there were sequels to My Lesbian Experience with Loneliness until it was pointed out to me on Twitter. That information isn’t listed anywhere on my copy. Once I learned that, the ending made more sense, as it’s clearly setting up a continuation of the story.

But if you’re looking for a standalone read, or you also didn’t know about the sequels, the final scenes of this warm, big-hearted manga might leave you a little bit cold.

I gave this to my wife to read as soon as I was finished with it because I couldn’t wait to talk about it. Not only did we both find it immensely fun and entertaining, it also sparked a great conversation between us about love and loneliness and mental health and identity. I hope it sparked those same conversations for others as well.

In its vulnerability, My Lesbian Experience with Loneliness is powerful.

I want more stories like this one–starting with Nagata’s My Solo Exchange Diary sequels. ★★★★☆


I purchased my own copy of My Lesbian Experience with Loneliness and was in no way compensated for this review.

I publish book reviews every Tuesday and Thursday.

Book Review: THE BORDER OF PARADISE by Esmé Weijun Wang

In the 1950s, David Nowak, a neurotic Polish American heir to a piano fortune, marries Jia-Hui Chen, a young woman from Taiwan with nerves of steel, and moves with her to remote northern California. Their relationship is volatile, but its legacy for their children will be much worse. The Border of Paradise is an astonishing historical novel that’s unlike anything I’ve read before, in the best possible way. If you love creepy thrillers like The Vegetarian by Han Kang or intimate portraits of trauma like History of Wolves by Emily Fridlund–or if, like me, you love both of those things–then this novel is a must-read. I deeply enjoyed The Collected Schizophrenias, Esmé Weijun Wang’s nonfiction essay collection, earlier this year. I’m pleased to say I like her fiction just as much.

Content note: Suicide and self harm are central to The Border of Paradise. If those things are triggers for you, then you should consider carefully before reading the rest of this review (or the book itself).

You can read my full review below.


The Border of Paradise Cover
cover description: An illustration of a sickly-looking person in a field of grass being held up by ghostly hands.

The Border of Paradise by Esmé Weijun Wang

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  • publisher: Unnamed Press
  • publication date: 2016
  • length: 292 pages

I’ve never known a man who has taken his own life, and so I’ve never read a suicide letter, seeing as how the final words of such uncelebrated and self-condemned souls are so privately guarded. Still, I can’t help but think such letters all must be the same, because what else can be said but, over and over again, Sorry, sorry, I am so sorry, in the way that someone newly smitten can only say I love you, I love you, I love you…

–from The Border of Paradise by Esmé Weijun Wang

In The Border of Paradise, Esmé Weijun Wang writes in long paragraphs that still feel light and airy, like a dense pastry that fluffs up in the oven. That’s a good thing, because the subject matter of this novel is almost unbearably heavy.

David Nowak, a teenage boy in 1940s-1950s New York, is a brilliant student and heir to a piano factory and accompanying fortune, but he can’t stop strange new neuroses from creeping in. He becomes unable to select clothes and dress himself. When he looks in the mirror, his body is impossibly distorted. He becomes hysterically attached to stuffed animals.

He knows something is wrong, but not what. The word schizophrenia is, to my memory, never used in The Border of Paradise, but we the readers can fill in the blanks.

David’s instability culminates in him being forcibly separated from his childhood sweetheart, Marianne, by her father, who is sneeringly cruel about David’s condition. Heartbroken, David cashes out the family fortune and leaves for Taiwan, where he marries a young woman named Jia-Hui, whom he renames Daisy.

Everyone warns Jia-Hui against David’s moods and volatility, but Jia-Hui has instabilities of her own–ones that have horrifying consequences for the couple’s two children.

I wouldn’t call The Border of Paradise horror, but it is horrifying. There is ample gore, disturbing sex, and piercing descriptions of what it’s like to live with untreated mental illness.

Of course, in the time period in which The Border of Paradise is set, there wasn’t really such a thing as treated mental illness. Wang uses this historical setting in unusual ways. Instead of yoking the story to real world historical events or intricate period detail, she focuses on internal, insular experiences instead.

In one word, The Border of Paradise is about isolation: the absolute isolation of being an immigrant woman of color, or a mentally ill person, or an abused child in the 1950s-1970s, when there was little awareness of these issues in the general public and no internet communities to turn to, either.

This novel is emotionally dense and deeply introspective, but it’s also extremely readable. It’s peppered with plot bombshells, dramatic and cinematic without straining belief. (I do wonder if Wang is trying to say something about the nature of delusion and hallucination here–how real life really can be stranger than the fictions our own brains can tell us.)

I raced to get to the end, using it as motivation to hop on the treadmill at the end of each day, knowing it would absorb me enough to make my workout fly by.

Specific and intense, The Border of Paradise is like a fever dream if your feverish brain were a top notch novelist. This novel is a gift. ★★★★★

Reviews and books you might also enjoy:


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

*Programming note: Book reviews will appear every Tuesday and Thursday going forward. I look forward to being back on a regular posting schedule!

I’ve been afraid of changing, but…

…it’s time to shake up this blog a little.

(The changes won’t be nearly as sad as the song, I promise. I just like the song.)

I’ve been having more and more trouble keeping up with book blogging this year, for a few reasons. One is my health, which continues to be a royal pain in the ass no matter what I try to do to manage it. My descent into constant and severe chronic pain over the past several years has been a really tough one. I don’t have anything inspirational or plucky to say about it. It’s just tough.

Reasons two and three are that I’m feeling increasingly tired of reading and writing. Like it says in the sidebar, writing is my day job, which also involves a significant amount of research (i.e. reading). I’m writing, reading, or thinking about those two things nearly all the time, and at some point, it started to make this blog feel less fun and more dreary.

But I do love blogging. I love interacting with other readers and writers, I love writing reviews, and I love the sort of digital scrapbook of my literary self that I’m creating every time I post here. I’ve poured a lot of time and energy into this blog and gotten a lot of joy and satisfaction out of it in return and I don’t plan to quit now.

So, onto the two major changes that I think will make Maggie Reads work better for me (and hopefully better for my readers, too):

I will be posting book reviews, interviews, and personal posts only from here on out. No more Friday Bookbag, no more Throwback Thursday, none of the other weekly posting formats that I’ve tried. They’re too much work and I’m never fully happy with the result.

I am going to commit to writing one, and only one, book review per week. This gives me a more tangible goal to shoot for than just “read a lot of books and write about them.” It gives me more time to read things for fun (and for work) without the pressure of trying to post a bunch of reviews. It will also hopefully create a little more consistency for you, the reader. Most of my favorite blogs pick a regular posting schedule and stick to it, and I would very much like to be like my favorite blogs.

Maybe this will expand to two reviews a week down the line. Maybe not. This is a trial balloon and I’ll see how it goes for me.

I’m open to feedback about these changes from you, too, especially regarding which day of the week would be best for posting reviews. If you have a preference, let me know in the comments.

Slight tangent: If you’re disabled, I’d also greatly appreciate feedback on the accessibility of this blog. Are my cover descriptions helpful? Do I need to make layout changes? Are there content warnings or other content changes I could make that would benefit you? I would love if you shared. My disabilities do not affect my use of the internet and so I’m always trying to learn and improve this site for people who do face accessibility challenges on websites.

In short: Feedback. I want it. Got it? Good!

Thank you very much for reading this and for your continued support. I’m so delighted that this niche and oft-neglected blog has found an audience and I hope that audience continues to grow as I work to find more sustainable ways to create content.

Book Review: ALL THE LIVES I WANT by Alana Massey

Alana Massey’s funny, sharp, and just-the-right-amount-of-sentimental essay collection, subtitled Essays About My Best Friends Who Happen to Be Famous, is a banger. The celebrity subjects of the essays are diverse, from Britney Spears to the fictional Lisbon sisters of The Virgin Suicides to Lil’ Kim and Nicki Minaj. Massey intersperses the histories and cultural impacts of her subjects with episodes of her own life, including grimly dancing to Nine Inch Nails’s “Closer” in a strip club and a sad summer spent reading Joan Didion aloud to a distant boyfriend. It’s a book that’s intimate and expansive all at once, as well-cited and academic as a conference presentation yet as real life and relatable as a slumber party spent spilling your deepest secrets.

I adored this book. You can read my full review below.


All the Lives I Want Cover
cover description: The title “All the Lives I Want” is spelled out in red glitter against a stark white background.

All the Lives I Want: Essays About My Best Friends Who Happen to Be Famous Strangers by Alana Massey

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  • publisher: Grand Central Publishing (an imprint of Hachette)
  • publication date: hardcover in 2017, paperback in 2018
  • length: 256 pages

“Bitches be crazy” has become modern shorthand for “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.” This line itself is a paraphrase of “Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned/ Nor Hell a fury, like a woman scorned.” Like its predecessors, it is a statement that seemed to be reclaimed ironically by women at almost the exact moment that it entered the vernacular as a way to disparage them. This line is repeated more often by a sage and mercenary woman, both in fiction and in reality, than it is by a man trying to insult one. It is a wink, an exaggerated shrug of the shoulders that women communicate preemptively, a shield against the accusation that their behavior is inherently irrational compared to that of men. The sentiment is ancient, of course.

–from “Long-Game Bitches: On Princess Di, Lisa “Left Eye” Lopes, and the Fine Art of Crazy Exing” in All the Lives I Want by Alana Massey

I find essay collections to be the most personal sort of book to read and the hardest to review. Even the ones I don’t ultimately enjoy–even the ones I find boring! –stir up something powerful in me, reflecting back my most intense shames and desires. It’s hard to slap a star rating on that.

Luckily, it’s easier when the essay collection in question is as good as this one. Five stars is an easier distinction than choosing two, or three, or four. Perhaps it’s funny to notice that relief in myself while reviewing a book that so eloquently navigates mysterious and unmeasurable cultural places.

The essays of All the Lives I Want are surprisingly cohesive given the breadth of the subject matter. Massey’s topics bounce from A-list celebrities like Scarlett Johansson and Gwyneth Paltrow to slightly more niche choices (for a book published in the late 2010s, at least) like Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen and Anjelica Huston.

And some of my favorite essays of the collection aren’t about traditional celebrities at all: the title essay, “All the Lives I Want,” is about Sylvia Plath and her legion of young women fans on Tumblr and in tattoo parlors across the country. “Broken-Bodied Little Girls: On the Horror of Little Girls Grown” is about the grotesque young girls of horror movies like Poltergeist. And “Our Sisters Shall Inherit the Sky” reimagines the Lisbon sisters from The Virgin Suicides as the true subjects and protagonists of their own story rather than as the objects of young men’s imagination.

Massey writes about race and class in a much more refreshing way than most white women culture writers, finding new angles to talk about power and privilege without the constant “I know I’m privileged, but–” path that many take.

“Run the World: Amber Rose in the Great Stripper Imaginary” avoids many of the gross oversimplifications and stereotypes of white women writing about black strippers (likely because Massey has been an on-again, off-again stripper herself). “There Can Be Only One: On Lil’ Kim, Nicki Minaj, and the Art of Manufactured Beef” is one of the best pieces on the subject of beefs that I’ve read, especially in the way it calls out white celebrities like Katy Perry and Miley Cyrus for simultaneously stealing from black icons like Lil’ Kim and Minaj and attempting to humiliate them.

Most of all, I loved the accessibility of All the Lives I Want. To me, creating accessible prose is not about the length of your sentences or the simplicity of the words you choose but rather about the common ground you make with your audience. Massey is a sort of citizen scientist of celebrity, passionate and humble and endlessly curious. Her writing is barbed without being condescending; frank without being crass.

These essays are short, smart dollops of joy and bittersweetness. I’m sure there’s an argument to be made for lengthening the essays and diving deeper into each topic; however, if that had happened, I think something vital and energetic would have been lost. On the rare occasions I noticed myself getting bored or lost, bam: the next essay was already beginning and pulling me in deeper.

I’ve long followed Alana Massey on Twitter. I find her particular blend of sly humor and genuine emotion (and shameless thirst traps) endlessly appealing. If you enjoy her Twitter presence as much as I do, you should know it’s only intensified here.

This is a terrific book about celebrity, girlhood, pleasure, and pain. You must read it. ★★★★★

Reviews and books you might also enjoy:


I purchased my own copy of All the Lives I Want and was in no way compensated for this review.

In Review: August 2019

InReview

In Review posts are a chance for me to catch my breath, note that I am actually making progress towards my reading goals, and give each month’s blog posts a little extra love.

August was a month full of good books and not quite enough time to read them! Or blog about them, even. I added much, much more to my TBR than I finished, and didn’t even manage to review everything I read. (I read but didn’t cover The Wasp Factory by Iain Banks. I enjoyed very much, even though it was absolutely bananas and very very violent.)

Will I catch up on that backlog in September? Absolutely not, but it’s a nice thought!

And with that, here’s what I read, reviewed, and added to my bookshelf this month.

I reviewed 4 books this month:

I borrowed, bought, and received [] books this month:

Friday Bookbag, 8.2

  • Rutting Season: Stories by Mandeliene Smith
  • Mars by Asja Bakić
  • The End of Youth by Rebecca Brown
  • Foreign Soil and Other Stories by Maxine Beneba Clarke
  • Crossings by Chuang Hua
  • Hello Kitty Must Die by Angela S. Choi

Friday Bookbag, 8.16

  • Girls of Paper and Fire by Natasha Ngan
  • Death is Not an Option by Suzanee Rivecca
  • The City Always Wins by Omar Robert Hamilton
  • We Went to the Woods by Caite Dolan-Leach

I have read 28 books so far in 2019!

Book Review: RUTTING SEASON by Mandeliene Smith

Rutting Season is a collection of nine stories that are as earthy, animal, and at times brutal as the title would imply. My favorite stories included “Mercy,” about a widow keeping vigil over her favorite horse after her carelessness puts the horse’s life in danger, and “The Someday Cat,” about a mother who begins selling her children for cash, and the toddler daughter who fears that she’s next to be sold. Mandeliene Smith writes ferociously and vulnerably; this is short fiction, not personal writing, and yet each story is imbued with personal, vital urgency. I didn’t always love this collection while I was reading it–I think Smith writes awkwardly about race, and I think the quality of the stories included here varies–but now that I’m a few days removed from it, I admire Smith’s style and choice of subjects more and more. This book is brave.

You can read my full review of Rutting Season below.


Rutting Season Cover
cover description: A mustard yellow background has a cutout in the shape of a hand that features a nature illustration of a pink flower and a yellow bird.

Rutting Season: Stories by Mandeliene Smith

Goodreads | Amazon | Barnes & Noble | IndieBound

  • publisher: Scribner (an imprint of Simon & Schuster)
  • publication date: February 12, 2019
  • length: 240 pages

Randall wasn’t their father, or even their stepfather, and they couldn’t have given a rat’s ass about his problems with the police or anyone else, but it just so happened that Danny and Amber were both at the house when the SUV from the sheriff’s office drove up, and by the time they realized there was going to be trouble, Randall had already bolted the door and taken out a gun.

–from “Siege” in Rutting Season by Mandeliene Smith

Do you ever catch yourself being way too hard on something or someone, just because it (or they) remind you too much of yourself? I cannot tell a lie: I was initially going to eviscerate this book, because at times, it irritated me like an insult.

Rutting Season is Mandeliene Smith’s debut short story collection, and in it, she explores raw pain with obsessive intensity. Much of it is pain that’s incredibly familiar to me: abusive homes, the messy and literally visceral experience of living on a farm, mental illness, violence.

Because it felt so familiar, Rutting Season cut me to the bone, and it scrambled my ability to comprehend or evaluate it. I think my conclusion is that it’s mostly an excellent book. But I hope you’ll forgive me if this review takes a roundabout path to that destination.

First, the things about Rutting Season that genuinely grated me, that I wasn’t necessarily oversensitized to:

  1. The way Smith writes about race, especially her physical descriptions of Black characters,
  2. The unevenness of the collection.

I admire when white authors make the decision to write outside their comfort zone. I’ve been chewing over Toni Morrison’s admonition to not write what you know all week: “Think of somebody you don’t know. What about a Mexican waitress in the Rio Grande who can barely speak English? Or what about a Grande Madame in Paris? Things way outside their camp. Imagine it, create it. Don’t record and editorialize on some event that you’ve already lived through.

And I think that advice applies very much to Rutting Season, where Smith is making clear choices to write outside what she knows.

Unfortunately, I think some of those choices undercut her otherwise interesting Black characters. In my least favorite story of the collection, “What It Takes,” Black high school students menace white high school students, including the white protagonist, a teenage pot dealer. I think the point of the story is that the white students’ perception is wrong–that what they perceive as “menace” is justifiable racial tension. But it’s so close to the line that I think you could read it either way. Subtle fiction is important, but I get nervous when white people write about race so subtly that it becomes a game of Schrödinger’s racism.

In a later story that I otherwise loved very much, “The Someday Cat,” a Black character is literally described as “chocolate.” Which, almost more than it is annoyingly fetishizing and racist, is simply a tired description of dark skin.

But for that story, too, there’s a Racism Loophole™: it’s told from the perspective of a white toddler whom we already know loves chocolate and who probably has never seen a Black person in her life, who might genuinely describe a Black person as “chocolate.” Schrödinger’s racism.

The third story that is significantly about race, “You the Animal,” is the most successful at being about race, I think. Where “The Someday Cat” is told from the perspective of a neglected toddler being removed from her home by two Black social workers, “You the Animal” is the same story told from the perspective of one of the social workers. It’s an interesting exploration of what happens when people who were abused as children encounter abuse as adults, and while I didn’t think it was the strongest in the collection, it was still thought-provoking.

The unevenness question is so closely tied to the race question that I think it’s hard to separate them. When Smith is writing about white people–as in “Mercy,” where a new widow struggles to hold her farm together in the face of her own exhaustion and grief, as in the title story “Rutting Season,” where a potential act of workplace violence is dissected from three angles, as in “Siege,” when three siblings separated by their mother’s death come together during a terrifying threat of gun violence–the collection is extraordinary. When she’s not, the stories falter a bit.

But extraordinary is still a word I’m comfortable applying to much of Rutting Season.

What moved me most about Smith’s writing is its vulnerability, almost fragility, underneath a hard, ferocious surface. It’s a literary crème brûlée. She makes messy, risky choices and sticks to her guns. (Perhaps a poor choice of words given how much this book condemns gun violence.)

I was struck by how reminiscent the first story, “Mercy,” is of Alice Munro. Like so many Munro stories, “Mercy” is domestic and terrible all at once. It’s at its Munro-iest when its protagonist, Pam, hesitates for a split second before calling the vet for her sick horse because the vet constantly patronizes her and she doesn’t want to deal with it. You’re frustrated with her and understand her deeply all at once.

But Rutting Season is not knockoff Munro. Smith demonstrates that most in “The Someday Cat,” which felt wholly unique in its execution. A story about a woman who literally begins selling her children in order to appease her terrible boyfriend and afford groceries could easily tip into a melodramatic pantomime of extreme abuse and poverty rather than feel like something real that crackles with electric terror. But it does crackle. I had a white knuckle grip on my copy of the book while I read. It reminded me so vividly of some of the things I saw growing up in a desperately poor area that I had to take a breather after finishing.

Rutting Season feels a little like staring at the sun. The premises of Smith’s stories are so bright and ambitious that it’s hard to get a handle on why they work (or even if they work). But there’s no denying their power.

It feels strange to write this about a literary short story collection rather than a horror novel, but it feels right anyway: only read Rutting Season if you dare. ★★★★☆

Reviews and books you might also enjoy:


My copy of Rutting Season came from my local library and I was in no way compensated for this review.

Friday Bookbag, 8.16.19

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.

I’ve felt pretty out of it this month. I was sick for most of last week, but even if I hadn’t been, I suspect I would still feel groggy. August seems to do that to everyone. I’m sad that summer is winding down, but I’m already looking forward to cooler September reading weather. Are you? (If you’re in the Southern Hemisphere, I’m sure the prospect of spring sounds pretty nice, as well.)

This week I’ve got a fiery YA fantasy novel, a quirky short story collection, a novel about the 2011 uprising in Tahrir Square, and a novel about an ecologically anxious commune experiment gone wrong in my bookbag. I’m hoping they’ll snap me out of my summer slump. Let’s dive in!


Girls of Paper and Fire by Natasha Ngan

Goodreads | Amazon | Barnes & Noble | IndieBound

Girls of Paper and Fire Cover
cover description: A banner reading “James Patterson Presents” stretches across the top. It’s a colorful illustration of a girl with golden eyes whose rainbow hair is full of sparks.

the source: purchased

the premise: From Goodreads:

“Each year, eight beautiful girls are chosen as Paper Girls to serve the king. It’s the highest honor they could hope for…and the most demeaning. This year, there’s a ninth. And instead of paper, she’s made of fire.

In this richly developed fantasy, Lei is a member of the Paper caste, the lowest and most persecuted class of people in Ikhara. She lives in a remote village with her father, where the decade-old trauma of watching her mother snatched by royal guards for an unknown fate still haunts her. Now, the guards are back and this time it’s Lei they’re after — the girl with the golden eyes whose rumored beauty has piqued the king’s interest.

Over weeks of training in the opulent but oppressive palace, Lei and eight other girls learns the skills and charm that befit a king’s consort. There, she does the unthinkable — she falls in love. Her forbidden romance becomes enmeshed with an explosive plot that threatens her world’s entire way of life. Lei, still the wide-eyed country girl at heart, must decide how far she’s willing to go for justice and revenge.”

why I’m excited: The “James Patterson presents” label is kind of a turn-off for me–I’m not really a fan of the guy’s business practices or work. However, this story looks incredible in every way. It reminds me of a more grown-up version of The Princess Academy by Shannon Hale with a dash of Silver Phoenix by Cindy Pon. I guess I’m impressed that Patterson seems to be using his considerable influence to lift up authors of color, especially for a book that I’ve heard has a queer romance, too. I can’t wait to read this. (Also, that cover is G-O-R-G-E-O-U-S.)

Death is Not an Option by Suzanne Rivecca

Goodreads | Amazon | Barnes & Noble | IndieBound

Death is Not an Option Cover
cover description: A bright red cover. A pale disembodied arm reaches out to stroke the head of a tiger.

source: the library

the premise: From Goodreads:

Death Is Not an Option is a bold, dazzling debut collection about girls and women in a world where sexuality and self-delusion collide. In these stories, a teacher obsesses over a student who comes to class with scratch marks on his face; a Catholic girl graduating high school finds a warped kind of redemption in her school’s contrived class rituals; and a woman looking to rent a house is sucked into a strangely inappropriate correspondence with one of the landlords. These are just a few of the powerful plotlines in Suzanne Rivecca’s gorgeously wrought collection. From a college student who adopts a false hippie persona to find love, to a young memoirist who bumps up against a sexually obsessed fan, the characters in these fiercely original tales grapple with what it means to be honest with themselves and the world.”

why I’m excited: The reign of the short story collection continues in my heart! This looks fun and weird and interesting. Authors can try things in short stories that simply don’t work in novels, and I’ve been enjoying witnessing that, even when the things being tried are a little left of center.

The City Always Wins Cover
cover description: A tiny figure at the center of the cover is throwing a tear gas canister. Red smoke from the canister makes a spiral, turning the person at the center into a target. The background is stark white.

The City Always Wins by Omar Robert Hamilton

Goodreads | Amazon | Barnes & Noble | IndieBound

source: the library

the premise: From Goodreads:

The City Always Wins is a novel from the front line of a revolution. Deeply enmeshed in the 2011 uprising in Tahrir Square, Mariam and Khalil move through Cairo’s surging streets and roiling political underground, their lives burning with purpose, their city alive in open revolt, the world watching, listening, as they chart a course into an unknown future. They are―they believe―fighting a new kind of revolution; they are players in a new epic in the making.

From the communal highs of night battles against the police to the solitary lows of postrevolutionary exile, Omar Robert Hamilton’s bold debut cuts to the psychological heart of one the key chapters in the twenty-first century. Arrestingly visual, intensely lyrical, uncompromisingly political, and brutal in its poetry, The City Always Wins is a novel not just about Egypt’s revolution, but about a global generation that tried to change the world.

why I’m excited: This book’s title made it jump off the shelf for me. It’s pessimistic but hopeful, too, which is about how I feel about the Arab Spring in general and the Egyptian revolution in particular. This is outside the wheelhouse of what I normally read, but it sounds terrific. I can’t wait to read it.

We Went to the Woods Cover
cover description: A colorful illustration of a forest with lots of trees and a crescent moon overhead.

We Went to the Woods by Caite Dolan-Leach

Goodreads | Amazon | Barnes & Noble | IndieBound

source: the library

the premise: From Goodreads:

Certain that society is on the verge of economic and environmental collapse, five disillusioned twenty-somethings make a bold decision: They gather in upstate New York to transform an abandoned farm, once the site of a turn-of-the-century socialist commune, into an idyllic self-sustaining compound called the Homestead.

Louisa spearheads the project, as her wealthy family owns the plot of land. Beau is the second to commit; as mysterious and sexy as he is charismatic, he torments Louisa with his nightly disappearances and his other relationships. Chloe, a dreamy musician, is naturally able to attract anyone to her–which inevitably results in conflict. Jack, the most sensible and cerebral of the group, is the only one with any practical farm experience. Mack, the last to join, believes it’s her calling to write their story–but she is not the most objective narrator, and inevitably complicates their increasingly tangled narrative. Initially exhilarated by restoring the rustic dwellings, planting a garden, and learning the secrets of fermentation, the group is soon divided by slights, intense romantic and sexual relationships, jealousies, and suspicions. And as winter settles in, their experiment begins to feel not only misguided, but deeply isolating and dangerous.

why I’m excited: I love cult novels! This sounds like a prequel of sorts to History of Wolves by Emily Fridlund, which takes place in the ruins of a commune. This looks sinister and of the moment and great.


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!