Alien abduction narratives profoundly creep me out, which is why I abandoned this book about two pages in when I first tried to read it several years ago. (Let’s not contemplate what Mr. Strieber might read into this primal fear response of mine.) I picked it back up after aliens, owls, and parallel universes came up in my recent paranormal podcast listening, and this time I found it much less terrifying. It was actually rather repetitive, as Strieber goes to great pains to present his experiences from various perspectives and provide witness testimony to build the case that he’s not delusional. What I found much more interesting was the section about other abductees’ efforts to cope with what they’ve experienced, whatever that might be.

I admit that I started listening to this out of the desire to seem more outwardly normal and to make people at work like me. That’s not really what this book is; Romolini’s philosophy is more that weirdness, properly harnessed and combined with clearsightedness, is a great asset. Her experiences are not universal but a good deal more relatable* than those of lots of people giving career advice, and the overall effect is comforting in a tough-love kind of way.

I’m glad I chose the audiobook, because this was perfect listening for commutes, but not the kind of book that I would be motivated to carve out recreational reading time for. Available on Hoopla from a public library near you!

*Not in all aspects. The stories about failing classes and getting fired gave me hives. Not a judgment, just a comment on the neurotic overachiever that I am.

When My Year of Rest and Relaxation was published last year, I was skeptical. How interesting could a book about sleeping possibly be? So I put it off. But I came across it browsing at the library recently, and decided for whatever reason to read it.

My expectations were low, but I read nearly half of the book in one sitting, and after finishing the novel and listening to an interview with Moshfegh, I'm coming to view her as an astute and courageous voice. She writes about irredeemable women, who are my favorite characters about which to read, for reasons I haven't articulated to my own satisfaction yet. Perhaps it's because in society, women are expected to function with grace, approachability, and selflessness, and it's refreshing to experience characters who can't and won't be bothered. (And I certainly don't mean that in a radical self-care, woman-empowerment sort of way. I don't want these women to be role models or capitalist-feminism poster children. I just want them to be fucked-up and fun for me to read about.)

The narrator of My Year of Rest and Relaxation is a privileged WASP who retreats into a prescription-induced hibernation following the death of her parents. The plot emerges in memories of her life before her sleep, and, as the book progresses, in the increasingly frequent interruptions to her slumber in the form of visits from her friend, Reva (whom she relentlessly emotionally abuses, but who is also somewhat insufferable) and in the sleepwalking episodes that are a side effect of the fictional drug Infermiterol, which she takes as part of a mind-boggling cocktail of substances she finagles from her quack psychiatrist Dr. Tuttle.

What can I say about this divisive book? I just really like it. It is bleak, and funny, with moments of high absurdity and cruelty, and a conceit that works surprisingly well. It is not bland and it does not seek to comfort the reader. It provides no moment of ultimate meaning or clarity. I find it refreshing, and I'm eager to read Moshfegh's first novel, Eileen, which I went back to the library specifically to check out.

A tense Bildungsroman vignette with folk horror leanings. I read this book because the cover, title, and Iron Age reenactment setting intrigued me, and was pleased to find that for something so short, it packs in a lot of character development.

I had only read one of Rich’s poems and one of her essays, and knew her mainly through her association with Audre Lorde, so when I came across The Dream of a Common Language at the library, I decided it was finally time to read it. I’m glad that I did. These poems are quietly courageous, rich in imagery and satisfying to read aloud. At times I ended up trying not to cry while reading them on my breaks at work. There’s definitely something to be said for the serendipity of the right book at the right time.

Creating in a world that is literally burning is indescribably hard, especially when you’re neurodivergent, queer, and a woman. This book understands, and is like a realistic but hopeful pep talk with a friend who is also struggling but keeping it together. It helped me to remember that I do have a responsibility to my art, and that I do need to connect with other creative people.