bisexualbookshelf's reviews
673 reviews

While I disagree with Astrid’s obsession with categories and labels, especially where it crossed over into biphobia, this was fucking hilarious. Big rec for fans of Miranda July!

Phenomenal book, stellar audio! I love you, Cyrus! I love you, Orkideh! I love you, Zee!

While I really enjoyed the first few stories in this collection, I couldn't get past the story "Ally," voiced by a trans woman, when Nalo Hopkinson is a cis woman. Hopkinson opens the story with an acknowledgment of this discrepancy and states that she chose to write the story to show her support for trans people. I didn't enjoy the story itself, and you never need to appropriate someone's voice or experiences to stand in solidarity with them. I tried to keep reading past "Ally" but found my experience of the other stories was tainted by my distaste for "Ally" and Hopkinson's choice to voice a trans person when she is not one. As such, I chose to stop reading this book at 47%. 

Thank you to Algonquin Books for the gifted ARC! This book was released in the US on November 12, 2024.

Nayantara Roy’s The Magnificent Ruins is a lush and evocative exploration of family, identity, and the weight of inherited legacies. The novel follows Lila, a conflicted and compelling protagonist, as she returns to India after her grandfather’s death to claim an ancestral home brimming with secrets and tensions. The narrative is steeped in sensory detail and rich cultural commentary, weaving Lila’s personal quest for belonging with broader examinations of colonial history, gender roles, and generational trauma. With its lyrical prose and intricate emotional landscapes, Roy’s writing invites readers to linger on the unspoken and the unresolved.

At its heart, the story examines the fractures within a family shaped by dysfunction and unaddressed pain. Lila’s relationship with her estranged mother—defined by silence, resentment, and cultural constraints—is central to the novel’s exploration of maternal legacies and the complexities of mental health in a context that discourages open dialogue. The ancestral house, decaying yet steeped in history, becomes a vivid metaphor for the family’s unresolved past and the struggle to rebuild amidst entrenched conflict. Themes of belonging and identity are woven throughout, as Lila grapples with her dual cultural heritage and the tension between modern independence and traditional expectations. Roy also engages deeply with systemic issues like colorism and patriarchy, adding layers of complexity to Lila’s journey.

While the novel’s themes are impactful, its execution stumbles in places. The inclusion of a love triangle feels tangential, detracting from the central narrative’s emotional weight. The multiplicity of conflicts—family disputes, social critique, and a rushed exploration of abuse—creates a sprawling narrative that struggles to maintain focus. The perspective shift in the novel’s conclusion feels abrupt and disjointed, leaving the resolution of key storylines unsatisfying.

Roy’s prose is undeniably lovely, and the characters are fully realized, making their struggles and desires deeply resonant. However, the novel’s pacing issues, an overly ambitious narrative scope, and a jarring use of the R-slur at its conclusion mar an otherwise poignant reading experience. While The Magnificent Ruins offers a thought-provoking meditation on identity and inheritance, these flaws ultimately lowered my rating to 3 out of 5 stars.

📖 Recommended For: Readers who enjoy introspective and lyrical prose, those interested in generational family dynamics and cultural heritage, anyone drawn to stories of belonging and identity, fans of Jhumpa Lahiri or Arundhati Roy.

🔑 Key Themes: Belonging and Dual Identity, Generational Trauma, Colorism and Patriarchy, Family Loyalty and Conflict, Cultural Heritage and Legacy.

Thank you so much to North Atlantic Books for the gifted ARC! Being (Sick) Enough will be released in the US on January 14, 2025.

Jessica Graham’s Being (Sick) Enough is a raw and evocative exploration of the intersections between chronic illness, trauma, queerness, and neurodivergence. Through vivid prose and unflinching honesty, Graham invites readers into their deeply personal journey, reflecting on the emotional, physical, and systemic barriers they’ve faced. The book shines in its ability to balance vulnerability with pragmatic insights, offering both a love letter to the body and a critique of social expectations and norms that often disregard the complexities of being human.

The themes Graham navigates are expansive and impactful. The book traces the long shadows of childhood abuse, parentification, and enmeshment, showing how these experiences ripple into adult relationships and bodily autonomy. Graham’s exploration of neurodivergent burnout, particularly for those navigating trauma within a neurotypical world, is especially poignant. The emphasis on listening to the body as a form of healing—despite the stigma surrounding chronic illness and mental health—is a powerful call for self-acceptance. Graham also critiques toxic positivity and ableist rhetoric, weaving Buddhist principles of mindfulness and acceptance throughout their narrative.

While the book’s themes resonated deeply, certain elements detracted from my reading experience. Graham’s intensely descriptive style, while often a strength, occasionally veered into oversharing that felt unnecessary—particularly regarding personal health details. Additionally, as a trauma therapist in training, I found Graham’s framing of mindfulness overly tied to a cognitive behavioral perspective, which felt at odds with my somatic understanding of PTSD treatment. The prescriptive tone in some parts, where Graham seemed to suggest that their methods for healing were universally applicable, felt limiting in a narrative otherwise rich with nuance.

Despite these critiques, Being (Sick) Enough is a heartfelt and necessary contribution to the conversation around living with trauma and chronic illness. Graham’s willingness to share their vulnerabilities and their incisive critique of ableism, sanism, and capitalism make this a meaningful read, particularly for those navigating similar challenges.

📖 Recommended For: Readers who value raw and introspective memoirs, those navigating the intersections of chronic illness, trauma, and neurodivergence, and anyone interested in critiques of ableism and toxic positivity.

🔑 Key Themes: Chronic Illness and Acceptance, Childhood Trauma and Healing, Neurodivergent Burnout, Queer Identity and Resilience, Self-Compassion and Mindfulness.

Thank you to NetGalley and the publisher for the eARC! This book released from Fiction2Collective in the US on November 12th, 2024. 

Vanessa Saunders’ The Flat Woman is a piercing, experimental novella that explores a speculative world where women are scapegoated for the climate crisis. In this surreal yet unsettlingly familiar dystopia, the unnamed narrator’s life is upended when her mother is imprisoned as a "gull terrorist," leaving her to navigate a hostile world defined by systemic blame, abandonment, and absurdity. Saunders crafts a story that is equal parts poignant and bizarre, merging poetic language with vivid imagery to create a haunting meditation on justice, autonomy, and interdependence.

From the moment the narrator wakes up with bird feathers sprouting from her skin, the novella immerses the reader in a world where nature and humanity are inextricably intertwined yet violently fractured. The symbolism of birds, both as victims and saviors, weaves through the narrative like an unspoken language, amplifying the story's ecological and feminist themes. Saunders’ prose is enigmatic and lyrical, compact yet resonant, balancing stark truths with moments of surreal beauty. 

At its heart, The Flat Woman is a searing critique of societal scapegoating and the ways power structures shift blame onto oppressed communities—in this case, women—while shirking accountability for global crises. The story interrogates the impossible burdens placed on women, whether through the narrator’s struggles with financial and emotional survival or her fraught relationship with her abusive boyfriend. Yet, even amid this bleakness, Saunders introduces moments of solidarity and care, often from unexpected places, such as the crows who save the narrator, creating a sense of righteous ferality and liberation.

While the novella’s experimental style and abstract symbolism may not appeal to every reader, fans of feminist speculative fiction will find much to savor. Saunders deftly walks the line between absurdity and sincerity, crafting a world that feels both eerily familiar and achingly strange. The Flat Woman is an evocative, thought-provoking exploration of blame, survival, and the possibility of forging care in a fractured world.

📖 Recommended For: Fans of experimental and feminist literature, readers drawn to surreal and symbolic narratives, and anyone who enjoys exploring ecological and political critique.

🔑 Key Themes: Systemic Blame and Scapegoating, Resilience and Autonomy, Care and Interdependence, Environmental Collapse, Feminism.

Thank you to NetGalley and the publisher for the eARC! This one was released from Tin House Books in the US on November 12th, 2024.

In The Burrow, Melanie Cheng crafts an evocative exploration of grief, family, and the quiet, often unseen struggles that accompany deep loss. Set four years after the tragic death of Jin and Amy's six-month-old daughter, Ruby, the novella delves into the aftermath of this unspeakable tragedy through the eyes of four family members—Jin, Amy, Lucie, and Pauline—as they navigate the delicate and painful process of healing. The arrival of a pet rabbit into their home, initially sought as a distraction for Lucie, becomes a poignant symbol of the complex web of emotions that each character grapples with. In alternating perspectives, Cheng masterfully paints a picture of each character’s inner turmoil, from Lucie’s resistance to naming the rabbit, to Amy’s struggles with writing and reconciling with her estranged mother, to Jin’s chest pains, a manifestation of unresolved grief.

Cheng’s writing is beautifully introspective and emotionally charged, with each sentence carrying the weight of unspoken sorrow. She uses vivid metaphors and sensory details to immerse the reader in the characters' experiences, creating a sense of both internal and external tension. Describing grief as something that gnaws at the body—comparable to a necrotic wound—Cheng brings physicality to the emotions her characters feel, making their pain palpable and raw. The language is often contemplative, allowing the characters’ internal reflections to slowly unfurl as they navigate their unspoken truths. It’s a style that invites the reader to sit with the complexity of loss, to feel the deep ache that lingers long after a loved one is gone.

At its heart, The Burrow is about the quiet perseverance of a family trying to rebuild itself in the wake of unthinkable loss. The presence of the rabbit, though small and seemingly insignificant, serves as a catalyst for connection and healing, a gentle reminder that care, even in the smallest forms, can offer a measure of solace. However, the novel also examines how grief remains an enduring presence, often unspoken, as characters adjust to new roles and relationships. The tension between independence and interdependence plays out throughout, as Jin and Amy struggle not only with their grief but also with each other, revealing the often fragile nature of family bonds.

In a broader sense, The Burrow reflects on the difficulty of finding meaning in the aftermath of trauma, particularly when the pain is both internal and external. The pandemic backdrop adds an additional layer of isolation, intensifying the characters' struggles and further complicating their path toward healing. Cheng’s deft handling of these themes—grief, isolation, family dynamics, and the search for healing—makes The Burrow a beautifully poignant meditation on how we survive loss, not by forgetting, but by finding ways to keep going, even when it feels impossible.

📖 Recommended For: Readers who appreciate introspective and emotionally charged prose, those interested in exploring the complexities of grief and healing, fans of literary fiction that delves into family dynamics and loss, and readers who enjoy meditative, character-driven narratives.

🔑 Key Themes: Grief and Loss, Family Dynamics, Healing and Reconnection, Finding Meaning in Trauma, Hope Amidst Despair.

Dori Lumpkin’s Antenora is a chilling, intimate exploration of girlhood, queerness, and the oppressive weight of religious fanaticism. Through Abby’s confessional narration, we’re drawn into the suffocating town of Bethel, Alabama—a place where church and community are indistinguishable, and both are intent on rooting out anything they fear or misunderstand.

At its heart is the bond between Abby and Nora, whose childhood friendship—full of forests, dirt, and whispered secrets—blooms into something tender and forbidden. As their relationship deepens, so too does Bethel’s scrutiny of Nora, a girl whose defiance and strange gifts challenge the town’s fragile order. Lumpkin’s prose masterfully captures the dread of living under constant judgment, with Bethel’s “Christian concern” masking a voyeuristic cruelty.

The novella’s horror is visceral and layered, weaving supernatural elements—snakes that may come back to life, whispers of possession—with the all-too-human horrors of homophobia, misogyny, and communal betrayal. The religious rituals and exorcisms are terrifying not just for their violence, but for how they magnify the town’s paranoia and Abby’s helplessness.

Despite the heaviness, Antenora finds space for moments of small joy and queer defiance. Abby and Nora’s love, though fragile, is a quiet rebellion against a community that would erase them. Lumpkin’s ability to evoke both tenderness and terror within such a compact story is remarkable - Nora and Abby will be living in my heart for a long time to come.

Dark, witchy, and unapologetically sapphic, Antenora is a powerful meditation on betrayal, survival, and the bittersweet strangeness of girlhood. It’s a story that lingers like a ghost. Thank you, Dori, for this magically strange story. 

Thank you to the publisher and NetGalley for the eARC. This book will release from CLASH Books on February 25, 2025 in the US. However, I stopped reading at 17% due to concerns about the author, a white writer, voicing a Korean American character. 

In All Our Tomorrows, Amy DeBellis dissects millennial and Gen Z culture through the lives of three young women navigating the complex realities of New York City in a near-future, hyper-capitalist world. Janet, an overworked online therapist; Anna, a retail worker and sugar baby seeking financial survival; and Gemma, a college student turned aspiring influencer, each confront their struggles with nihilism, isolation, and climate anxiety. DeBellis employs sharp critiques and dark humor to explore the intimate challenges of identity, privilege, and resilience in an era defined by economic instability and digital culture.

I stopped reading All Our Tomorrows at 17% because Amy DeBellis’s portrayal of Janet, a Korean American character, felt misaligned with my values around racial justice and representation. As a white author, DeBellis’s decision to voice a character with a specific racialized experience raised concerns about appropriation, particularly because Janet’s ethnicity seemed incidental to the story rather than thoughtfully integrated.  

Janet’s ethnicity is revealed in a scene where her date, a tone-deaf white man, exotifies her background by asking where she’s *really* from, “like ancestrally.” While DeBellis’s critique of white privilege and microaggressions is evident, the scene risks reducing Janet’s racial identity to a narrative device for advancing this critique. If her ethnicity plays no significant role beyond this scene, it feels tokenizing and exploitative. If it reappears later, the risk grows that it could be mishandled in ways that amplify the problematic nature of this choice.  

While I appreciate DeBellis’s incisive commentary on millennial struggles, her approach to Janet’s character felt at odds with my values. I’m not comfortable supporting a narrative that might perpetuate the very erasure or commodification of marginalized voices it aims to critique, particularly when those voices could be more authentically written by someone with lived experience.