7 Gothic Books That Go Beyond Ghosts and Graveyards

7 Gothic Books That Go Beyond Ghosts and Graveyards

I was surprised when my astute editor at Bloomsbury Publishing suggested that my debut novel, Wither, could be called “gothic.” The book contains no ghosts, no castles, not even a graveyard—at least not in the traditional sense. Not one dang ghoul. I threw my chair and began to shriek in protest, but then considered a more modern sense of the gothic label, one that emphasizes atmosphere over story elements: lingering dread, inescapable past, bleak landscape, the possibility of the supernatural, and the existential crisis sparked by this unnatural encounter.

I abruptly stopped sobbing, righted my chair and gave a thumbs-up.

Everything that I treasure about horror is reflected in gothic literature. The awe and terror of the unknown, the thrill of impending doom, grazing the veil between the known and unknowable—this I find far more compelling than blood and guts. And the patience displayed in great gothic stories recognizes the pleasure of mystery, rather than its resolution.

Some of the books below might not typically come up in a discussion of Gothic literature, but all contain some elements or atmosphere that seat them in the good company of great Gothic stories.

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Five Books That Are “Good for Her” – Recommended by Mathilda Zeller

Five Books That Are “Good for Her” – Recommended by Mathilda Zeller

Do you ever have a particular vibe you just love in art and media, and then realize that there’s a common throughline for why you love these particular songs, stories, artworks?

If, like me, you enjoyed Cinderella as a child, and Knives Out as an adult, if Stephen King’s Carrie and Roald Dahl’s Mathilda struck a cord with you, and if Artemisia Gentileschi’s painting Judith Slaying Holofernes speaks to your soul, it might just be that you enjoy stories that are Good for Her.

What began with a gif from a television show (a woman responding to news about a mother driving herself and young children into a lake with “good for her!”) and a Tweet (@cinematogxphy’s post about the Good for her Cinematic Universe) has become a shorthand way to describe a certain storytelling form.

There is a lot of discourse about what defines a Good for Her story, but the definition I most appreciate suggests that this kind of narrative:

  1. Features a female/ femme protagonist who
  2. Lives in a systemically unjust society (usually patriarchal), and
  3. Is personally harmed by the outrageous injustices of that society, and
  4. Overcomes this harm/ injustice by playing not by the rules of society, but by her own rules.
  5. There must be a major catharsis for both the audience and the heroine, and
  6. The heroine cannot feel sorry for winning. She also cannot feel sorry for how she’s won.
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6 Appalachian Books that Explore Mental Illness, Recommended by Erin Miller Reid

6 Appalachian Books that Explore Mental Illness, Recommended by Erin Miller Reid

For me, creeks are thin places, where the barrier between the physical world and the spiritual world attenuates, where the boundaries between god, ghost, and human disappear and the tethers between past, present, and future blur. Creeks: the clear tinkling sound of water rippling forward, hidden worlds under smooth, wet stones, ancient watering holes. Creeks: the ever-present threat of flood with each storm, the potential to drown a town after a night of heavy rainfall. The Appalachian Mountains are filled with creeks winding their way through the mossy beds of forests, through cow pastures and tobacco fields, through backyards, and behind strip malls in a dualistic path of peace and threat. 

I’d posit that Appalachian creeks are a metaphor for mental health—introspection and outward projection in precarious balance, inner peace and chaos in limbo, a yin and yang of the physical self and the spiritual. My novel, But For Fortune, tells the multi-generational story of two Kentucky women, Corinth and Mary Esther, who wrestle with mental illness in vastly different ways decades apart. Like the creeks of Appalachia, and like the many Appalachians suffering from psychiatric illness, the experiences of Corinth and Mary Esther are nuanced and their potentials are manifold; the same holds true for the narrators and main characters of the books I recommend below. Like the creeks of Appalachia, their stories ring tender, but also roar. 

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7 Books That Take You Into London’s Hidden World

7 Books That Take You Into London’s Hidden World

My book, Blood Drunk, has two central characters. One is Freddie Burns, a hard-bitten, hard-drinking young Londoner with the world-weary cynicism of a sixty-year-old vice cop and the emotional intelligence of a toddler. He does his best, but it doesn’t always go very well. The other – sort of – is London itself, or at least a version of it. The book is set in the 1990s, a decade when London faced huge challenges – riots, homelessness, and a level of crime something like 90% worse than today – but also when it began to recover from its long-post war slump; a vast animal emerging from hibernation, cleaning the coal soot off its buildings and blinking in the bright lights of Cool Brittania. London has reinvented itself many times since the Romans, layers of history deposited then fractured by the tectonic forces of technology and money – a place of cracks and fissures under the concrete where all sorts of hidden stories play out in the dark. Here are a few of my favourites.      

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7 books that know how to have a conversation 

7 books that know how to have a conversation 

As a college student, I had a real miracle happen in the form of incidentally ending up in an intro to poetry class with Martín Espada. Learning from Martín changed my life in many directions, but today I’m here to think with you all about a central ethos of his mentorship, that “the purpose of poetry is to communicate.”

Who doesn’t love the good company of a great book, when reading feels like having a conversation? I especially love collections that lean into the everyday, and writers who bring their attention to bear on the seemingly inconsequential, the mundane, rendering it sacred. It’s this admiration that led me to the project of my own book, and it’s why I called that book Small Talk. 

Lately, I’ve been returning to the books that have kept me such good company with new questions: How are these books thinking about and/or with the reader? How are they using form to change what kinds of thinking are possible? Who else is in the room of the poems? What do these poems believe, and how does the poet attempt to communicate that?

For this list, I’ve gathered together a group of writers that talk to their readers in ways that are innovative and permissive; books that changed what I could imagine a book might be capable of doing. In these pages, writers find meaning in a bag of Funyuns, a daughter’s socks at a bowling alley, a monarch butterfly on a wrinkled shirt, a friend eating strawberries, and so much more. 

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Five Novels that Use Time Jumps to Advance the Plot, Recommended by Madeleine Moss

Five Novels that Use Time Jumps to Advance the Plot, Recommended by Madeleine Moss

How can you make ordinary life feel resonant enough to function as literature? One of the ways is to structure it well. Time jumps—whether they be quick sneak-peeks into the future, as Muriel Spark does, or dramatic jumps of several years, as in Henry James’ work—can give resonance to a work of seemingly straightforward literary fiction. For this list, I’m not talking about books that include time travel, but rather novels that are interested in using “sleights of time” to make ordinary stories feel both dramatic and satisfying.

In my debut novel, Mistranslation, I employ several large time jumps in the narrative. By including a childhood section, a teenage section, and an adult section, I hope to infuse energy into the narrative at each jump and also to place certain moments in the lives of my characters in closer proximity to each other. In childhood, my main character Sabina meets Khalil—the boy who’s moved in across the street—and notices that he has popsicle juice staining his mouth. Their meeting is confrontational. In adolescence, during another pivotal moment, a drink has stained his mouth and it reminds her of something, although she can’t say what. By placing these two ordinary moments close together, I hope to create something that feels meaningful—in other words, that feels like plot.

Below, I’ll recommend five character-driven novels that use time jumps in innovative ways.

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8 Novels that Completely Reimagine the Bible by Taylor Catalana

8 Novels that Completely Reimagine the Bible by Taylor Catalana

On a dreary morning just before my Catholic grade school freed us students for Easter break, my teacher slipped a tape that had been wonkily recorded from cable TV into the classroom VCR. Before I knew it, there was Richard Burton in a Roman soldier’s uniform, expounding on the nature of the gods to bombastic, regal trumpet music, and suddenly a boring half-day dangling before time off became a lot more interesting.

The film, 1953’s The Robe, based on a 1942 novel of the same name by Lloyd C. Douglas, centers around a Roman centurion, played by Burton, who is sent by the future emperor Caligula to a post in Judea as punishment, where he is promptly ordered to carry out a crucifixion. Thinking little of this common order at first, he soon is beset by a terrible madness at the touch of a robe he won gambling that belonged to the man he crucified (guess who).

Having been raised on a healthy diet of Andrew Lloyd Webber musicals, retold biblical stories weren’t in and of themselves a novel idea to me, but that an entire Empire-spanning epic could be written out of a nameless figure the Gospels place at the foot of the cross? I was never the same. Soon every bookstore I entered endured my hunt for original imaginings and fresh perspectives on characters hardly mentioned, or strange tales typically brushed under the rug of neat religious interpretation. I had parameters: I did not want to be preached at (I now know that to be its own subgenre); I wanted a story that was difficult and challenging and devoted to facing the Bible’s questions and contradictions head-on, something that feels more important than ever. Every time I found one, I felt like I had unearthed a treasure left behind specifically for me by likeminded literary explorers.

As my collection of these kinds of narratives grew, shelved beside similar works that took on Greek myths and other trails of ancient history, I began to write my own stories in this same vein. Looking back now, I realize that I had been drawn to this since before I even knew what the Bible was: as a very young child plopped down in a church pew, I would entertain myself in that strange but beautiful room by making up backstories for the pretty people depicted in the stained glass windows around me. My fascination with religious art of all stripes never waned, eventually leading to a graduate degree on the subject as well my debut novel, Marble.

The protagonist of Marble certainly isn’t an obscure or unnamed biblical character, but she is one whose image has taken on a massive life of its own in the intervening 2,000 years since the New Testament was composed, fully escaping the containment of the relatively scant lines devoted to her in the source material. In my novel, the figure often referred to the Virgin Mary is called Maryam, and she begins her story years before her controversial pregnancy, leaving me with fresh terrain to create a whole new world around one of the world’s most famous mothers not as a mother, but as a young girl with her own dreams and desires.

Below are eight beloved books from my shelves that have likewise completely reimagined and reexamined figures from the Bible, proving just how fertile the ground is beneath stories we’ve heard before and think we know.

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Seven Writers to Read After Helen Garner, recommended by Leah De Forest

Seven Writers to Read After Helen Garner, recommended by Leah De Forest

It’s a funny thing, teaching writing in a country I didn’t grow up in: I’ve shucked off some identity markers (few in Boston can place the mid-sized-town-outside-of-Melbourne in my accent, for example), and I’m keenly aware of the culture that raised me. Much of what I read as a child was British: The Magic Faraway Tree and The Tale of Peter Rabbit (the foliage in those illustrations was so green). At university I read some Australian classics and many more British and American books. I still own a cinder-brick sized copy of The American Tradition in Literature, though until relatively recently I’d managed to avoid Huck Finn and The Great Gatsby. Don’t judge.

You all missed out on some gems, though. In high school, I loved Ruth Park’s Playing Beatie Bow, about a Sydney teen who travels back in time; and at university and through adulthood, I read the work of writers like Elizabeth Jolley, Hazel Rowley, Christina Stead, and Helen Garner (now well known outside of Australia). 

These voices helped me develop my own. Now, to mark the publication of my debut novel, Any Kind of Known Tomorrow, I have the great good fortune to be telling you about seven contemporary Australian writers, women whose work is part of the tradition that raised me. Each in their way—in the language, the attitude of the characters, the shape of the landscape—these books feel like home.

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