My August in reading

I’ve been reading a lot of self-help and memoir lately for…a project. I must admit, I was skeptical of the self-help genre as a whole, but I’ve been pleasantly surprised! Squeezed a few novels in there too, of course. My brain requires fiction to properly function.

The Life-Changing Magic of Not Giving a F*ck: How to Stop Spending Time You Don’t Have with People You Don’t Like by Sarah Knight

A loving and foul-mouthed parody of Marie Kondo’s bestseller The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up—but instead of housekeeping, Knight addresses people-pleasing. I was raised Catholic in the Midwest, so guilt is written into my DNA; as I’ve grown older, I find that I’m naturally giving fewer f*cks about what people think. But I still found Knight’s advice genuinely helpful—especially her concept of “personal policies,” as in I have a personal policy against superhero movies, so I’m sorry, I won’t be able to come see Ultra Badger Man VII: The Badgering with you. She’s funny, too! A quick, smart read.

The Kelping by Jan Stinchcomb

Do you like B horror movies from the 70s and 80s? That’s the vibe I get from Jan Stinchcomb’s novel The Kelping, in which handsome-doctor-who-has-it-all Craig Bo is crowned Sea King in his hometown’s local festival, only to discover that the sea is demanding much more than he’s prepared to give. Think Jaws + The Fly + I Know What You Did Last Summer, but a book. Spooky season’s coming up—you should give it a try!

The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde by Robert Louis Stevenson

When they announced that the Phoebe Reads a Mystery podcast was “taking a break,” I assumed the break was permanent. Happily, I was wrong! I’d never read this classic until Phoebe read it to me last month—I did pick up a bargain bin copy once, but the pages were printed wrong? I love a good Victorian mad scientist novel—Frankenstein, The Invisible Man, etc.—and this one did not disappoint.

Yoke: My Yoga of Self-Acceptance by Jessamyn Stanley

I used to practice yoga more than I do now—two bouts of calcific tendonitis in the shoulder will make you extremely cautious about chaturanga—but as Stanley emphasizes, everything is yoga. I really enjoyed this book of essays about Stanley’s experience as a fat, Black yoga instructor rising in popularity through social media—her imposter syndrome, how she grates against the whiteness of American yoga as a Black and queer person, how she came to appreciate astrology, her background in the Baháí faith, and more. It made me examine more closely the ways I approach yoga and similar practices based on my own background, and it made me think more about self-acceptance. Definitely recommend this one.

I Want to Die but I Want to Eat Tteokbokki by Baek Sehee (translated by Anton Hur)

This was a tough read—in a positive, challenging way. Sehee suffers from constant, low-grade depression, and this book is essentially just written records of her therapy sessions, plus a few related essays at the end. No filter, no self-censorship (as far as I can tell). It’s uncomfortable and awkward to read such a brutally honest recounting of someone else’s pain. But I think it’s important, because it makes us consider our own mental health and how we speak to ourselves. Apparently it’s a huge bestseller in South Korea. If you’re up for something painfully blunt and you’re interested in mental healthcare, you should check it out.

Flowers in the Attic by V.C. Andrews

Like most American cis women, I first read this coming-of-age incest story when I was in junior high—someone passed it along to me, I don’t remember who, as someone had passed it along to them. I was inspired to re-read it after listening to a bonus episode of the You’re Wrong About podcast where Sarah Marshall discussed the still ubiquitous and scandalous novel with Carmen Maria Machado. And it holds up, honestly? It’s totally melodramatic, but if you were a teenage girl trapped for years in an attic by your abusive grandmother and absent mother, forced to watch your younger siblings wither away and subject to the advances of your horny older brother, wouldn’t you be melodramatic? I never finished the series, and I still won’t—but I enjoyed revisiting this one.

Lech by Sara Lippmann

Sara Lippmann has written the perfect summer book. Reading it literally feels like jumping into a lake on a hot, sticky day and curling your toes in the silt at the bottom. The silt and the stickiness are important here—this isn’t exactly a happy story. It’s told from the perspective of several different characters in small-town upstate New York—an alcoholic real estate agent hoping to make a killer deal and her teen daughter desperate to run away, a bewildered mother vacationing from an unhappy marriage and her irresponsible goofball of a landlord—all surrounding a lake where a young Jewish mother drowned years ago. It’s not a total downer—parts of the book are very funny. But you’ll probably cry, too, in a cathartic way. I loved it.

The Hot Young Widows Club by Nora McInerny

If you haven’t listened to Nora McInerny’s podcast Terrible, Thanks for Asking, you absolutely should—it’s what brought me to her writing. Though our losses are different—I lost my parents within a few years of each other, and McInerny lost her father, her husband, and a pregnancy in the span of a few weeks (yikes)—I can confidently say this is the best book about grief I’ve ever read. Based on her Ted Talk, the slim volume presents not only anecdotes that are simultaneously heartbreaking and funny, but also gives concrete, helpful tips for both grieving people and those encountering grieving people. Everyone should read it so that when you inevitably come across a friend or colleague who’s mourning, you won’t totally butcher your response. And if you have lost a loved one—or lots of loved ones—this book will help you feel less alone.

Born Again by Ivy Johnson

This collection of poetry reminded me of John Donne’s sonnet “Batter my heart, three-person’d God” (~1609), which I had to read in high school. If you electrified that poem, you might end up with something like Johnson’s work. Her poems deal with religion and the body, walking the line where the physical and esoteric meet, where body horror and ecstasy meet. They’re maximalist in imagery but simple in form. A fascinating read—but CW for sexual assault.