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.
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).
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)