Our favorite books of 2021!

Arshia and Emily rounded up our favorite books of 2021 (note: this list will not necessarily include books that were published in 2021, but books that we happened to read during the year).

Want to buy one or more of these books? Can we recommend Quail Ridge Books, So&So Books, Flyleaf Books, Epilogue Books, Golden Fig Books, or any indie bookstore in your area? Or your local library? And do let us know if you end up reading one of them; we’d love to hear what you think!

Anyway, without further ado, here is our list.

***

ARSHIA’S LIST:

Matrix by Lauren Groff

It was not the plot that drew me into this book about medieval nuns. (There is, if I may be so bold, very little on the plot side of things.) Rather, it was the luminous prose, the haunting atmosphere, the stunning details about life in the abbey. The Guardian notes: “From mystical visions that may or may not be divine, to the earthy business of abbey pigs, diseases and account books, Groff does it all with purpose and panache.” For me, the novel casts a strange, meditative spell: while reading it, I felt transported, calm, and absorbed in a way I hadn’t felt in a long time. Ron Charles, for the The Washington Post, concludes: “Although there are no clunky contemporary allusions in ‘Matrix,’ it seems clear that Groff is using this ancient story as a way of reflecting on how women might survive and thrive in a culture increasingly violent and irrational.”

Nightbitch by Rachel Yoder

As soon as I learned of the conceit of this novel—a woman thinks she’s turning into a dog!—I was sold. I imagined discontent, creeping psychological unease, domestic drama, and an exploration of the horrors and isolation of early motherhood, and this book delivered on all counts. (The ending, I was less enthused about, but no spoilers here. Drop by the Redbud space, and we’ll chat. ) This was actually one of several books that explores the physical and psychological horror of motherhood this year, complete with mild-but-absent-husband-constantly-going-on-work-trips including Julia Fine’s The Upstairs House and Helen Philips’ The Need, (and previously, The Harpy and The Shame), and among the most fun…if by fun, you, like me, mean a horrifying passage about the degradations of using a depressing lactation room at work. Is the protagonist turning into a dog, or are the pressures, loneliness, and stark defamiliarization of motherhood making her think she’s turning into a dog? Read on to find out…or at least to speculate!

little scratch by Rebecca Watson

 I must admit that I don’t read much structurally ambitious literature, and so I approached Rebecca’s Watson’s novel, which, as you flip through it, looks more like poetry, with generous line breaks, broken text, and white space, with some trepidation. “A novel, you say?” I thought, snootily, holding an imaginary monocle over one eye. But whatever this book is—poem, prose poem, novel—it is a compelling read. On the surface, the story follows a young woman as she gets up, prepares to go to work, is at work, and then hangs out with her boyfriend, but because the innovative structure allows for multiple thoughts to cascade across the page at once, we soon become familiar with her minute worries, fears, and her ongoing struggle not to harm herself. The story builds to a gut-punch end that will stick with you long after you put the book down.

Man v. Nature by Diane Cooke (short stories)

These stories in this collection are all surprising, and most feature a surrealist edge. Among the most memorable features what could be a throwaway writing prompt in less skillful hands—three men suspended in a raft—as their animosity, friendships, and secrets unfurl on the waters. As The Guardian notes, “This is the trick of Diane Cook’s stories: against high-concept dystopias that belong in the realm of SF or fairytale or parable – the last two houses standing in a world of rising sea levels; a man blessed and cursed with the power to impregnate any woman; a society that incinerates a certain number of “not-needed boys” – they amplify the emotional states and subconscious forces that drive everyday life, such as grief, shame, desire and need.”

The Lost Daughter by Elena Ferrante

Can I start by saying that I read this book before the Netflix movie came out (a movie which is excellent by the way)? Okay, now that that’s out of the way—this is another Ferrante stunner.  The book is about Leda Caruso, a professor and quasi-estranged mother to her two daughters, vacationing on a beach where she becomes obsessed with a beautiful young mother, the mother’s toddler-age daughter, and intriguingly, the daughter’s doll. What ensues has all the trademark complicated interiority, anger, yearning, and women grappling with their thwarted ambitions of Ferrante’s other works. As an added bonus, Arshia’s Insta handle (@ferranteshatpin) was inspired by this novel. If you know, you know.

Dear Life by Alice Munro

I’ve been recommended Alice Munro many times and have always resisted because…well, now that I’ve actually read her, I can’t remember why. Did I worry the stories would be to “quiet” or “boring” or that such a highly-lauded author must be suspect? Probably. But I was engaged by these stories. Like with Matrix, what I appreciated most about this book was how the it forced me to slow down and dive deep. Unlike most of the books in this list, I didn’t tear through this book in a frenzy, but I kept reading story after story because Munro’s depth of characterization and illumination of the human heart are unparalleled. As the blurb for the book notes, “In story after story in this brilliant new collection, Alice Munro pinpoints the moment a person is forever altered by a chance encounter, an action not taken, or a simple twist of fate.”

A Swim in the Pond in the Rain by George Saunders

I can’t say enough good things about this book. George Saunders is a genius—both of writing and of teaching craft. The book consists of seven stores by classic Russian authors, including Chekov, Tolstoy, and Gogol, followed by an in-depth analysis of the stories by Saunders. Now, perhaps this is rather un-literary of me, but I struggled through many of the classic stories, which are often a maddening combination of plodding, rambling, overly descriptive, and thinly characterized (at least, by modern standards) but I loved reading Saunders’ careful deconstruction of these stories. With advice about plot, structure, escalation, causality, and much, much more, after reading Saunders’ explanations, for a brief, glittering moment, I felt like I understood what makes a good short story tick, and that I could even write my own by putting his advice into practice. I even liked the classic stories I’d just read much better after reading Saunders’ thoughtful deconstructions. If you care about the inner workings of stories, run, don’t walk for this book.

Commute: An Illustrated Memoir of Female Shame by Erin Williams

Using the frame of a morning commute, Williams weaves in her observations about desire, appearances, social media, motherhood, dating, sexual violence, alcoholism, and social conditioning. With a bracing clarity, Williams elucidates what it means to be female in male-dominated and misogynistic world. At one point in the commute, she illustrates a prototypical business man-type seemingly glaring/staring at her “four times while [she] waits for the train.” She writes: “(It’s important that I keep you here, on this commute. I want you to understand what it’s like to be constantly reminded of what you are: desirable & visible or undesirable & invisible. With the first comes a constant & vague sense of threat with the second comes loneliness. This is what it means be a woman in public.)” I read this deeply engrossing memoir in a single sitting, and I predict you will too.

When I Hit You by Meena Kandasamy

This novel, about the protagonist’s abusive relationship with her staunchly Marxist husband, is not an easy read, but it’s an engaging and important one. The couple is comprised of modern Indian intellectualities, and I enjoyed getting insights into a culture and history that is not typically featured in Western works. As noted in Kirkus Reviews, “Kandasamy's brilliant and at times brutally funny narrator leads the reader through her emotional journey, from confident college student then published writer to battered wife. She details the unhappy affair that led her to take refuge in her husband's arms and then step by step reveals how he managed to isolate her from friends and family, taking control of a joint email account, managing all social activities.” A haunting read.

A Touch of Jen by Beth Morgan

This novel is, simply put, bonkers. What starts out as a slightly absurdist millennial novel about Instagram stalking turns into something else entirely (again, no spoilers—read it and find out!). But this is an unputdownable book, partly because it’s just so much fun: the protagonist’s—the weird couple of Remy and Alicia—between whose points of view the novel alternates, are awkward, obsessive, pathetic, and utterly strange. Both are practically in love with Jen, Remy’s beautiful former co-worker, and their obsession takes increasingly strange permutations, including role-playing as Jen and accompanying her and her friends on a beach trip, where they attempt to, but fail miserably at, acting normal. Carmen Maria Machado calls this book “bananas good” and I couldn’t agree more.

***

EMILY’S LIST:

Arshia and I had many books in common on our lists (I even had one on my 2021 list that appeared on Arshia’s 2020 list—The Shame, by Makenna Goodman), but since there are so many tomes out there, and I read 96 of them (I tried to get to 100. I didn’t. It’s fine. I’m not upset. It’s fine!!!!!1) I’ve vowed to highlight different ones! And here they are:

Housekeeping, by Marilynne Robinson

Like Arshia, I am sometimes nervous about literary realism from the 1980s and 1990s: I worry that it languishes in an uncanny valley where the characters and values aren’t old-fashioned enough so that I can view them through a historical lens, but not modern enough so that I can truly relate to them. Luckily, though, I got over myself this year and picked up Housekeeping, a book from the 1980s about strange sisters, a strange aunt, and a strange lake. In reflecting on Robinson’s prose and mode of expression, I thought about this LitHub essay about the diminishment of voice in contemporary literature. I’m not sure I agree with everything in said essay, but I certainly believe that Robinson is a “writer of voice,” and immersing myself in that voice—so unmillennial, unmoored from time and thus slightly archaic—was a much-needed mind-bath, if you will. Highly recommend.

Acts of Infidelity, by Lena Andersson

Lena Andersson’s oeuvre typically features a middle-aged, intellectual Scandinavian woman who finds herself debased by an obsession with an unworthy man. I first encountered Andersson’s work when Arshia handed me one of her other books on a beach 2.5 years ago. A typical Redbud beach read! Anyway, I eat this stuff up when it’s done well, and Andersson, a journalist and novelist, certainly does it well: her writing is precise, propulsive, darkly funny, and disturbing. From a craft perspective, she pulls off an impressive feat here: she concludes with an unexpected return to/twist on a small motif that repeated throughout the book. This is how you do endings, writers of quiet literary works!

Happy Hour, by Marlowe Granados

It might be said that “gal in New York City finds her way” books are overdone. In fact, I have often been the first to make this claim. However! I loved Granados’ Happy Hour because the freshness of the heroine managed to transcend the well-worn tropes of this genre. One of the reviews (I can’t remember which one!) pointed out that Granados’ main character, Isa, has the charms and sensibilities of a Golden Age Hollywood heroine, and I couldn’t agree more. She’s observant, opinionated, and well-aware of the pros and cons of using her wiles to have fun in summertime New York. She has a traumatic past, but Granados doesn’t fall into the “trauma plot” trap—in fact, Isa’s past is far from the most interesting thing about her. To me, this book is an example of how a sharp, memorable character can carry an entire work.

The Need, by Helen Phillips

I read this book in one gulp on a plane. Maybe it was just the existential terror of hurtling through the sky in a metal tube, but this book was the first in a long time to legitimately frighten me. In the genre of “bourgeois woman grapples with the demands of motherhood” (a genre of which I am quite the fan), this book tells the story of Molly, an overworked, harried, anxious woman with two children who finds a mysterious stranger in her house one night—and the book hurtles off from there, in an unexpected and terrifying direction.

Craft in the Real World, by Matthew Salesses

Here’s my obligatory craft book recommendation of the year. One of my friends pointed out that it’s rare to see so much buzz around a craft book—and I think the buzz here stems from the fact that Salesses makes so many trenchant and salient points about the unspoken flaws in the craft advice and workshop models that are taught at MFA programs and, ahem, adult education creative writing schools. I’ve spoken about the points in this book in my classes at length, but one of the most important ones I took away is the concept of readership. There is no such thing as a Universal Story with a Universal Audience (this is code for “people from the power structure writing for other people from the power structure”) so when you are writing, you must ask yourself: who is this for? Salesses also includes some wonderful revision materials and new ways of thinking about craft. I highly recommend this book for both teachers of and practitioners of the written word.

The Outline trilogy, by Rachel Cusk

Yes, I did it. I read the Outline trilogy. These three plotless books follow a wandering middle-aged woman (are you sensing a theme here?) who has a series of encounters at home in England and abroad in Europe. I am fascinated by books that propel the reader through engines other than, well, propulsive plot, and while reading this trilogy I kept thinking about a line from a 2017 New Yorker article about Cusk (I knew I kept all those stacks of old New Yorkers around for a reason!): Cusk creates tension not through incidence but through specificity of observation, as in, we keep reading because we are so enthralled by the perfection of each anecdote and want to see what the narrator/Cusk will encounter and dissect for us next.

Girlhood, by Melissa Febos

This was my first foray into Febos’ writing, but it certainly won’t be the last. In this collection of essays, Febos uses her own childhood and adolescence as lenses through which to probe the stories that girls and women are told about ourselves, and how those stories shape us. Oh, what I wouldn’t have given for a book that took this topic seriously during mine own girlhood! My favorite essay in here is “The Mirror Test,” which discerning Intro to Memoir students will note I now teach in that course. It’s a wise and ambitious essay that combines linguistic history, scientific history, personal experience, and cultural criticism to unpack the concept of slut-shaming. I see that Febos has a craft book about writing memoir coming out in March, and I couldn’t be more excited.

A Separation, by Katie Kitamura

Kitamura got a lot of press this year for Intimacies, which was longlisted for the National Book Award. I read Intimacies and also enjoyed it—like Cusk, Kitamura creates suspense through precision of language and observation. But! I liked Kitamura’s earlier book, A Separation, better. This slim novel tells the story of a woman who’s recently separated from her husband, and is subsequently called to Greece to help investigate his disappearance. For me, this book derived suspense from both its precise and beautiful prose and from its plot (the protagonist bearing witness to and analyzing the relationship between hotel workers Kostas and Maria had strong Ferrante vibes for me). And books that contain both satisfying writing and satisfying plots are * whispers * rare in my opinion. So when you find one, you hold on and don’t let go!

Agatha of Little Neon, by Claire Luchette

I didn’t love everything about this book—I was worried that it would stray too far into a territory that I hate, where quirky characters with quirky names do quirky things, and at a few points, it toed that line—but I really loved parts of it, and I’m including it for one big reason: originality. In a reading world crowded with disaffected millennial women wandering around cities (again, a mode of which I am very fond) I truly enjoyed and admired Luchette’s painting of a down-and-out convent and a group of contemporary nuns in opioid- and poverty-ridden Rhode Island. Also, lapsed-Catholics such as myself will find themselves quite interested in this portrayal of one woman’s grappling with the Catholic Church’s viewpoint on LGBTQ issues and their mishandling of the priest abuse scandal.

Mrs. Caliban, by Rachel Ingalls

I read about this novella in the New Yorker a few years ago; when I saw it on the shelf at So & So Books this summer, my brain fired up in memory and I impulse-bought it. I was not disappointed. This book is an example of 1980s bananas: written in a flat affect, it tells the story of a lonely housewife who falls in love with an escaped anthropomorphized sea monster. You know how it is! This book made me feel, and it also made me cheer at its sheer audacity.

**

Arshia: What’s the common thread in this seemingly random assortment of books? I’m not sure if there is one. Some I raced through because they were so fun, bizarre, or plot-driven; others, I pushed myself through, but felt rewarded for my efforts. There were many familiar themes in this assortment: obsession, loneliness, and a feminist lens. I suppose this year taught me that there can be many different types of enjoyment, that can come in many different forms: the graphic novel, the craft book, literary-cum-fantastical; I enjoyed both the moments of mediative peace and the moments of bizarre absurdity these books introduced into my reading landscape and psyche. And I’m excited—as I hope you are with the books you’ve read—to see how these books have shifted, added, enriched, and altered my own perceptions and writing. Dare I say, I’m already seeing the effects: I recently wrote an experimental flash piece that could be described as a prose poem from the perspective of a lonely crab who is in love with a diver, and had a blast. So as 2022 gets underway, keep reading, keep writing, and remember to have fun!

Emily: I want to emphasize one thread in Arshia’s explication of our lists—the fun and bizarre. Although I admired many quieter books this year (you’ll see them on my list!) I found a special place in my heart for the weird and wild (some of the overlap between my list and Arshia’s included Nightbitch and A Touch of Jen). I hate books that are quirky for quirky’s sake or random for random’s sake—but boy do I love and admire books that go all in on weirdness or bananas-ness and justify it aesthetically or thematically. I’m already looking forward to a couple books coming out in 2022 that I hope will fit this bill (Ottessa Moshfegh’s Lapvona! Claire Kohda’s Women, Eating!) and I’m giving myself permission, and you too, to not be afraid of boldness, weirdness, and audacity here in the year of our lord 2022.

What were your some of your favorite reads of 2021? What are you most looking forward to reading in the new year? Let us know in the comments!