My favorite book covers of 2018 (so far)

“Never judge a book by its cover” is an uber-cliché; in fact, it’s such a boring and trite cliché that it’s spawned a whole second cliché that’s the opposite: “yes, do judge a book by its cover.” But we all do both anyway, right? Judge and not judge? It’s enough to give you a headache.

As with most clichés, the truth is somewhere in between. I try not to let a bad cover put me off an otherwise good book, especially since writers don’t usually have a say in their design. But it’s also true that a spectacular cover will embed a book in my mind, making me more likely to seek it out and less likely to forget it when I’m done.

2018 has been a year of spectacular covers in publishing, with more beautiful books than I could possibly hope to read in 9 or so months. That’s why I’ve narrowed my list down to my 5 favorite covers of books I’ve read this year so far. Let’s dig in!

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An American Marriage by Tayari Jones

Goodreads | Amazon | Barnes & Noble | IndieBound | My Review

A flat image on a computer screen doesn’t do this cover justice–in person, it’s a glittering metallic–just like a book review can’t possibly do the novel justice. An American Marriage follows a Black couple, their relationship tumultuous but also passionate and strong, who are separated when the husband, Roy, is falsely accused and imprisoned for rape for years. His wife, Celestial, tries to pick up the pieces, and falls in love with her childhood friend, Andre. It’s a novel so star-crossed that it hurts to read, but it’s also vibrantly hopeful, full of vivid romantic and sensory detail that transported me completely into Roy, Celestial, and Andre’s world.

The cover design is simple but intriguing. The golden tree is beautiful, but the metallic finish makes it look a little like prison bars. Family is a major theme of the novel, so a tree on the cover is especially appropriate; its branches soar but there are no roots to speak of. The font, also, strikes me as looking a little bit like something you’d see in colonial America: perfect for a novel that speaks to the legacy of American slavery. All in all, that simple image belies a deeper meaning–just like the novel suggests that simple narratives aren’t always as they seem.

The Mars Room Cover

The Mars Room by Rachel Kushner

Goodreads | Amazon | Barnes & Noble | IndieBound | My Review

The woman on the cover of The Mars Room looks vulnerable and ready to fight, diminutive but with an outsize attitude. The Mars Room is a vicious, blistering book about a woman named Romy Hall who’s incarcerated for life for killing her stalker. It’s morally complex but also simple at the same time: it posits that Romy is neither good or bad, but shades of grey; it also seems to posit that no one, even if they were bad, deserves the brutal dehumanization of prison.

The cover is as dark, gritty, and somehow alight as the Tenderloin district of San Francisco (where much of the novel is set). It’s grim but captivating. You know the woman in that photograph won’t take any shit, except, of course, for the mountains of shit that have already been shoveled her way. Both cover and novel are unforgettable.

Convenience Store Woman Cover

Convenience Store Woman by Sayaka Murata

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Convenience Store Woman is a charming short novel (almost novella-length) about Keiko Furukura, a woman in her 30s who devotes her entire life and self to working in a convenience store. Her friends and family are baffled as to why she chooses not to get married or get a “real” job, but for Keiko, the convenience store is all she needs. The novel is frank and observant, equal parts achingly sad and laugh-out-loud. It’s one of the best portrayals of an autistic character I’ve ever read. It’s sweet with sharp edges, never cloying or infantilizing.

I don’t have many deep things to say about this cover except that it’s completely adorable. The exquisite design of something as simple and ordinary as a rice  ball (a.k.a onigiri) seems to promise that the story within will be just as surprisingly lovely, and author Sayaka Murata delivers wholeheartedly.

My Year of Rest and Relaxation Cover

My Year of Rest and Relaxation by Ottessa Moshfegh

Goodreads | Amazon | Barnes & Noble | IndieBound | My Review

Sometimes less is more. That’s both the philosophy of this cover and of My Year of Rest and Relaxation‘s unnamed heroine, who decides to drug herself to sleep for an entire year in her New York apartment in 2000. She’s disenchanted and rich and working with a psychiatrist so unbelievably unethical that it made me cringe; she doesn’t care about anything, which means, somehow, that she cares about everything. It’s a difficult book to read. For all its flat affect, it’s also extremely beautiful and emotional.

My Year of Rest and Relaxation is historical fiction set in a very recent past–the held-breath-that-no-one-knew-they-were-holding before September 11th, 2001 in New York City–which makes its cover design all the more clever. The painting is clearly historical, but the woman’s sardonic facial expression and the bold, hot-pink font speak of more recent times. The novel’s protagonist is described as a waif-like blonde, but I couldn’t help picturing her like the cover. The image gets its hooks in your mind and stays there, just like the story does.

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Sharp: The Women Who Made an Art of Having an Opinion by Michelle Dean

Goodreads | Amazon | Barnes & Noble | IndieBound | My Review

In the nonfiction book Sharp, Michelle Dean documents the interlinking histories of “sharp” (i.e. brilliant, insightful, and sometimes caustic) women writers of the 20th century, including Joan Didion, Susan Sontag, and Dorothy Parker. It’s a book that feels both academic and dishy: it’s well-researched and -written enough for it to feel “classy,” but brings its claws out enough to be terrific fun to read. It makes you feel like you know the women Dean is writing about.

That’s why I think its cover is especially perfect. The illustrations are charming, done in their own distinctive style, but each woman is fully recognizable as herself. It encapsulates the work Dean has done to create a through-line between these talented and influential writers, and it certainly catches your eye on the shelf.


Did I include any of your favorites? What covers have made you swoon in 2018? I want to hear about them. Leave them in the comments (and feel free to link to your own blog posts!).

Book Review: CONVENIENCE STORE WOMAN by Sayaka Murata

In Convenience Store Woman, Keiko Furukura doesn’t fit in–and doesn’t want to fit in–anywhere other than her beloved convenience store, where she works part-time. Keiko is in her 30s, past when she should have been married or found a “real” job according to family and friends, and their attempts to “cure” her gradually alienate Keiko. Convenience Store Woman is a thoughtful, tender, and funny novel that raises the serious point that society is more satisfied with people who are “normal” and unhappy than with people who are “abnormal” and happy. It’s a great read for anyone, but I especially recommend it for people interested in everyday Japanese culture, books in translation, and books with autistic characters. (Keiko’s autism is never explicitly stated, but clearly implied, and sensitively portrayed.)

You can read my full review below.


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Convenience Store Woman by Sayaka Murata (translated by Ginny Tapley Takemori)

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  • publisher: Grove Press (an imprint of Grove Atlantic)
  • publication date: June 12, 2018 (originally published in Japan in 2016)
  • length: 176 pages
  • cover price: $20.00

A convenience store is a world of sound. From the tinkle of the door chime to the voices of TV celebrities advertising new products over the in-store cable network, to the calls of the store workers, the beeps of the bar code scanner, the rustle of customers picking up items and placing them in baskets, and the clacking of heels walking around the store. It all blends into the convenience store sound that ceaselessly caresses my eardrums.

Convenience Store Woman, page 1

I felt seen by this book, seen on a level so profound that I’m pretty sure that author Sayaka Murata peered into my soul as she was writing. On the surface, my experience has little in common with protagonist Keiko Furukura in Convenience Store Woman. I’m in my early 20s, she in her late 30s. I work a “respectable” job as a writer, she’s a part-time convenience store clerk. I’m American, she’s Japanese.

But this is the magic of Convenience Store Woman: it is so loving and empathetic, so skillful and funny and emotional and haunting, that I think it’s impossible not to resonate with it.

Keiko is clearly written as autistic, something that’s never stated but easily perceptible through the first-person narration. It’s that first-person narrative that makes all the difference, since autistic and allistic people alike can relate to the pressure Keiko is under to fit in. She’s in her 30s and single–not only single, but working a dead-end job, which seems to be even more of a taboo in Japanese culture than it is here in the U.S. To her friends and family, it doesn’t matter that Keiko is happy: she’s somehow broken, and they make it their mission to fix her.

Whether you’re autistic or not, everyone has been in that position at some point, and that’s what Convenience Store Woman‘s charm hinges on. It asks us why we’re so committed to fitting in, while also acknowledging that we have to fit in to function in society. That contradiction keeps the novel interesting, and far away from “everyone’s special” after-school special territory.

Autistic people are so often used and abused by fiction writers to further plots, be an excuse for an allistic main character to show off their empathy, or to fulfill harmful stereotypes, such as that autistic people lack empathy or are overgrown children. I cannot emphasize enough how much I loved Murata’s approach in Convenience Store Woman. When you read, you don’t feel separate from Keiko. You’re not ogling her or judging her. You’re just experiencing the world through Keiko’s eyes, and if Keiko sees things a little differently than you might in her shoes, so be it.

Murata has a particular gift for descriptions. She engaged all my senses so vividly that I felt like I were experiencing the novel through virtual reality, a jolt straight to my neurons. That’s an especially wonderful feat considering that I’ve never been to Japan and am not particularly familiar with what a convenience store or small apartment might look like there. It doesn’t matter: the taste of a slightly spoiled mango-chocolate bun, or the look of Keiko’s feverish nephew, or the smell of an unwashed incel-like man–Keiko’s terrible sort-of boyfriend–was conveyed to me perfectly.

“Perceptive” is the word that I think describes Convenience Store Woman best. It indulges in all the specificities of Keiko’s life and suburban Japanese culture while still remaining remarkably relatable and accessible. It has sharp satirical elements, but it has a big, gushy emotional heart. It’s a book full of all those little anxieties and behaviors that you thought only you did, that you now realize others might, too. It’s a book to make you feel less alone. And goodness knows we need more of those.

Convenience Store Woman is sometimes quite dark and sad, other times quite joyful and funny, and always as delicious and comforting as hot soup–or the convenience store’s best-selling mayo-tuna rice balls. Highly, highly recommended. Just don’t read it while you’re hungry. ★★★★★

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My copy of Convenience Store Woman came from my local library and I was in no way compensated for this review.