Tag: books

Family Meal by Bryan Washington

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Family Meal is a novel about queer friendship, loss, finding family, and food, as two childhood friends learn to be around each other as adults. Cam is struggling after the death of his boyfriend, Kai, and is back in his hometown, losing himself in sex and drugs. Meanwhile, TJ, Cam’s childhood best friend whose parents took Cam in, knows Cam is back in town, but they circle one enough, wary after a sense of betrayal. As Cam sees Kai as he goes about his life and TJ looks for what he wants in his future, the two must find their friendship again in a new way.

This is a powerful book, filled with emotions, as well as exploring things like disordered eating and drug abuse. At its heart, it is about family and friendship and the need to find the right people around you, which isn’t just one person, but a whole load of people. It is told from multiple perspectives, mostly Cam’s for the start and TJ’s later on, and this allows the book to explore intimacy in various ways and show the complexity of relationships. Possibly unusually for this kind of book, which isn’t so much focused on a narrative but on characters, the ending did feel like a turning point and a good way to end it. There’s some really compelling side characters as well, that help to show the idea of found family and that human relationships are not simple.

Family Meal is a strange book to describe, with a surprisingly low-key ghost element and a plot that is really centred around friendship and doing things for other people, and a lot of food throughout. Perhaps most notably for me, it leaves you with a sense that not everything has to be fixed by putting it back together the same way.

Brainwyrms by Alison Rumfitt

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Like many others, I’ve been waiting for Brainwyrms for a long time, as I love Rumfitt’s first novel, Tell Me I’m Worthless. It’s horror once again, but very different horror that explores similar ideas of political extremism, transphobia, and where ever creeping fascism ends up. Instead of a haunted house, we have parasites, but this isn’t a simple body horror story of being taken over by an alien creature. Instead, this is extreme horror about trauma, fetishes, and disgusting moments that mean I’ve seen other reviews question how it even got published. And it does it all very well.

Rumfitt’s conversational yet experimental writing style works well here, infecting the narrative with different voices at times, and having an expected twist of genre for a moment when it becomes what feels like a Sarah Kane play for a moment. The book in general is always going to be divisive, not just for all the disgusting bits and the obvious political nature of the horror, but because the style blends modern internet conventions, experimental poetics, and just a lot of sex and gore descriptions. For me, it definitely works, but you have to recommend it to the right people. I really liked the tone of Rumfitt’s introduction, written as a future fictionalised version of herself that reminded me of Bret Easton Ellis, as it really sets up the book well (I also enjoyed the interjection to the reader midway through to take a break and return, which I did just because it felt like part of an interactive experience).

Similarly to Eliza Clark’s recent novel Penance, Brainwyrms explores different facets of the current and past internet, which may mean that it doesn’t age well, but I don’t think it’s a bad thing to have books, especially political horror, that are very rooted in the time and place they were written, and I’m not bored yet of people exploring the internet in interesting ways. For example, Frankie’s job a a content moderator and Vanya’s adolescent use of kink forums bring different dimensions to the messy world of the internet and how it impacts the stuff going on in the book. You can’t say anything simple about the internet, after all. I liked the balance in this book between the level of stuff about the internet and TERFs etc and the actual characters and narrative, with the spectre of the former hovering over the characters and descriptions through more metaphor and theming rather than always front and centre in the plot.

As with Tell Me I’m Worthless, this is a bold, uncompromising book that delves deep into British transphobia through a queer horror lens, not shying away from satire and ridiculousness even as awful things are happening. It’s more intense horror that Rumfitt’s first book, reminding me of when I first read Poppy Z. Brite and saw what you can really do with extreme horror to be interesting and witty and cool, not just “edgy”. Everything in this book feels like it is covered in a layer of dirt, and that is very effective (though I regret to say that the book didn’t actually make me feel sick, like a lot of people say). Definitely not a book for everyone, but trans horror continues to be one of the best genres.

Luda by Grant Morrison

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Luda is a sprawling novel about a drag star working in a new pantomime who becomes obsessed with their mysterious new co-star. Luci LaBang has had a varied career, but now she’s appearing in a meta-pantomime in her hometown of Gasglow, an alternate version of Glasgow. When the Principal Boy playing Aladdin has an accident, the mysterious Luda appears to take the part, and with it, capture Luci’s interest, wanting to know the secrets of the Glamour to be able to transform yourself, but as might be expected, things means not everything is as it seems.

I really wanted to enjoy this book more than I did, as it has a great concept and some really fun elements woven in. The thing that I—and I think many people—found difficult was the narration style, which is very purposefully too verbose and full of digressions as Luci’s style. I appreciated what it was doing, but even with this, it felt like it still needed more cutting down or honing, so that the style didn’t actually become a barrier to wanting to keep reading. It is all about obfuscating, both the style and the book, and I like that, but it wasn’t always enjoyable to read.

In terms of the plot, it’s fairly simple, with a lot of bits of backstory (that may or may not be true, as the whole book is fashioned with layers of lies and ambiguity) thrown in as well: obsession, mirroring, and people mysteriously dying. A lot of the twists are very obvious, and it was hard to tell if this is purposeful or not, which might in itself be intentional. The setting of Gasglow is a whole thing, though for me I found there wasn’t actually as much of it as a setting as I might’ve expected, and I felt like the speculative element (which isn’t so much my thing anyway) often got lost amongst the narration. I did like the way you slowly learnt things about Luci’s history and these felt like they could’ve been whole books in themselves, which is a testament to the messy ambiguity that was conjured around them.

One of the themes that really comes across when reading is the idea of being who you are without worrying if it’s what people expect or problematic or anything else, and it’s interesting how it addresses this, with Luci’s narration often focusing on weird details and comparisons to be edgy and shocking, but at other times being very nuanced about who people are and what is expected of them. If nothing else, it gets across the complexity of a person’s inner self, whether or not it is actually authentic, but hilariously, at the same time, the book argues that pantomime shouldn’t be politically correct or change, maybe because it’s too much of a mess to actually be offensive (and ‘messy’ definitely describes Luci and Luda, too).

I like that Luda is bold and, yes, messy, playing around with what is appropriate and the reliability of anything you are told in a book. It also takes a very British look at queerness and drag, filtered through the eyes of a very specific character. At first, I could handle the narrative style, but the further I read, the more it grated on me, and by the end I was lost in the swirling references and digressions. I don’t know Morrison’s other work though I’m aware of them, so maybe fans of their work will enjoy this more, but for me, I would’ve maybe liked the same vibe but just more cut down.

Land of Milk and Honey by C Pam Zhang

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Land of Milk and Honey is a novel about a chef who takes a job at a mountain colony, where a man and his daughter are attempting to reshape the world. Food is disappearing as smog has spread across the world, when the narrator, a chef trapped in England hoping for a way back to California one day, takes a job as the chef at a mountain colony run by a man bringing back the world’s creatures and plants for decadent pleasure. Her new employer has a daughter, a determined woman who believes in his mission, and as the narrator is drawn into a world of gastronomical delights, violence, and pleasure, she starts to understand what she desires.

I wasn’t sure what to expect from this book, which ended up being much more description-based and sensuous than the dystopian-esque blurb suggested. It sets up a world in which the pleasure of food has been lost, and then brings it back for the narrator, whilst also exploring how the rich envisage reshaping the world and what is classed as desirable. There’s also a love story, one with strange undertones and direction, deeply tied in with the food and the situation. The narrative goes fairly slowly and then the ending races through a conclusion, but that does feel like it matches the pacing of what happens, and the trajectories of desire in the book.

Turning a story of eco-crisis and the rich into a tale of longing and desire is impressive, stopping the book from being either moralistic or plain satire (it does have hints of something like The Menu in the ridiculousness of the food, but it goes far beyond that). Maybe the ending is a bit rushed and neat, but this is a book that really revels in human experiences and explores what really makes food matter.

Bloom by Delilah S. Dawson

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Bloom is a short horror novel that takes a cottagecore style romance between two women and plays out a slow burn tale of obsession and consumption. Rosemary—Ro—has moved to a new town to work at the local college, but feels lost until she goes to the local farmer’s market and meets Ash, who sells beautiful cupcakes, candles, and plants. Ro is transfixed, and keeps returning to the market, building up a relationship with the mysterious Ash, who makes everything from scratch and is very guarded about her life. As Ash offers Ro delicious food and passion, it starts to seem like everything isn’t so rosy.

This is a very slow burn horror book, which does have a decent amount of clues about where it is going to go, but which spends most of the book focused on Ro and Ash’s relationship and the way that Ro falls headfirst in love with Ash, before a quick ending that provides the payoff for all the clues. The blurb is the main way you’ll know from the start of the book that it is anything other than a cosy romance between a woman realising she is into women and a mysterious accomplished stranger, and generally it is the sort of book for people who like very aesthetic horror, rather than scares throughout the book. There’s a lot of hints of Christina Rossetti’s poem Goblin Market in it, which gives quite a good sense of what the vibe is. There’s a lot of luscious detail in the description, particularly around food and sensations, which is very effective once you know what the twist is.

Ro as a character (and whose perspective the third person narration follows) becomes secondary to her obsession with Ash, though there are hints of character development as she reflects on realising she is attracted to women. Her actual background, with a kind of magical whirlwind academic job and a book published with an advance, feels more unreal at times than the actual horror story, especially as it seems like she has to do very little work at her job, and it would’ve been interesting to see more of her life unravel as a result of her obsession. I like the use of Ash as a seemingly put together and perfect cottagecore character who turns out to be much darker (maybe particularly as someone for whom the aesthetic doesn’t appeal), but the narrative’s use of both characters could perhaps have been a bit more subversive and interesting, rather than playing out a predictable tale of Ro’s naivety and Ash’s controlling nature.

Bloom is a fun, slow burn horror novel that feels very much of the moment, playing with popular aesthetics and feeling similar to other current horror. Personally, I would’ve liked the narrative to be more subverted or complex, or to have another layer to it, but I think people will like the romance turned horror scenario and the descriptive prose.

How To Get Over the End of the World by Hal Schrieve

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How To Get Over the End of the World is a young adult novel about trans teenagers coming together to raise money through a rock opera whilst some of them see visions that are trying to prevent climate destruction. James is a messy gay trans senior who is ignoring high school to focus on keeping the local LGBTQ+ youth space, Compton House, open, alongside his best friends, who are forming a band and dealing with their own stuff. When James meets Orsino, a trans boy having visions of the future, the two of them seem to be able to share this look at escaping destruction, but to make a difference, they all need to navigate the messy world of being queer teens.

Having read Schrieve’s previous book Out of Salem (and following hir on social media), I was looking to this one, and it doesn’t disappoint. It’s quite a different book, far less focused on the otherworldly elements (to me) than the interpersonal dramas and realities of being a queer teenager that is part of various friendship groups, support groups, and “scenes”, and this is what makes it so powerful. The style of writing, and the moving between three different points of view, really immerses you in the world of these characters and the ways in which they miscommunicate, try hard and not enough, and navigate the messiness of queer teenage life. Everything is fast-paced and Schrieve really pulls you along for the ride, not explaining everything but letting you feel as inside and outside of things as a lot of the teenagers do. 

The characters are far more flawed and interesting than in a lot of books aimed at similar readers, making a lot of mistakes and having to learn that you can’t always see yourself as the protagonist of everything because other people matter too. James in particular is at a real point of self-discovery as he explores the excitement and frustrations of being almost an adult, but not quite (and his friends express when he needs to be better to them). At the centre is a love triangle that is, as it is hard not to keep saying in this review, messy, but in a way that isn’t annoying or forced, and it is woven into the entire plot. The inclusion of adults who are complex in their relationships with the teenagers is also a nice detail, bringing in some of the questions around how community support can push against personal circumstances.

This is a purposefully weird and messy book that revels in not just being another paint-by-numbers queer teenagers book, but instead mixes speculative elements (to a level that I as someone who doesn’t really like sci-fi or fantasy felt was ideal) with the punk DIY queer scene. It’s bold and fun, with some great characters, and like Out of Salem, may be aimed at teens but is great for adults too.

Bad Dolls by Rachel Harrison

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Bad Dolls is a collection of four horror short stories that combine modern life, the trials of being a woman, and what happens when everyday objects aren’t as they seem. The stories include one about a Magic 8 Ball influencing a woman looking for change, one about a bachelorette party that doesn’t go as expected, another about an unusually dark dieting app, and finally, the titular story about a strange doll that appears to a woman after the death of her sister.

These are longer short stories which felt very fleshed out, which I enjoyed. You get to really delve into the mind of the protagonist in each story, rather than feeling too fleeting and not really getting to know them. I particularly liked the first story, ‘Reply Hazy, Try Again’, as the Magic 8 Ball horror combined with a woman needing a push to throw away her apparently neat life worked well, building a sense of ‘what have you done’ combined with ‘good for you’ that made it feel quite complex by the end. ‘Bachelorette’ felt quite similar to a recent novel I’ve read in terms of the plotline, which let it down a bit, though it had a good vibe. ‘Goblin’ was unusual, exploring dieting and disordered eating through a horrific goblin, which was interesting. And ‘Bad Dolls’ was dark and intriguing, with a flawed protagonist, but I did feel like I wanted to know more so maybe it should’ve been a slightly longer novella at least to delve a bit deeper.

These tales are a great kind of horror, bringing horror elements into what are otherwise quite everyday yet sometimes horrific situations. The extended length of the stories meant that they were narratively satisfying and quite character-focused. I don’t read a huge amount of short stories (though horror can be an exception), but I’m glad that Harrison’s Such Sharp Teeth made me want to read Bad Dolls, as it was a fun horror collection.

You’d Look Better As A Ghost by Joanna Wallace

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You’d Look Better As A Ghost is a novel about a serial killer attending a grief counselling group who finds herself entangled in something unexpected. Claire sees people as ghosts right before she kills them, but now she’s dealing with her father’s death (not by her). An email mix up sends her on the trail of Lucas, the man who sent the email, but Lucas was tangled up in other things, and now Claire seems to be being watched as her serial killer side is under threat.

This book has such a fun cover and title, and the tone of it does match up to that, with flippant first person narration from Claire, who doesn’t feel bad about her killing and sees it as almost inevitable. Occasional third person chapters that flash back to Claire’s childhood fill in some of her story, but the focus is on a black comedy thriller type plot as Claire goes between her grief counselling group and a nursing home trying to get things back on track after killing Lucas. There’s plenty of ridiculousness and some red herrings as the plot goes on, and I could really imagine it adapted into a darkly comic film, as the pace of the plot and the twists it takes feel similar to other comedy films with a lot of death and mishaps.

Claire is a fun protagonist, highly opinionated and treats being a serial killer like a quirk she has, and that makes the book an enjoyable read, nothing too complex or requiring a lot of thought, but a good ride through the twists and turns that leaves you guessing if she will get caught.

Doppelganger by Naomi Klein

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Doppelganger is a book about the warped internet and real world of conspiracy theories, wellness bloggers, and far right podcasts, centred around author Naomi Klein being mistaken for the now pretty infamous Naomi Wolf. Klein explores what happened as people started to conflate the two of them and how she became obsessed with her ‘doppelganger’ Wolf, wanting to understand her seemingly changed opinions and political stance, and the impact it was having on Klein’s own position. Through this lens, she explores some of the areas of conspiracy theory and culture that make up the media world that Wolf is part of, and calls for collective action to fight this ‘mirror world’.

From the blurb, it is easy to be drawn to the book if you have any awareness of who the two Naomis are and the impact it might have being thought to be the other one. I’ve not read any of either of their books, but are aware of their respective works and Wolf’s decent into Covid conspiracy seemingly started with the radio debacle blowing a whole in her entire book, so I felt it would be an interesting story to hear, and it was definitely something different, framing a book not just around the polarised viewpoints in current politics and internet discourse, but in being drawn into them through a sense of doubleness and how this doubleness pervades other discussions in this area too.

Some of the best parts of the book are Klein’s personal experiences with being mistaken for and being obsessed with Wolf, as well as the charting of Wolf’s public life and work. Though there’s lots of other interesting content (particularly Klein’s analysis of why wellness/New Age type people might find themselves agreeing and working with right wing commentators, which hits hard if you’ve ever known anyone in the former category), it feels less ordered and structured than the stuff about Wolf, meaning you’re not always sure where the argument is going. I expected the ending to have more about what can be done about the polarised ideas causing people to fall down rabbit holes of conspiracy, but a single book isn’t going to solve that, and Klein’s parting argument about collective action fights against the individualism that she highlights so many people fall into as part of these beliefs.

This book feels like the sort of long YouTube video essay I’d watch, combining the personal with commentary and analysis, and the concept is fascinating, a chance to really look at one person’s adoption of conspiracy theories and huge fame with the far right coming after being most famous for a 90s book about feminism and beauty. In an age of personal brand monetisation, it is really interesting to read a book by someone impacted by the ease of mistaken identity in the digital age, and to think about why some conspiracy theories have become so popular.

No One Dies Yet by Kobby Ben Ben

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No One Dies Yet is a genre-defying literary novel about three Americans visiting Ghana and the two very different tour guides who work to show them a complex place and the foreigners’ strange position in the country. It is 2019 and Elton, Vincent, and Scott have come to Ghana for the Year of Return. The two narrators, Kobby and Nana, are their tour guides: Kobby, a writer and Instragram book reviewer who might be able to show them the underground queer scene, and Nana, who wants to protect the travellers from the dangers he sees with his religious beliefs and sense of tradition.

This is an epic and experimental book, told through two narrators who paint very different pictures of what happens, and whose tense relationship forms a weird centre to the narrative. There’s an awful lot packed into the story, from biting critique of a range of people and actions to literary fiction jokes about what African literature that becomes popular in the US and UK has to be and who should read it. The main looming event is murder, teased from the start, but it isn’t as simple as a murder story, and there’s some fascinating layers to what goes on, particularly around queerness and survival. Woven throughout is Ghanian history and ideas of who tells it and what they engage with, and the book doesn’t have any easy answers to its questions. Then there’s the characters and their own experiences: of queerness, of race, and how they view the world.

It feels a bit meta to be writing an online review of a book that is by and about an online book reviewer, but the book also has some jokes about that world mixed in, with plenty of dark humour amongst the issues it explores. It is a book trying to subvert your ideas about what it is, whilst also questioning why you had those ideas in the first place.