9 Books by Women I Loved This Year

I like to think I have eclectic taste in just about everything. An open mind, yes? But to be perfectly candid, for all the intellectual stimulation, self-congratulating and idiotic head bobbing I derive from, say, arthouse films, indie bands and feminist thought, I’d be lying if I said my desert island kit wouldn’t consist of chick-lit (controversial term to be reclaimed?), Little Mix and the complete filmography of Anne Hathaway. Below, exclusive footage of me trying not to apologise for this particular quirk.

That was my convoluted introduction to my romance/beach read-heavy list of favourite books by women I read in 2018. Congratulations on making it this far into my word vomit! These are books that I read this year, not that were released this year necessarily. I read other books by women that I thoroughly enjoyed, I obviously read books by men, and also books that I hated, but these are a sample of the ones that will stick with me — all five stars on Goodreads, and all female authors for reasons.

The Royal We by Heather Cocks and Jessica Morgan

Psychoanalyse me: as a child, I only had the non-princess Disney movies at home — Toy Story, The 101 Dalmatians, The Aristocats, Dumbo, Pinocchio. Despite Anastasia (ugh, GREAT film), this seems to have left a gaping hole in my life where fairytales are concerned. With that in mind, this fictitious take on Will and Kate (with Kate an American named Bex) is truly well written, layered and bloody exhilarating. I have read it twice and am dangerously close to reading it again.

The Lonely City by Olivia Laing

Pretty sure I judged this book by its cover. I picked it up in Foyles on Charing Cross Road not knowing anything about it, then tried to force my mother to read it (she didn’t) and gave it to my cousin for her birthday (I know, I’ll make a wonderful grandma — also, my cousin def did not read it). It’s about loneliness and identity through the lens of art, and more specifically the four 20th century American artists David Wojnarowicz, Edward Hopper, Andy Warhol and Henry Darger. It’s part memoir, part art history, and it is absolutely brilliant.

After You by Jojo Moyes

The sequel to Me Before You and prequel to Still Me, After You is striking in its willingness to explore difficult subjects (abuse, assault, blackmail, depression, death — yep) within commercial literature. I read all three books in the series this year, but thought this one deserved highlighting for the risks it takes. I have quite a lot of admiration for mainstream culture that understands its platform for the influence it can have (see: Black Panther, but not Taylor Swift). But also, like, read it for the cute boy, obvs.

Playing With Matches by Hannah Orenstein

This is the book that freed me of a debilitating block with my own book, which I resumed writing as I was reading Playing With Matches. This by fellow Her Campus alum Hannah Orenstein is unapologetic easy reading, wonderfully done, great fun and endlessly relatable for city-dwelling young women.

Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine by Gail Honeyman

This one is a real standout, another one I’ve read twice. It got quite a bit of attention as Honeyman’s first novel, and with good reason. It explores loneliness, trauma and kindness through the eyes of its eponymous protagonist, a 30-year-old Glaswegian in a dead-end job who seeks shelter from her painful past through rigid routine. Perfect for a good cry.

Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë

Nothing beats Jane Eyre, but Wuthering Heights is super weird and super awesome and that’s all I have to say about that. No, actually, one more thing: Emily died like pretty soon after she wrote this (her only novel) and that’s like she expunged herself of her entire essence of being in writing it and that is pretty fucking cool (I know they didn’t have, like, medicine, but let me have this one OKAY).

The Master's Tools Will Never Dismantle the Master's House by Audre Lorde

A short collection of essays by the self-described “Black lesbian feminist mother warrior poet” Audre Lorde and a pillar of feminism and activism. Uncomfortable and necessary, but also jubilant and mighty. You won’t like it if you’re white (that is the point).

Winter by Ali Smith

Ali Smith is a goddamn goddess. How in heaven’s name she does what she does with words is perfectly beyond me. I read three of her books this year, but it was Winter that well and truly fucked me up. It’s particular, though, you have to like lyricism and not be overly bothered with narrative or linearity.

Lady Sings the Blues by Billie Holiday

I read this because Olivia Laing used it in The Lonely City to illustrate a point about loneliness. It is the autobiography of Billie Holiday, a powerhouse of a woman, and funny and shrewd, too, who went through hell and back over and over and over for crimes: black, woman, poor. The systemic hardships she endured have barely evolved since the book was published in 1956 and that is some fucked up horseshit. So read it, maybe? IDK I’m not your mum.

Take-home reading assignment: It’s time we gave chick-lit the respect it deserves by Caroline O’Donoghue for The Pool (brilliant website by women for women by the way — go subscribe)

What Writing Does for Me

I have been thinking about writing. Unsurprising, considering writing has governed my days for most of this year, also, for most of my career, uh also, for most of my life. Writing here is a special kind of liberation, because it is my own website and also because it is non-lucrative, but also because my readers are 3-4 close friends with whom I chose to be friends for their lovable way of never telling me in so many words that my writing sucks dick (sorry Mum, pardon my French, etc.). The film reviews have been especially instrumental in making sense of my identity, which sounds dramatic but which I stand by.

Writing a book, however, is an absolute mindfuck. Of course, by virtue of being 23, this year has brought with it its fair share of emotional upheaval and subsequent growth, but in parallel, the writing — a comparatively substantial achievement — has done things for me that I never would have suspected. It has shaped me far more than I have shaped it. It has shown me that I have a voice and it has removed my fear of perception (for the time being at least, watch me shit myself when people who don’t have a vested interest in my wellbeing get their hands on it). Although it is something I have produced, it has become quite separate from me, like a child who, though it shares your genes, becomes its own person and quite foreign to you. The relationship between the writer and the work seems to me a constantly evolving relationship, an exchange, a particularly cruel and drawn-out game of hide-and-seek.

Writing as a creative outlet is obviously akin to therapy and healing, as I’m sure is painting to the painter and theorising to the scientist. Creation as a deliberate act of expression is a refuge from, and a solution to, pain and anger and helplessness, but also it is the violent expulsion of all that does not serve us and the reimagining of that refuse into something resembling art. And art is powerful, because it brings about change. This also means art is a grave responsibility, and that responsibility holds true regardless of how many people are in the audience. If only one person ever reads my book, I have a responsibility to that person — to not patronise her, to not spite or cheat her, to show her a world which I believe is fair. That I am writing light entertainment — a beach read, chick lit, what have you — does not absolve me of that responsibility (ask Jojo Moyes or Marian Keyes).

“For women, then, poetry is not a luxury. It is a vital necessity of our existence.”

— Audre Lorde

But the absolute joy and utter revelation of writing for me has transcended the writing itself. I told my friend the other day I think writing has made me whole. I mean, that’s pretty fucking powerful, no? It has made me aware of all the surreptitious ways I was compromising who I am to make others feel comfortable, but perhaps more importantly to shelter myself under the superficial comfort of holding back and fitting in. I feel, and it is always possible the feeling will waver, that I can love who I am and live that truth, and in that way I can better serve others. Writing did that for me.

My 9 Immutable Rules for Writing, or How Not to Be a Pretentious F*ck

Reading for pleasure as an undergrad is a hard feat, and I didn’t do it. I got out of the habit. I forgot what I liked and didn’t. When I first decided to write a novel some 9 months after graduation, I quickly realised that I hadn’t read nearly enough in recent years, which meant that I had no benchmark for what my book should and shouldn’t be. On a mission and with time to spare, I armed myself with all sorts of books — fiction, nonfiction, classics, new releases, random picks from one of those “take a book, give a book” libraries — and began the reeducation process.

Because I like to keep an open mind, I tried reading a Jonathan Franzen novel. Before you feel too sorry for me, I gave the fuck up after 100 pages (still, I know). “The greatest living American novelist” writes women like he’s never met a woman, let alone listened to one, and his prose is the finest example of intellectual wanking I’ve ever set my eyes on. And, look, he would probably have something to say if he got some fucking perspective. There are some ideas in here — too bad they’re filtered through the lens of pedantry.

Sorry, what am I ranting about? Ah, yes. This shit. I’ve written 99 double-spaced pages of a novel and also I am angry, so I have decided to procrastinate further on my novel-writing and share some insights I’ve gained since early August. Behold my immutable rules for writing, an antidote to Jonathan Wank-zen’s immutable rules for how to be a white man.

1. For fuck’s sake, don’t listen to me

You think me and my 25,000-word first draft know what the fuck we’re talking about? Multi-award-winning authors don’t know what the fuck they’re talking about. Good luck.

2. There are no rules for writing

None. See Jack Kerouac, James Frey, James Joyce. Beware, though, of breaking rules if you’re a woman, POC, LGBTQ+, disabled or otherwise marginalised author. You will get skewered (it will be worth it though, just ask Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez).

3. Read books by women, POC, LGBTQ+, disabled and otherwise marginalised authors

I haven’t read enough, and neither have you. Put some Audre Lorde, Roxane Gay, Janet Mock, Sandra Cisneros, and — yes, I’m gonna fucking say it — Yoko Ono on your reading list. Privilege people who have been historically and systematically silenced.

4. Don’t be a pretentious C-word

Yes, this is where I draw the line on foulmouthery. It seems to me that a vast majority of writers have pretentious C-word tendencies — these must be fought at all costs. I am so pretentious, you guys. I think I’m soooo clever, and also I will correct your grammar. I’m working on it. On many levels, correcting grammar is classist and ableist. Also, Franzen seems to think that accessible information is somehow a bad thing? Make your writing accessible. Donate copies to libraries and schools and charities. For fuck’s sake.

5. Re: being a pretentious C-word, no genre is worthier than another, Steve

Steve is an archetype, not a human being. Please don’t sue, Steves of the world. If you turn your nose up at women’s lit, YA fiction, fantasy or even self-help (guilty), congratulations! You’re a dick. See also this tweet.

6. Don’t give up

Some days, you will feel like you are the worst writer on the face of the planet. Some days, it will even be true. But you can’t make something better if it doesn’t exist, so just keep writing and you can worry about how good it is later. That way, you get bragging rights for finishing a book, any book, even if it’s awful.

7. If you feel like you have something to say, you probably do

So say it. Just don’t be a Franzen, and do your best to check your privilege.

8. Your writing is something you produce, not the sum of everything you have ever and will ever stand for

The current one is my second attempt at book-writing. I gave up on the first because I felt like I had something to say and it just wasn’t translating on the page. Cut yourself some slack. You are more than your productivity, and your work — though an important part of you — is not the sum of who you are.

9. Create a support system

Writing is lonely as hell. You will need to surround yourself with friends, family, writing groups, writing forums, books, podcasts and whatever the hell else you can think of to get through it. You will get through it. You’re amazing. Bye.