“An act of faith. Faith—true faith—does not come without grappling in the shadows; faith never comes free from doubt” (Rauch 100).
Sara Rauch is in a long-term relationship with a woman when she begins a low-residency MFA. While there, she finds herself attracted to a married man, and well-known author, who is also in the program and has an affair with him. Rauch’s memoir recalls these two intense and different relationships, the heartbreaks of both, while also exploring her Catholic upbringing and lifelong obsession with romantic love. Continue reading
It’s been a hot minute, but I have a new post on Sartorial Geek! It’s about Turning Red, girl-centered coming-of-age narratives, and why we need more of them.
“I love being in the company of these other mothers, who all have special babies of their very own…Each of us knows from experience that birthing any child is the start of a lifelong terrorization by the very child we love, and yet we mothers are able to bear it because we love our children more than our own lives even as our children blithely seek to destroy us,” (Oshetsky 162).
A few days after dreaming she has made love to a female owl, Tiny learns she has pregnant. Her husband is overjoyed but Tiny is panicked because she knows that she is going to give birth to an owl-baby, and lo and behold she does. When her owl-baby Chouette is born Tiny falls in love with her daughter just the way she is, but her husband will do anything to ensure his daughter is “normal.” Continue reading
Everyone knows what’s coming next but actions have momentum, every decision an equal and justified reaction. Just because you know you should, doesn’t mean that you can, stop,” (Khaw 109).
A group of five friends travel to Japan for a wedding in a long abandoned Heian-era mansion. The mansion is supposedly haunted, built on the bones of a bride with the sacrificial remains of girls so she doesn’t get lonely. Not a problem for this thrill-seeking group or the bride who’s dreamed of getting married in a haunted house. After a long night of storytelling and booze something lurks in the shadows with a dark smile, and she’s lonely. Continue reading
when all this is over we’ll pretend we aren’t traumatized forever”
– how we survived a pandemic (Marie 104)
songs we used to dance to is a beautiful and aching poetry collection. Inspired largely by the pandemic (as is obvious from the poem I quoted) Marie’s collection covers such a wide array of emotions. From grief to sadness, to claustrophobia to the feeling of haunting and being haunted, of just existing during a historical moment not really know what else there is to do. It isn’t just about the pandemic of course, there are poems about the grief of relationships endings, about memories and nostalgia, of yearning for something that once was. songs we used to dance to is a wonderful collection that perfectly shows the pandemic ennui so many of us have been feeling since 2020. Continue reading
I’ve had trouble writing blog posts. This isn’t shocking or new to anyone, I’ve talked about it a handful of times promising to do better, to be more regular on here. Hell, I used to write blog post every Monday religiously, was able to keep this site updated with my own thoughts. But then the pandemic happened, then I was working from, then the world seemed to hold it’s breath and all my careful routines changed. I couldn’t think of anything to write, offered a few posts but was too sad most of the time to actually think of anything personal to write about, couldn’t really think of anything to write that wouldn’t be depressing or sad. My last personal post was written in May 2021. So I started writing book reviews again, just until I became inspired again, or that’s what I told myself. Continue reading
“Before it was over, the murders would claim the lives of seventeen people of different ages and backgrounds. All would be discovered with similar wounds: their throats slit or their wrists cut. A few sustained deep cuts to the inner thigh. Each of the victims died from blood loss, yet each of the crime scenes was suspiciously clean of blood. Bloodless,” (Blake 1).
In September 1958 the Carlson family is killed in their Minnesota farmhouse, their bodies drained of blood with no mess except on fifteen-year-old Marie Catherine Hale who is found covered head to toe in blood, none of which is hers. She is the first suspect found in a string of killings that have taken place over that summer where other victims were found in their homes, cars, or even in fields with their bodies also drained of blood, but Marie isn’t willing to tell anyone what she knows. Anyone, that is, except for the son of the local sheriff, Michael Jensen, who wants to escape Black Deer Falls and become a journalist. Marie tells Michael her story as Michael yearns to find the truth: What happened the night the Carlson’s were killed? How did Marie end up involved? And where did all the blood go? Continue reading
“We need new words, fresh words, words that can cut through pain and express how much it hurts to watch them suffer,” (Armstrong 173).
Life has never been easy in Rockton, but things have gotten even more difficult with someone anonymously revealing the secrets of it’s residents to the whole town. Understandably, it’s putting people on edge and Casey is eager to find out who may be doing this. But when one troublesome resident is found barely alive, Casey and Dalton are on the case to stop whoever is revealing those secrets and keeping the town safe. But with threat of closure looming, is it even possible to keep Rockton safe anymore? Continue reading
I received this book from the author in exchange for an honest review.
“From baby teeth to virginity, to live is to regularly suffer loss,” (LaRocca 1).
Mara is grieving after her father’s sudden death and is surprised when her cruel mother welcomes a new guest into their home who claims he will protect them. But Mara doesn’t trust the guest, and soon more and more visitors have taken refuge as their house fills up with sewage leaving Mara unsure of how to fix it all. Continue reading
“I draw a heart with my finger in the circle of my breath as I watch him carry his suitcase across the busy city street, growing smaller with each step he takes away from us. The bell of a cable car rings out as it passes by. And then he is gone, never having turned, never seeing me still waving long after he disappears. My heart melts and slides down the glass,” (Martin 8). Continue reading
Sarah O'Connor 