the written world: of heroes

as anyone who follows me on twitter knows, i have a near-obsession with Madeline Miller’s Circe and Laini Taylor’s Strange the Dreamer books. there are a thousand things that make them so effing great: the echoes of ancient stories in Circe, the voices of women rising like oil to the surface; the effortless storyteller’s prose in Strange the Dreamer, the rhythm of repetition (witch-light, spring-not-summer blue). but that’s not why my next tattoo is going to be the moth from the cover of Strange; that’s not why i pester my mom about Circe every time we talk.

i think it’s what these books have to say about heroism. fantasy and myth are genres saturated with heroes—your knights and warriors, your chosen ones and space wizards, your kings once and future. and i have immense affection for them! truly! i love to see a great evil thrown down by a greater good; i especially love it when that greater good isn’t white and straight and dude-ly, and i look forward to years and years and years of watching the hero’s journey reworked and reclaimed by marginalized voices.

but what Taylor and Miller are doing is a different, perhaps rarer kind of reclamation: they question the concept of heroism itself. they look at these (masculine, typically western) stories of righteous vengeance and glorious war, these grand conquests and prophesied duels that so often culminate in bodies strewn across a battlefield and a single bloody hand around the hilt of a sword—and reject them entirely.

Strange the Dreamer stars Lazlo Strange, a young librarian who journeys to find a lost city for no other reason than the wistful wonder in his heart. what he finds is a mournful, grief-stricken landscape, a people who have thrown off their oppressors but still bear the scars: missing children, stolen memories and forgotten horrors, constant nightmares—the very real traumas of conquest and rebellion. the two books in the series are essentially a slow and painful reckoning with that trauma.

it’s almost like an epic fantasy set after a different, traditional epic fantasy series ended. the true villains are already dead and gone, the conquerors vanquished. eril-fane, who would have been the classic protagonist of that other-series, is now thirty-something and haunted by his own great deeds. there is no problem that can be solved by the drawing of swords of training montages. the climax is a series of empathies, of things-forgiven, of open hands extended. the hero they need turns out not to be a man with a sword, but Lazlo Strange: a wistful librarian, and a kind man.

Circe is the story of one of the numberless nymphs of Greek mythology, clinging to the ugly fringes of her own divinity. exiled for witchcraft, she makes a life for herself among the woods and beasts of her island. circe rubs up against a dozen other myths—odysseus, obviously, but also the minotaur, icharus, prometheus, scylla—and sees not just their heroic climaxes, but their bitter afterwards. she comes to see the careless cruelty of the gods, the violent delights of men, and to rejects them. the finale of the book—which i won’t spoil but desperately, constantly want to talk about—is simply a man refusing an offer. it’s an un-choice, a standing-down from the demands of mythological narrative. it’s a testament to the brilliance of the book that a man denying his destiny is made into an act of bravery and wisdom; an act of heroism.

i don’t think there’s a lesson here, other than admiration. other than a hope that i can look harder at my own narratives, and question the stories i both tell and am told. i hope i can find heroism in the humble and kind, can look more closely at destinies and afterwards. i hope my sons grow up with different kinds of heroes.

other reading

  • this essay by jeannette ng in uncanny magazine is brilliant. it’s about showing vs. telling in fiction and the way that hard-and-fast rule can exclude marginalized voices from the mainstream. and the simple joy of replicating culture and documenting idiosyncrasies—not because a writer has to, but because they want to. because “diversity deserves documentation.”

  • i have no lofty or valid defense for this, but i recently fell into a small adam driver obsession?? i don’t know why! his face is like a cro-magnon hipster!! the dimensions of his body are more baffling than attractive! and yet i read every word of this new yorker profile and loved it.

  • i’m reading The Secret Commonwealth and having a lot of feelings about it. please feel free to talk to me in literally any context about those feelings.

  • the rise of skywalker marketing machine is very strong, and it got me with this one. i think when alan tudyk showed up is when i knew i was about to run downstairs and force my husband to watch it.


my book has been out for three months (this is apparently simple math and not sorcery). it’s gone into its fourth printing in the US and third in the UK. there are a lot of small and not-small things which i can’t tell anyone yet. i literally could not be happier about the people who have found and read and shared and loved The Ten Thousand Doors. someone got a tattoo!!!!!! someone commissioned art!!!!!

it’s still on sale for $2.99 in every digital format, in the US and UK, just fyi.

oh, and i’ll be in conversation with Erin Morgenstern (she says casually) at Joseph-Beth Booksellers in Lexington KY on Saturday, January 11th @ 6:00PM.

the written world: of deadlines

i’m not writing a real newsletter this month because i have a deadline in ten days and i don’t have the spare word-meat. my fields are barren, my pastures empty, my cellars plundered. i’m rewriting my entire second novel down to the last em dash and overwrought simile, and there’s nothing left in my skull but laundry lint and tumbleweeds and, for some reason, the lyrics to the entire animated Robin Hood soundtrack.

i have no writerly insights to offer, except maybe lesson #1: all writing is rewriting, and all rewriting is hell. until it isn’t, i guess.

it feels like an orchestra warming up. like a first draft is this teeth-jarring jangle of sound that will never be right. and then slowly the second violins get their shit together and the cellos stop effing around and the noise becomes a note, a resonance in the air, a voice saying yesssssss in your ear. and honestly all that jangling horrorshow is worth it just for the sound of that yessssssssss.


hey The Ten Thousand Doors of January is a Goodreads Choice Award nominee! and it made it to the final round in the debut category! and my name is right there on al gore’s internet beside Coates and Holmes and McQuiston and it feels profoundly unlikely! go vote, if you are so moved!

it’s also the season of Nominating Things, so i note casually that The Ten Thousand Doors of January is a 2019 fantasy novel written for adults, and that i had one (1) short story published this year: “Do Not Look Back, My Lion,” in Beneath Ceaseless Skies, a meditation on motherhood, matriarchy, and empire.

oh, and also i’ll be talking with Gwenda Bond (author of the first official Stranger Things novel!!!!!) at Joseph-Beth Books in Lexington, KY on Dec. 3rd @ 6:30PM. if you happen to want a signed or personalized copy of my book, you can order one through them.

other reading

the written world: dragons, tacos, and the good place

like most right-thinking people on the planet, i forking love The Good Place. (for the uninitiated, it’s a 20-minute sitcom about heaven, hell, moral philosophy, and the redemptive power of human connection). (note that, if you haven’t seen the first season of The Good Place, this newsletter contains spoilers).

i also love Adam Rubin’s best-selling picture books: Dragons Love Tacos, Dragons Love Tacos 2, and High Five.

here’s what they have in common: they both take a good idea, and then take it further. i don’t have the lit-crit vocabulary to say it better than that. it’s the thing where a story begins with a charming or clever premise, and then breezes past it to the next good idea, and the one after that. 

in Dragons Love Tacos the concept is that--spoiler--dragons love tacos. but it instantly introduces the idea that dragons also hate spicy salsa, because it makes them breathe fire, and then the scenario that you (it’s written in second person, which i adore in picture books) are throwing a taco party for your dragon friends, except you mis-read the salsa jar and the dragons burn down your house and then help you rebuild it because they feel bad. you see how the story just goes boom-boom-boom, no brakes?

Dragons Love Tacos 2 keeps it rolling. it opens with a crisis: there’s a national taco shortage! oh no! which prompts my favorite line of either book, exemplifying the whatever-you-call-it i’m trying to talk about: I know we aren’t supposed to mess with the time machine in the garage, but it sure seems like now’s the time.

what a goddang curveball. what fun. 

The Good Place is nothing but curveballs. the first couple episodes are based on the charming-but-not-necessarily-groundbreaking premise that someone not-great has ended up in heaven. it’s a little preachy and moralizing, because you can see how it’s going to play out: trashbag human slowly learns to be good and earns her place in heaven, how sweet. 

except it doesn’t play out that way at all. except (actual, major spoiler alert) it turns out they’re actually in hell being tricked into tormenting one another, endlessly striving to win a game they’ve already lost. by season 2 it’s become an escape room, as the humans try to break free; by season three it’s a quest, because they’ve become convinced that the entire good place/bad place system is unjust. literally every episode ends with the audience saying what!

so the lesson here is something like: don’t be afraid to take your story further.

i think it takes guts (all writing takes guts, which is a bummer because i’m a coward). i think it takes a kind of narrative fearlessness, a cheekiness, a faith in readers or viewers to follow you wherever the fuck you go. i think probably it results in a lot of dead-ends. but i also think it’s worth it.

other reading

  • my husband read this completely batshit article on the author of the mega-bestseller, Where the Crawdads Sing, and honestly i can’t stop thinking about it. it’s like a fictional murder mystery wrapped in a real-life thriller. it’s meta and weird and i don’t understand how publishing twitter isn’t obsessed with it.

  • if you find yourself stressed and unhappy, weighed down by the endless cruelty and buffoonery of the white house, i recommend middle-grade graphic novels. it’s like stumbling into an alternate planet made of radical empathy and charming aesthetics. i especially recommend Nguyen’s Pilu of the Woods, which is about grief and botany, Telgemeier’s Smile, which is about dentistry and middle school, and Jen Wang’s new Stargazing, about K-pop and talent shows and friendship (her debut, The Prince and the Dressmaker, is also a favorite in our house).

  • and i just finished Circe by Madeline Miller. oh my gods and goddesses, my nymphs and naiads. someone go back to my third-grade self--the one who kept hamilton’s Mythology in her desk, the one who named her parakeets zeus and hera--and tell her one day she’ll see all those stories come to life. it’s phenomenal: witchy and angry, human and epic, beautiful and hideous. it’s my new obsession.


the first month of having a book out in the world has been wild and distracting and nerve-wracking and great. some very cool things have happened, like a rave review at NPR, like my hometown B&N selling out of my book on the first day, like my publisher using Google Lens and augmented reality to make my book cover move, like seeing my book on the LA Times Best Seller list a month after publication. i’m exhausted and grateful and very lucky.

  • if you happened to be looking for a signed edition of The Ten Thousand Doors of January, Carmichael’s Books in Louisville should be back in stock this week!

  • i’ll be at the Kentucky Book Fair in Lexington on Nov. 16, signing books along with very excellent people like Gwenda Hecking Bond!!

  • on january 11th at 6PM, i’ll be at Joseph-Beth Booksellers in Lexington, talking with Erin Motherhecking Morgenstern!! (note that this event is ticketed, because Erin)

the written world: on starless seas


the news section is moved to the top because my book (my book, the book that I wrote, my book) is out today. that feels momentous. or at least it feels like it ought to feel momentous; all i actually feel right now is a sort of anxious distraction, a flighty certainty that i’ve left the stove on or the laundry on the line with rain in the forecast. as if i half-started something and lost control of it; as if i’m likely to be punished for the hubris of starting at all.

but still: it’s out. (probably; i scheduled this post for 12:01AM because i’m very chill, so it might not be the 10th where you are. also it doesn’t come out til the 12th in the UK). if you live near a physical, actual bookstore, it might be there! it was an Indie Next September pick; a Barnes and Noble Discover pick and a B&N Best of the Month pick; and an Amazon best-of-the-month editor’s pick. you can read the first chapter here or find it on goodreads. or purchase it at indiebound, amazon, barnes & noble, or request it from your local library! there’s also an extremely lovely audiobook, if you’re an audiobook person, read by--get this--January LaVoy, which got an earphones award from audiofile. 

also, i’m doing an AMA on reddit’s r/books at 10:00am today; a launch event at carmichael’s books on frankfort ave. in louisville, ky, on september 12th at 7:00PM; and i’m reading and signing at our dearly beloved local library in berea, ky on september 14th, 4:00-6:00 PM.

come say hi?

of starless seas

the absolute number one coolest thing about being an Author is that, sometimes, if i’m very good and cross my fingers, i get to read excellent books slightly before the rest of you. this combines my two greatest passions: reading good books and knowing things slightly before other people.

this summer i got an advanced copy of erin morgenstern’s The Starless Sea. “morgenstern? as in The Night Circus? the book that swept us away eight years ago and left us with an ache in our hearts, a yearning for what never was?” yes, my darlings, my dreamers. that morgenstern.

The Starless Sea is better. or maybe better is too straightforward a word: it’s stranger, deeper, older. The Night Circus was alice catching sight of the white rabbit; The Starless Sea is alice tumbling headfirst down the rabbithole. (it is also specifically calibrated to tug at my particular heartstrings. it begins with a child who finds a magic door, but doesn’t walk through it; there are separated lovers and very significant books that don’t belong on library shelves; there is a sense of wonder and want, of loss and ache. erin and i have joked on twitter that the venn diagram of our books is very nearly a circle.)

i don’t know if it’s possible to extract writing lessons from something so wondrous and unique, but if i did, they would be something like:

lesson #1: the world is enough

on the sixth page of The Starless Sea, we are told:

“Far beneath the surface of the earth, hidden from the sun and the moon, upon the shores of the Starless Sea, there is a labyrinthine collection of tunnels and rooms filled with stories. Stories written in books and sealed in jars and painted on walls. Odes inscribed onto skin and pressed into rose petals...It is a sanctuary for storytellers and storykeepers and storylovers. They eat and sleep and dream surrounded by chronicles and histories and myths. Some stay for hours or days before returning to the world above but others remain for weeks or years, living in shared or private chambers, and spending their hours reading or studying or writing, discussing and creating with their fellow residents or working in solitude.”

and that’s enough. that’s all it took: we are hooked as effectively as fish on her line. we are convinced there is secret world of storytellers waiting for us, and that’s enough to pull us through four prologues and a half-dozen characters and stories. it occurred to me that many of my favorite books pull a similar trick: they rely on my longing for a place that doesn’t exist, that i desperately want to exist. i wanted to attend hogwarts and wander through the black and white tents of Le Cirque des Rêves and walk the hills of Gont with Ogion. i wanted to fall through the wardrobe or climb the rooftops of Lyra’s oxford.

in my own writing, i’ve found it helps if i give myself a place i want to be, to build myself a haven or a heaven. it’s only fiction, but sometimes--it’s enough.

lesson #2: tell all the truth but tell it slant

but why is that underground world so alluring? why does it pull at my soulstuff? because, i suspect, it’s a fanciful metaphor for finding a community, a home, a place-you-belong. because i know how it feels to wander for years and finally find a place--or a person, actually--that feels like home. and isn’t that the secret superpower of good fantasy, that it can take metaphors literally? that it can tell the truth slantwise, by starlight, and therefore let as look straight at it? like dickinson says: “the truth must dazzle gradually/ or every man be blind--

the movie About Time--a perfect film unfairly maligned by rotten tomatoes--uses time travel to talk about the mundane miracle of time passing, the things we lose and gain as we time-travel slowly into the future, at the rate of one hour per hour. more darkly, colson whitehead’s Underground Railroad made the underground railroad into a literal tunnel system. he took the entire history of american slavery and reconstruction and condensed it into an odyssey-like epic that is totally fabricated and entirely true.

so like: instead of trying really hard to make stuff up, maybe we should try really hard to tell the truth.

lesson #3: lessons are bullshit

this book has four prologues. it has alternating perspectives and dropped threads and books within books within fairy tales. it starts “slow.” the magic is murky, unexplained, ineffable. the main character has no clearly established Stakes or Motives, but is merely an endearing grad student who likes games and narratives, who i would personally die for.

what i’m saying is--The Starless Sea doesn’t follow the rules of writing, because there are no rules of writing, because writing is just chaos and hope and breadcrumb trails in dark woods. sometimes i think i get too bound up by hero’s journeys or beat-sheets or prescriptive twitter threads and forget to just follow the damn story. to walk willingly into the dark woods and know the crows are eating the crumbs i’ve left behind. to get well and truly lost, because getting lost is the only way you find gingerbread houses and wolves and witches.

other reading

some other things you might like, because i do:

  • NPR’s Embedded series has five episodes on mitch mcconnell, the thesis of which is: fuck that guy. (and truly, fuck that guy). it’s good reporting and storytelling, a lot of kentucky history, and an interesting insight into the strategies of a real-life supervillain.

  • The Good Place podcast has an entire episode talking to Lin Manuel Miranda, and there has never been a sentence more specifically designed to soothe my troubled soul. the amazon is on fire and hurricanes are getting worse and there’s been another shooting and we’re deporting sick children and torturing families, but--Lin Manuel Miranda is on the Good Place podcast.

  • i’m re-reading patricia briggs’ Dragon Bones books for the eight millionth time. i couldn’t tell you why i love them so much, except that they’re about a ragtag team of misfits on a mission to save the kingdom and everybody has a secret identity/backstory revealed at the most shocking moment and also there are dragons.


did you know you’re allowed to reply to my newsletters, if you like? as if it were just an overlong email i sent specifically to you? because they are, and you can! i like talking to people about books, and i like long emails, and i might not be able to respond to every message but i love them very much.

the written world: of murderbots and time wars

in the last month i’ve read martha wells’ Murderbot Diaries (consisting of four separate novellas: All Systems Red, Artificial Condition, Rogue Protocol, Exit Strategy) and amal el-mohtar and max gladstone’s standalone novella, This Is How You Lose the Time War, which is a long-winded way of saying i’ve been terribly spoiled with effortlessly good writing and faultless pacing. i’ve been staying up too late, smiling into the gentle glow of my kindle, thinking how did they do that?

they’re extremely different stories: Murderbot is the harrassed, sarcastic inner-narration of a security robot gone rogue, hitch-hiking through the galaxy in search of purpose and belonging; Time War is a series of love letters between two time-traveling agents on opposite sides of an endless war. Wells is sharp and practical, often funny (“the way murderbots fight is we throw ourselves at the target and try to kill the shit out of it”); El-Mohtar and Gladstone are poetic, mystic, indulgent, full of urgency and longing (“have you ever had a hunger that whetted itself on what you fed it, sharpened so keen and bright that it might split you open, break a new thing out?”).

but both stories work, wonderfully. both of them make me want to shake them gently by the shoulders, listening for the rattle of prose and sentence structure, the machinery that makes them tick. or maybe i want to brew tea with their pages and divine lessons from their dregs.

if i did, i might come out with something like:

lesson #1: novellas require tunnel-vision and self-control.

reading novellas on a kindle is disorienting. you come to the end of them, bam, at roughly the time you’re expecting to sink into the murky middle of a novel. they’re short. sometimes they feel rushed, like novels stuffed into too-small suits; sometimes they feel slow, like short stories wearing grown-up clothes.

but these were all goldilocks books (just right). they had character arcs. they had beginnings and middles and ends. they had loose ends but not too many. they were all under 40,000 words. how?

tunnel vision, i figure. they cared about one thing—Murderbot finding its place, Red and Blue falling in love—and told everything else to fuck off. we don’t know the history of the far-future corporation that built Murderbot; we don’t know how and when the time war started. we just know how Blue feels when she reads Red’s words in her tea, and that Murderbot prefers the made-up people in her space-operas to the real thing. so if you’re going to write a novella, maybe decide what the thing is you care about, and care about it as hard as you can.

lesson #2: you don’t need an idea that’s never been done before. you need an idea that’s never been done before by you.

artificially intelligent fighting machines who eventually attain independence and personhood is not a new thing in sci-fi. neither are time-traveling agents fighting for alternate futures. but Murderbot and Time War both felt fresh, exciting, smart, unlike-other-books, uniquely and precisely themselves. (isn’t that the real trick of great books? that they know exactly what they’re about, down to the last semi-colon).

i think a lot of writers, and maybe especially genre writers, live in terror of unoriginality. you’re supposed to write new planets and unseen horizons! invent gods and languages! go boldly where no book has gone before!!

but like—what a weird measuring stick that is. as if readers carry around checklists of tropes and deduct points for every familiar plot or character (when, in reality, they often do the opposite). god knows i’m not advocating for stasis in subject or form, but surely mere newness isn’t the real measure of a book’s worth. these authors brought something new to some fairly un-new ideas—they brought their specific passions and perspectives, their curiosities and sympathies, their queerness and immigrant-ness and subversiveness. they brought themselves.

so maybe, i don’t know, write your vampire romance. your young-girl-becomes-a-knight, your fae-folk, your retold-mythology, your cinderella story, even your zombie apocalypse. (actually i just read a zombie book that was, no joke, totally unlike anything i’ve seen. eat your heart out, clarkesworld submission guidelines). so long as you bring your whole self to it.

other reading

some other things i have loved/am loving:

  • daniel ortberg’s aggressive reaction to finishing his book is relatable as shit: “Sorry for saying fuck you but sometimes my joy at finishing things I’ve been dragging out becomes wildly hostile. This is part of my process and you have to respect it.” I Finished Writing My Book So You Can Go Straight To Hell.

  • rebecca roanhorse’s Storm of Locusts. did you like Trail of Lightning? good. then you will like the sequel.

  • amal el-mohtar has an article in the guardian that is just so damn smart and good: “Every time we recover a female author, scientist, doctor, activist, every time we affirm that black people lived in medieval Europe, that queer people have always existed and often led happy lives, we change history – not the past, crucially, but history, our story about the past, our narratives and paradigms. And as we change history, we change the future.” Why Are There So Many New Books about Time-Traveling Lesbians?

  • kathleen jennings’ Flyaway, a forthcoming novella from, is so good??? i’m not even done, but i have that hairs-on-end, skin-prickle feeling i got the first time i read We Have Always Lived in the Castle. holy shit.


so: my first novel, The Ten Thousand Doors of January, comes out September 10th in the US, September 12th in the UK, from Orbit/Redhook. you can: read the first chapter here, find it on goodreads, and/or pre-order it at indiebound, amazon, or barnes & noble.

i’m doing one of reddit’s ask me anythings on September 10th at 10:00 on r/books. also, if you’re anywhere near louisville, kentucky, i’m doing a launch event at carmichael’s books on frankfort ave., on september 12th at 7:00PM. or if you’re near berea, kentucky, i’m reading and signing at our dearly beloved local library on september 14th, 4:00-6:00 PM.

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