Nettle and Bone by T Kingfisher

I really enjoyed T Kingfisher’s writing style when I read The Twisted Ones, so when I got this book for my birthday I was really looking forward to it – especially as some of my friends said they thought I’d love this one even more. They were right.

First of all, this is a revenge quest, and I have a thing for revenge quests. I adore them, there’s something about getting what you are owed in the end that I just– yeah, I know life is not often like this, which is perhaps why I really like characters to get some retribution in fiction.

Kingfisher is really good at writing what seemingly look like tropes and then doing something completely different (and far more interesting) with them. For example, the main character of this story is princess Mara, the younger of three sisters, who adores her eldest sister and has a sort of love and hate relationship with the middle one (something quite realistic, I may say). Her older sister marries the prince of a neighbouring (and richer) country for political reasons but she dies a few months after the wedding – an accident, the family is told. Then her middle sister goes to marry the same prince to keep the political alliance. And soon it transpires that a) the prince is an abuser who did kill the older sister b) he only sees her new wife as a baby-making machine (because according a prophecy, as long as the kings of this kingdom belong to the same bloodline, the kingdom cannot be defeated) and c) the princesses’s family won’t do anything about it because, politically, they are no threat to this bigger kingdom and they need it to survive.

What follows is Mara plotting a revenge plot against the prince while she stays as a nun in a convent (another political move, to assure that there are no contenders to the throne in the bigger kingdom) – a life that, as it turns out, Mara quite enjoys, because it’s chill and she gets to devote her time to reading and taking the occasional lover (when she’s not plotting her revenge, that is).

Things reach its boiling plot in the novel when Mara leaves the convent looking for a Dustwife, a kind of necromancer-witch who can help her in her quest. She manages to complete two out of three tasks the Dustwife sets for her, which seems to be enough for the Dustwife to agree and join her. Along the way they’ll collect a series of characters happy to join the quest including a though warrior who has committed and unspeakable crime and been shunned by his community and a fairy godmother who doesn’t have a talent to bless babies (spoiler: her real talent is actually to curse them, which proves to be advantageous later on).

I loved how fantasy blended in with horror in this book – the scenes in the catacombs with the thief wheel were just fantastic. And, of course, the bone dog (it seems that there’s always a dog in Kingfisher’s books?) and the chicken that is possessed by a demon, and the creepy, extremely elderly prince’s fairy godmother…

A great, enjoyable read.

The City and the City by China Miéville

I read Perdido Street Station back in spring of 2022 and I adored it – sure, I can see some flaws with it, but it was definitely my kind of book. I’m also a fan of Miéville as a storyteller – there are so many favourites of mine in his collection Three Moments of an Explosion, such as ‘Säcken’ and ‘The Rope is the World’, ‘The Dowager of Bees’, ‘After the Festival’ and ‘The Bastard Prompt.’. Of course, I had high expectations for this book.

The beginning is somehow disappointing – a beautiful young woman is found dead in a city, so a detective is called to the scene to investigate. Definitely quite cliché. I was reading in the staff kitchen at work when I colleague came by and she told me this was one of her favourite novels of all times. I told her my disappointment with the beginning but she encouraged me to keep going. It starts like a noir, but it’s not that, you’ll see.

Boy, was she right – and boy, was I in for a journey here.

To start with, we have two cities in the same geographical space (somewhere in Eastern Europe that for some reason reminded me of the Balkans.) The first city, where we start in, is Bészel. The other one is called Ul Qoma. Now, you’ll be wondering – how can two cities exist in the same space? Because this is what happens, there is no magic or some complex multiverse aspect to it. It’s all about people. The inhabitants of Bészel have been trained to see only the parts that are Bészel, the inhabitants of Ul Qoma have done the same with their own metropolis. If they see each other they ignore it – because there are consequences if you focus on parts of the city that are not yours. If you do this continuously, then a strange force known as Breach comes and kills you or makes you disappear. 

The noir plot soon turns quite existential as the main character tries to understand why this woman died and also the truth about the two cities. There’s also a bit of dark academia in this novel. Mahalia Geary – the woman who’s murdered – is actually a PhD student whose thesis is all about the potential existence of a third city, Orciny, (superimposed on Bészel and Ul Qoma, and with inhabitants who plan to take over both). All of this is based on the discovery of archeological evidence in both Bészel and Ul Quoma that suggests that either the two cities were one at some point or that there are built on a third city all together.

It may seem complicated or too far-fetched but if you think so I challenge to read the book – Miéville does get away with it. What I loved the most about the concept was the sheer strangeness of it but also how it talks about humanity – how we have the capacity to believe in things so strongly we make them real (this being politics, culture, religion… you choose) and this naturally means we’ll also have blind spots and biases.

Black Water Sister by Zen Cho

I read Sorcerer to the Crown, Zen Cho’s first novel back in 2017, when I met her in a literary festival (she’s not only a great writer but also a great person overall, I can confirm first hand).

Whereas Sorcerer to the Crown is fantasy and a bit speculative historical fiction, Black Water Sister is pretty much rooted in realism with some selective fantastical elements. This is a very entertaining book to read and I found myself completed immersed in the life and sorrows of its main character, Jess, who is struggling with way too many things in her life. First of all, she’s relocated with her parents from the States to Malaysia, her birth country. Second of all, she’s a lesbian and in a relationship with another woman but is terrified of her parents finding out (considering that most members of her family are openly homophobic). Thirdly, she’s just started hearing her grandmother’s voice in her head – this is Ah Ma, her mother’s mother, who Jess didn’t really know and who is recently deceased.

I think this is a brilliant concept – using the idea of a haunting to write about cultural and generational differences, specifically experienced by a character who is queer and also has been brought up in between two cultures – Malaysian and American. 

Things complicate when Jess realises that Ah Ma gets to see everything that she sees so there’s virtually no privacy for her. Also, it turns out that Ah Ma in life was medium to a really scary deity known as Black Water Sister and apparently this means that Jess may be expected to honour this spirit as well.

There is a very interesting blend of mythology and religion here to explore Malaysian history and also the misogyny and homophobia present in the culture. Zen Cho writes very nuanced characters you learn to love despite their flaws, such as Ah Ma and Jess herself. It’s also worst noticing that the most scary thing in this book – to Jess and to us, as readers, by extent – is not the supernatural stuff (even though this can get quite scary – but actually her own fear of being rejected by her parents for being who she is. One particular scene towards the end (spoiler here) is particularly heart-breaking as Jess experiences a vision featuring her worst fear – upon discovering that their daughter is gay both parents can’t hide their disgust towards her. As someone who also had to come out that was my main fear – being perceived with disgust by those I loved the most. My context couldn’t be more different from Jess’s and yet I was very upset when I read that scene, and it made me reflect on culture and families and how sometimes we need to break from some aspects from them both to be happy and authentic to ourselves, and how this is not really selfish, even if sometimes we fear it may be.

Dear Dolly by Dolly Alderton

Ok, I’m a very nosy person at heart, I mean, I’m a writer who loves building characters because this process allows me to experience being people so different to myself. So, a whole book made of an advice columns? Sure, why not.

I picked this from the library in a whim and it was quite enjoyable. There was a hilarious letter about an English woman (these advice columns were published in an English publication, The Sunday Times Style) who was going to move to France and, after years being obsessed with this country and its culture wanted advice on how to pass more as ‘French’. There were other letters, mostly written by women, asking about friendship troubles: how to break up with a friend, how to support a friend who is going through a rough patch and so on. Those were very comforting to read.

And also, there were some reflections that moved me. Especially when Dolly Alderton talked about aging as a woman, and how she had been told by many other women (older than her) that aging brought them an unexpected and precious freedom as they realised they didn’t have to worry about being pretty any more and could simply exist and focus on whatever else that brought them joy. That comment stuck with me because that’s something I’ve struggle my whole life with – the fact that I feel so pressured to care about my looks and how I present to others when in reality I actually don’t care at all. But I care, of course I do, because if I don’t, am I even being a proper woman? But I don’t care. But I do… (BIG etc.)

I enjoyed reading Dolly Alderton’s responses as she was always tender, empathetic and at the same time encouraged people to think from different perspectives. I think she would be a great therapist, to be fair.

I’m Glad My Mom Died by Jeanette McCurdy

A title like this, how can you not pick the book? This was a very fast read but also a horrifying one. I knew the story was hard – what does it take for a daughter to be glad that her mom has died? And yet, it moved me and destroyed me in ways that I need to explain right away because in a way the protagonist in this book – Jenette – suffered so much with things that I can relate to, such as the desire to please others as well as body image and eating disorders.

This books moves in chronological order – from Jenette’s earlier memories to the present times. Her mother is described as a very important figure in her life, partially because Jeanette is her only daughter (she has three older sons) partially because Jenette’s mother places her own dreams and hopes (a frustrated career as an actress) on her daughter, and she does this in the most extreme way possible.

The description of the auditions Jenette is taken to (as young as six) to start her career as a child actor are quite the thing. First of all, what a brutal world to introduce a child to, especially a child who is so keen in pleasing a parent like Jenette is to her mother. From such as tender age she has to hear that she’s not good enough, while also learning to become whatever they are asking of her, a talent she had already started developing with her own mother, who was (very likely) a narcissist that saw her daughter as an extension of herself.

One of the most heartbreaking scenes in the book is when Jenette as a child tells her mother she wants to stop acting – she’s enjoyed some modest success, but her heart is not really in it – her mother’s reaction upon hearing this is so negative Jenette immediately agrees to continue, and from then on acting – and becoming a star – becomes the focus of her life. In the background, we see the figure of her father (who turns out is not biological father, a fact that her mother hid from her all her life and Jenette only discovered after her death) who obviously feels sorry for her but doesn’t protect her from her mother’s negative influence.

Jenette’s mother has an eating disorder herself – obsessed with counting calories, denying herself food to stay always thin – and this is something she gladly passes on to her daughter as soon as she starts entering puberty and gaining weight. It’s very chilling because for Jenette this starts as a game, a secret, a special thing she and her mother share and support each other with. Later on in her life, and as a form of rebellion, Jenette will swap her anorexia for bulimia – she wants to eat, she’s desperate for the food she has been denying herself for so long to please her mother’s ideal of beauty, but then she feels guilty and she needs to purge.

Another heartbreaking episode involves Jenette going to therapy trying to overcome her eating disorder. At this point, she’s a famous actress and has a wealthy career. Her mother has passed away and she’s finally free from her control. But – as anyone with any addictive disease will know – this is not easy. Especially because her eating disorder is so intrinsically connected to her twisted relationship with her mother – who, at that point, Jenette still sees as a caring and supportive figure. When the therapist suggests that Jenette may have been abused by her mother she storms out of the room and refuses to engage with therapy any further.

This is an honest, funny, raw and dark book about what happens when those supposed to take care of you and nurture you hurt you instead, and how your worldview gets warped to accommodate and comprehend that horror. This is also a book about being a daughter and having a mother who wasn’t great, and loving her nonetheless, but also feeling grateful she’s not there anymore.

Here Again Now by Okechukwu Nzelu

Another very bleak book, also about parenthood, but this time focused on the relationship between fathers and sons (I hadn’t realised I read so many books about parenthood this month, I didn’t do it on purpose!)

The book follows two grown-up men, in love with each other but unable to have a relationship. Achike is a famous actor whose career is just about to take off after he’s starred an ambitious fantasy film by a Nigerian female director. Ekene is friend from childhood, who also went to acting school but ended up becoming a teacher and having a much more challenging life – peppered with fixed-term contracts and a series of failed relationships with emotionally unavailable men. Ekene knows Achike has always loved him but he rejects him. The novel goes back and forth between the present timeline when Ekene, unemployed, is living in Achike’s luxurious flat in London and the past, where Achike and Ekene bonded as children going to the same school. 

The story complicates when Achike’s father, Chibuike, comes to live with him. His alcoholism has got out of control and he’s lost his job and hence is unable to pay for his rent and risks becoming homeless. Achike’s relationship with her father is flawed, to say the least, which is something that he has in common with Ekene. Not only because of Chibuike’s alcoholism but also because (spoilers ahead) when Achike suffered sexual abuse in the hands of Chibuike’s brother-in-law his father decided to keep it quiet instead of denouncing his brother-in-law to the authorities. Also, Chibuike considers that Achike’s homosexuality is a direct consequence of this abuse, which obviously is very upsetting for Achike.

Ekene’s father, on the other hand, abandoned his family when he was young, and when he was struggling with this (and misbehaving as a teenager, as a direct consequence of it) his mother kicked him out of the house. Only Chibuike took pity of him and let him live in his house with Achike as the two of them prepared to finish secondary school and go to university.

Something that this story examines is the relationships between fathers and son first in Nigeria – in a society heavily centred on family but also very homophobic – and then in England, as both Achike and Ekene’s parents emigrate to this country, where their children are born and have to learn to live in between two cultures, never quite feeling they belong to one place or the other.

(Massive spoilers ahead in this last section). This is a very dark, very sad book, specially since pretty much at the beginning Achike dies of a sudden brain haemorrhage. Having suffered from terrible migraines since he was a child, he doesn’t realise the gravity of the situation at first (neither does Ekene, who is with him). When they realise what’s going on – that this is something much more serious – it’s too late. Ekene takes him to the hospital but nothing can be done.

The way the brain haemorrhage is described is so detailed and nuanced that it made me feel physically sick. To make things even better, when Chibuike goes to talk to the doctors, they confirm to him that his son died experiencing a terrible pain. This broke me. Someone very dear to me died of a brain haemorrhage too and I had never considered they may have gone experiencing one of the worst pains the human body can endure.

As this happens pretty much in the first third of the book, the rest deals with the aftermath of Achike’s dead. Without him. Chibuike and Ekene have no option but become closer to each other. This is the part where the book is most tender and it seems that both characters may be able to reach some atonement in the future by becoming respectively and father and a son to each other.

As sad and dark as this book was it left me pondering about familia trauma, about the horrible damage internalised homophobia can do through generations and how it seems like men are not educated to dwell in their emotions and to become carers. Every father should be a carer, first and foremost, (every parent should, I think) so why is this not taught and encouraged for everyone? It reminded me to the memoir by Eloy Fernández Porta, Los Brotes Negros (Dark Outbursts) I read back in December, in which he reflected about the intersections between mental health and gender, having had to care for his both his parents until they die when he was way too young (and then finding he didn’t know how to cope with the grief of this experience).

Knocking Myself Up by Michelle Tea

This was a great read that I consumed in two or three days. Michelle Tea’s is such an entertaining narrator: funny, honest, raw when she needs to. In that sense this memoir reminded me a bit to The Unfamiliar by Kirsty Logan that I read last year and adored. I’m really enjoying reading about queer women’s experiences of motherhood that looks so different from what many of us have been taught to expect.

Tea’s story is interesting because she decides she wants to become a mother at forty years old, which could seen as being already geriatric by some. She’s lived a full and intense life up until that point – when she suddenly decides that motherhood is something she also wants to experience. I find this extremely liberating – I think one should have children when one really wants to and feels prepared for it, no matter the age. At the beginning of the story Michelle is also single, but of course, as it happens when you have a womb that’s not necessarily a big issue. Soon enough she finds an adorable drag-queen/soon to be grad student to volunteer as a donor and there she goes on her journey.

The story complicates when Tea starts dating a non-binary partner (who, miraculously, decides to embark in the parenthood journey with her a few months on) and realises that getting pregnant is not as easy as she envisioned. There are a few medical issues she needs to take care of first which means navigating the health care system (public first, then, private) as a queer woman with a non-binary partner (spoiler alert, is not easy).

There are some interesting reflections on parenthood, on what takes to become a mother, on being a woman who doesn’t date trans cis men. There are highs and lows, including Tea’s harrowing account of a miscarriage during her wedding day. But of course I knew of Michelle Tea before reading this book (I’ve been a subscriber of her newsletter for a little while now) so I knew she has one child, so the book had to have a happy ending??

Tea gets to have a child at the end – a little boy who doesn’t happen to be a scorpio (Michelle Tea is also an astrologer and Tarot reader, and I found her musings on now wanting her boy to be a certain astrological sign hilarious). There’s a final afterword to the book in which she explains her current life as a divorced mother of a young boy. It’s full of love, and tenderness and unapologetic joy, just like the rest of her book.

This is a story about found families, about wanting to bring someone to the world in a structure that is just not the conventional nuclear family with mum, dad and the baby. For me reading things like these brings me hope, because it shows me that structures I personally find asphyxiating don’t have to be the norm: there is hope for all of us weirdos.