I don't typically do film reviews, but I'll make an exception for Thirteen (2003).

I had never seen this movie before (as it goes with me and most movies... Hah. I'm a book reader.) but when my friend Lindee and I went on a walk one day, she suggested I check it out. She told me it sounded similar to Raising Women, so I went home that night, bought it, and watched it. She was right.

Thirteen follows Tracy (Evan Rachel Wood), a thirteen year old dealing with her alcoholic mom, mom's addict boyfriend, distant father,  and trying to fit in. Then to make things more challenging upon starting the new school year, she notices everyone loves Evie, a girl who dresses hot, seems unconcerned with school, and into risky behavior. A girl very different from her. The girls get closer and escalate their risky behavior: sneaking out, hanging out with groups of boys into their own rough behaviors, and trying to seduce a man who's over eighteen. The girls start taking different kinds of drugs and piercing themselves. Additionally, Tracy cuts herself throughout the film as the pressure of feeling misunderstood grows. The visuals often feel intentionally casually shot, and the colors change as toxic behaviors and suspense increase.

While plot similarities between Thirteen and Raising Women exist (like self-destructive behavior and the desire to belong among other things), Lindee was more specifically comparing the two texts' audiences when she said this film and my book were alike.

On the surface, Thirteen may seem like it's targeted at teens. The plot primarily follows these thirteen-year-olds and the challenging experiences they have. Similarly, Raising Women may seem like it's Young Adult (and early conversations have shown that this is what some people identify it as just based on the blurb). Like Thirteen, Raising Women's main character is a teen going through her experiences in present day. Arguably though, these assessments are wrong.

There are subtle details that nod toward why teens are not the intended audiences. Regarding Thirteen, film critic Roger Ebert says, "Who is this movie for? Not for most 13-year-olds, that's for sure. The R rating is richly deserved, no matter how much of a lark the poster promises." Sure, the main characters are teens dealing with stuff teens may deal with, but the R rating wouldn't have allowed teens to see it in theaters - so they couldn't have been the intended audience. One of the things that helps this film lean away from a teen audience is Tracy's mother, Mel. While the movie doesn't focus on Mel's experiences like the girls', there are enough scenes that show the struggle she has with handling Tracy's behavior that make Mel an also important character, and for viewers to understand her perspective of her daughter's behavior. This supports the argument that instead of targeting teens, the film is aimed at adults, specifically women, who can commiserate with all of these characters and the various stages (teen girl, mother, friend) they are going through. This isn't to say that teens don't identify with this film (according to Lindee, it became sort of a cult classic that teens watched after the film came out on tape). It's just not the intended audience. Hardwick co-wrote it with fourteen-year-old Nikki Reed, but brought her own adult perspective to it.

Raising Women has similar audience overlaps. The Professional Writing Academy says, "First up, YA isn’t a genre: it’s an age range. YA fiction is aimed at a target audience aged 12-18." They then go on to list typical characteristics for YA, and most of them happen in Raising Women, BUT Raising Women's target audience isn't 12-18. Sure, teens can read this (I was reading Fight Club, Invisible Monsters, and Lolita in high school), but I wrote it for adults. More specifically, I guess you could say "unhinged millennial women"... hah. My intended audience is women who knew the girls in this book. These women like dark psychological stories. These women read coming of age tales, especially ones that aren't aimed at teens. I mean, first, Raising Women is set in the 90s/2000s, and it's not that teens can't read books set in different time periods, but as a contemporary fiction piece, setting a realistic fiction piece a few decades ago isn't trying hard to connect with them. Additionally, the primary characters outside of "you" (a teen) are both adults. The themes in this book are ones that women who have already grown up would identify with. The women I wrote this for are already pre-ordering this book. Sure, teens can read it, but I didn't write this for teens. I wrote it for women who want to feel like they're reading something real, and feel like they see themselves in that real thing they just read.

If you loved Thirteen, than you'll also love Raising Women. Both of these stories follow girls who feel lost and left behind, and nudged into figuring things out. Reader Xavier said, "The whole story has followed You creating an identity as a woman amidst an infinity of mixed signals and potential dangers, an these lines really take that to a deeper level by pointing at the fact that this is not exclusive to You." This is meant to make readers feel connected, but moreso the women who used to be the girls that got left behind and had to figure out how to be a women amidst an infinity of mixed signals. This is their story, just like I think Thirteen is the story for women trying to figure out how to be an adult that raises those girls.

Raising Women says, "Adults are supposed to know it all. They’re supposed to have all the answers, but no one ever gave them the answers. Who was the first adult? Who’s the one to have known it all?"

Preorder Raising Women here

I'm not sure what to think about I Who Have Never Known Men by Jacqueline Harpman (translated by Ros Schwartz), but it's not entirely what I was expecting (based on the back cover and reviews). It wasn't bad... just, not what I thought. Like when you expect to drink water and then realize you took a sip of Sprite.

I loved the idea of these women being trapped in a cage for some unknown reason, with guards watching them for some unknown reason. And then they escaped, and you're like YES. There's going to be some action! And then there never is... Yes, it's desolate like some reviews say, but other than a very short scene or two, I didn't feel much, and I really wanted this book to make me feel (based on the concept it had). Most of the text was just a lot of wandering.

Critically, I can understand the purpose behind this book, and how if maybe I was to discuss this with others (which I will with my book club next month) I might appreciate certain aspects more. It brings up the idea of community, and how we become who we become, and what we are without those things. It makes you consider the point of life, especially if you are simply on your own with no community. It brings to light motives, and others' stories, and who are people if we don't know who they are? There are many thematic elements that this story brings to light that would be fascinating to discuss with people.

But reading it as it is and reflecting on it by myself, I was left... meh. Wanting more. As a story, it felt like much didn't happen. It isn't a long book, but I felt like Harpman could have written a short story about this and packed a far more powerful punch on these themes. And, to be fair, maybe that's part of the message - forcing readers to metaphorically wander with nothing to do, like the women in the book had to do, but I don't know. This book started off with so many riveting questions and really led me to believe there were going to be answers. I was excited to see what the reasons for the conflict were, but then we got nothing. I think I expected more transgression. In my blog post "What is Transgressive Fiction?" I summarize other author's definitions of the genre:

Palahniuk: Fiction that has characters who misbehave and commit crimes as political acts of civil disobedience.
D’Hont: Fiction that evolves and represents the sociopolitical shifts it explores.
Morrison: Fiction that analyzes the limits of the world.
While all of these definitions involve limits in some way, they still vary from each other. So I’ll look at a few more definitions…

I then go on to say, I think that all of those things, combined with writing techniques and contemporary trademarks (like unreliable narrators with conversational/dialectical tones, for example), are what make the stories that are most widely recognized as transgressive fiction earn that label.

With women endlessly trapped in a cage, watched over by male guards, I expected misbehaving and crimes. I expected gender norms and social commentary. I expected sociopolitics. I thought this book would be more transgressive, but instead it was a little more of a dystopia with no action. It did explore the limits of the world, and I think that is what reviewers who have given it a high rating are holding onto.


Read below if you want my thoughts that includes SPOILERS:
We never find out why the women get locked in a cage. Additionally, we find out that there are other camps set up exactly the same with the same number of women locked in them - then we find out there are also the same camps of men. Still, we never find out why any of these people had been locked up - what was the motive? (And honestly, I was disappointed when we found out there were camps of men too. I feel like the book's message would/could have been drastically different if it had just been women, but also men? And yet we never find out why they were there, what set off some alarms, what happened to everyone else in the world, and like... I get the message is kind of laid out to us at the end, but having these cages of men threw it off for me.) With the title being I Who Have Never Known Men, I thought the book was going to have something specific to say about men/gender, but now I wonder if it was referring to humans and not men? Because men had to deal with the same traumas of being in a post-apocalyptic world, and she decided they also didn't know what was going on. So what does it matter that she's a woman who never knew men? I thought there would be a cooler critique on society regarding that and there wasn't.

The writing is good, and I like the characters and how they are developed, and I like the ideas the book introduces. I would probably like this better if it was for a college class where we discussed it and built arguments about the piece, but as a book I was reading for fun, I wanted something more, and if not all the answers, at least one or two. Instead MC just lives trapped in a cage, escapes, wanders around never knowing community and then she dies. I guess not having this information is saying something, and I guess not having this information can lead us to come up with our own answers, but... meh.

Additionally, I didn't quite understand some details logistically. For example, these wandering women survived by eating food they found at all the other abandoned cage shelters, including meat. For 30+ years? Meat can't last that long, even frozen.

So three and a half? four? stars because it wasn't bad, and I liked the idea and all of that, but ... this could have been really cool and it felt like it was trying but didn't hit the mark. Like, Harpman didn't know the answers to this cool plot herself, so she just let the not answering anything at the end be some deeper meaning instead.

Citizen: An American Lyric by Claudia Rankine walks the thin line of prose and poetry, using a collection of different text types to tell an overarching story that is inherently American. Through seemingly trivial, everyday occurrences, Rankine develops an understanding of many Black experiences. Vignettes paired with epistolary sources clearly highlight these lived Black experiences, often using second person point of view, allowing readers to go through those experiences for themselves.

Scenes include the narrator visiting a new therapist and mistakenly entering the wrong door get approached angrily, with the homeowner perceiving the narrator as an intruder. You hear the remarks, “Get away from my house! What are you doing in my yard?” The speaker then informs the stranger, the therapist, that she was her new patient, and the therapist, realizing her mistake, says, “I am so sorry, so so sorry” (p115). While for many this may seem like a mistake and not racist, the book layers story after story like this to help readers realize that these types of experiences happen over and over again. It prompts readers to wonder: at what point does someone get tired of experiencing this?

This racism, the kind that so many Black Americans experience regularly, in addition to more violent forms, get addressed in this text.

While this book is often identified as poetry and sometimes has poetic elements, I mostly found it reading far more as prose than poetry, and not quite poetic prose usually either. It does break many boundaries however, both in form and topics, so it made it a very easy text for me to analyze under the scope of transgressive fiction creating social change.

Last year, I began researching the things that create social change and looked into books that have, historically, influenced social change. I started to synthesize these ideas, and began working on a formula that would allow books to do that. Citizen does many things that align with my research on creating change. Some notable things it does include using second person point of view, providing performance/unusual form (through vignettes, incorporating news articles, photographs, etc.), and introducing positive contact (McRaney (2022) and Dovidio et al. (2009)).

I haven't done a lot of talking on the blog yet about the research I did regarding transgressive fiction and social change, but I'll introduce some of it now. This book is definitely transgressive, in both the topic and the way it's written. It is uniquely crafted, and it includes elements my research says makes social change, so it made me wonder why it didn't become successful at doing that.

In David McRaney’s (2022) book, How Minds Change, McRaney compiles evidence for why minds make decisions based on group identity, why people keep the ideas that they do, and what finally changes their minds. He spends time discussing the process of deep canvasing to explore a method that has worked in getting people to change their minds on typically controversial topics. In deep canvasing, a volunteer speaks to people at their homes with the goal of shifting those people's minds. The three steps to deep canvasing include the volunteer building rapport, describing his or her own relation to the topic, and finally, the homeowner telling their own story. The volunteer reflects feelings and asks probing questions that prompt the individual to reflect. Reflection is incredibly important because, oftentimes, the homeowner has never thought about it before. This process helps them realize the origin of their belief and reconsiders it. Providing facts isn’t what prompts the reconsideration, which is where many people go wrong when trying to change other's minds. I'm wondering if Citizen didn't build rapport well enough at first, or include room for the readers to reflect on their own stories. While I understand that was not the point of Citizen, it seems it may be one of the reasons the book didn't pick up enough wind to change society. I imagine that most of the people who read the book are people who are already on the author's side.

Citizen is an enlightening text that really invites readers into an emotional experience. While it has won awards, it is not a household name and did not pick up enough steam to create national outcry or change. I do think though, if you haven't read it, that you absolutely should. Citizen is a very important read that really offers insight into the (tragic) human experience, specifically the American experience, for many. This book can help bridge gaps and create empathy (probably more so if you are someone open to that opportunity, as opposed to someone who immediately gets defensive and shuts down). Rankine offers an exceptional opportunity with this book, so read it and see for yourself.

Sociopath: A Memoir by Dr. Patric Gagne is a detailed depiction of Gagne’s experience growing up, realizing she was a sociopath, learning how that affected her, and doing much of her own work to treat herself since there is very little resources about sociopaths available.

What an emotional roller coaster. By the end of the book, I was crying, like actual tears running down my cheeks (which is funny and ironic that I’d feel so emotional from this when, from my understanding, the author probably doesn’t). I don’t remember the last book, if there ever was another one, that made me actually cry. But this did.
 
To put it very simply, sociopaths have a hard time experiencing emotions like the general public does because they have a limited emotional range, thus rarely feeling “learned” emotions (like love and guilt). Based on Gagne’s experience (and research), sociopaths will partake in antisocial behavior to try and feel something other than apathy.

Gagne’s introduction ends with, “I am a criminal without a record. A master of disguise. I have never been caught. I have rarely been sorry. I am friendly. I am responsible. I am invisible. I blend right in. I am a twenty-first century sociopath. And I’ve written this book because I know I’m not alone” (xvii). What an intriguing way to start this book – it comes across sinister and dark, but also somehow inviting. I love how candid Gagne is (or seems, which I’ll explain soon). The book continues with Gagne’s childhood and how she came to understand that she was different from the people surrounding her. She did not feel the same things they did, and she had no problem doing things that others saw as bad. Through this, she learned how to develop and or manage relationships in her life. From a craft stand point, I found the way she revealed herself building relationships with other people fascinating. The details and pacing of it made me feel something, but I had to acknowledge that it probably didn’t make her feel anything, which was an odd thing to accept. It made me wonder where her relationships were going to go when her actions and other people’s reactions got increasingly conflicted.
 
Gagne writes in a way that made me feel sorry for her, empathetic, but it also made me wonder if she was a reliable narrator or if she was manipulating me. I don’t like that I thought this, because she explains that this kind of mindset is exactly what she tries to fight, but it was hard not to think it. By the end of the book, I definitely found myself trusting her, but still wondered if I should. This, however, made me acknowledge that trust is blind. Sure, people can behave in ways that give us more reason to think they won't betray us, but also everyone can betray us. We can't really trust anyone, so what makes them anymore trustworthy than her? I naturally trust everyone though, so I guess we’ll assume she was being honest in everything she wrote.
 
I found myself thinking that this book helps people understand a lot about others, not just sociopaths. Reading Gagne’s experience with wanting people to value her, even when her personality, something that's not her fault, was hard for others to understand, helped me when thinking about the conflict my husband and I face with his mental health diagnoses. He is not a sociopath, but reading this book has allowed me to stop reacting to him based on how I want him to feel, but rather, simply be there for him. I found myself wanting to be more like a David, Gagne’s husband.
 
The other existential thought I was led to have was this: what is good and bad? After studying psychology, putting in a lot of work to reflect on and understand herself, meet her own therapist, and then do clinical research, Gagne admits that she no longer wanted to be like other people; rather, she wanted people to accept her as she is... but then she did want to be like other people? In the epilogue, she ends up working really hard to decrease the anxiety and pressure she feels from her sociopathy. This means stopping certain behaviors. I wonder what made her decide that that choice and type of life was right? Especially when so many people envied her behavior and the apathy she experienced. I mean, I was rooting for her, and wanted her to get ‘better’, but what does that say about me? And who decides what better is?
 
I’m not suggesting everyone run around doing whatever they want, hurting people, or taking things, but Patric is right when she talked about guilt being a learned emotion, and what does that say about people? Society? Why do we choose what we choose to be guilty about? And then we expect everyone else to feel guilty about it too? So I was rooting for her, and for her to "manage" her behaviors, but then I realized that I didn’t know how I felt about my “rooting” once she got there.
 
Really, by the end of the book I had tears streaming down my face. I don’t even know what I was feeling, but what a testament to the storytelling she did. This book paces her experiences and conflict so well, develops “characters” profoundly, and truly lets you inside Gagne’s experiences, really hoping she’ll achieve the things she wants. Like I said, I think this is great insight into the mind of someone who experiences sociopathy (which is a relatively rare experience), but also just a great reminder that we all experience things differently and should be patient with people.
 
Originally, I started my blog in part to encourage myself to continue researching and writing about how transgressive fiction can be used to create social change. Life got in the way, and that research fell to the wayside. I do think that Sociopath has given me some more things to research when I pick it back up. While books in general have been shown to support empathy, this book worked especially hard at it, and it makes me think about how strongly developing empathy in fiction might play a part in social change.

If you're interested in the darkness that is mental health disorders, understanding people, and overcoming challenges, I highly recommend this book. I found it engaging, and easy to like and root for Gagne. You just might need a box of tissues.

Are you nosey? Because if you are, Boy Parts is for you and isn’t for you, all at the same time.

Somewhat of a fever dream of sorts, Boy Parts is a novel centered around the narrator, Irina, who is a photographer in the middle of her own crisis. Based in New Castle, she obsessively takes photographs, mostly dark and sexual photographs of men. Her photographer path began in art school in London where she developed her edgy path of challenging the way women are typically portrayed by spinning men in a similar light. After a series of impactful relationships and critiques, Irina left school and works at a bar while handing out her business card to strangers she meets in public of whom she’d like to take photos of. By the end of the book and her quest for capturing men, things turn dark.

In the midst of desperation for an art career that she wants but would never admit to, she spirals in and out of the drug, alcohol, and sex scene with friends. She manipulates everyone around her, including herself.

Irina is not a great friend, and unless you want to be invited to the party, you probably wouldn’t want to be her friend either. That being said, she’s convincing, and it’s easy to listen to her and follow along — that is, follow along until there’s not much left to follow. Throughout this dizzy story, Eliza Cark points fingers at gender roles, consent, and reality.

The book uses graphic scenes to draw attention to thematic elements. The plot is dark and unexpected, especially being that it comes from a woman in (I think) her 20s, which really develops those thematic elements even more. This plot feels like a journey and insight into the modern damaged psyche and how our society fuels it. While it’s easy to hate Irina, the reader also has to ask him or herself, is she that much different from them? Could anyone else’s life also ended up this way had a few things been different? What is the cost of being the best, or making it out on top?

Underneath the chaos and scenes that seem unrealistic, there’s a lot of serious messages woven in the middle. Being driven by an outright perfect antihero, this book makes absolutely no sense in a maddening way (as is life), but all the sense at the same time because of course, after reading that other thing that happened at the beginning, it makes sense somehow that she’d do this here near the end. I kept thinking that over and over, but all the same, didn’t want to. It didn’t need to turn out this way… did it?

For anyone who likes transgressive work, like the edgy, dark, and unacceptable things, this book will give you what you expect, while also addressing modern taboos and issues around gender, sexuality, consent, and control, all combined with truth.

Last week, I wrote about Young Adult Transgressive Fiction — texts that fall under the YA category, but simultaneously have characteristics of transgressive fiction. Thinking more about it though, YA transgressive fiction books are more closely related to what I call mild transgressive fiction (a text that breaks some norms, but is not focused on making a political statement through the norm breaking). This is just because transgressive fiction seems to be so much transgression and criticism that that’s the whole point of the book, making it a genre that stands on its own, and I’m not sure the transgressive fiction of the YA world completely fits under that… It does question norms and exposes them though.

Push by Sapphire 100% falls somewhere in being a YA book and addressing the socially unacceptable. Claireece “Precious” Jones is a teen who deals with sexual abuse from her father, physical and verbal abuse from her mother, as well as the judgement from a society that doesn’t know her story. She unfortunately can’t read or write which just adds to the mountain of adversity she faces.

Precious gets bullied in school, does not speak up (because of her illiteracy), and is thought of as the bad and stupid kid. She gets pushed out and ends up joining an alternative school, much to the dismay of her mother who doesn’t leave the house and continues to abuse Precious. Precious’s dad has raped her and gotten her pregnant, twice, and her mother calls her a slut, clearly jealous of Precious (in some weird, twisted way).

While disgusting and difficult at times, this is a book that needed to be written. People need to be reminded that this behavior happens in the real world and that there are girls who are forced deal with this.
Precious wants more for her two kids than the life they were born into. She works hard at the alternative school she joins and finds a group of other girls in her class who become a support system to her, one that she never had before. Through learning to read and write and reflect, she learns more about herself and what she’s capable of.

Further tragedy happens to Precious, which was hard for me as a reader because I was rooting for her. She doesn’t let this stop her newfound outlook on life though, which is the best we can hope for in this situation.

The book is written from Precious’s point of view, taking on the writing of someone who is illiterate. As her writing improves over time through school, the book becomes easier to read as well. The writing, paired with the detailed descriptions of incest and abuse make some of the book difficult to read, but as someone who reads transgressive fiction, it didn’t stop me. Even though it’s similar to the book Tampa in that the plot is difficult, I consider this to be a strength of the book — these things happen in real life, don’t get talked about enough, but were very blatantly placed on the table here in Push.

While the content that can be challenging to read, this is what makes the novel a YA transgressive fiction piece, no doubt in my mind. Exposing the dark sides of humanity (horrific ways little girls are sometimes treated), this book tackles multiple transgressive topics through the story of a young adult. The way in which this story can be relatable for young adults also furthers this concept.

For anyone interested in transgressive fiction, I would recommend this book. It has a hopeful end to it, but it makes you earn your way there by traveling through dark, difficult paths first. It brings you to corners of horrific realities which are arguably worse than the imaginary scenarios used to fight against norms in a book like Fight Club.

I’m curious, for those of you that have read Push — what about the book makes it YA? What about the book do you think makes it transgressive?

While writing stories that are a little gritty, or unhappy, or not considered ‘normal’ about society (broken families, disabilities, sexual experiences, among others), Victoria Lancelotta uses such beautiful language and striking images in her collection of short stories Here in the World that I fell in love immediately.

Here in the World by Victoria Lancelotta is a collection of thirteen stories. Each story is written from the first person narration of a woman (each story being a different woman) and her experience in the world, typically through the lens of relationships, more specifically her relationship to men/a man.

My favorite story was the first story, “The Guide”, starting off with “Listen. Here is a love story.” And then “We filed to the alter in doll-sized veils and patent leather shoes, heads bowed, our trembling hands folded and held chest-high, and before kneeling to receive the wafer from the priest…” The story then weaves the imagery of church and religion through a woman’s relationship to a blind man who is rough during sex, to which the narrator muses over the pain and guilt she feels in this complicated relationship. The story ends on “What could a blind man pray for, what thing that he would get?” I think this was my favorite story of the bunch (Lancelotta started off strong!) for the powerful imagery and lingering questions it left.

Her stories are not primarily focused on plot. Rather, I’d say they use the plot as a tool and opportunity to paint beautiful images with language and to present the reader with philosophical reflections in the questions and comments the narrators make. For example, in her final story, “Here in the World,” the narrator opens the story remembering what it’s like to be a young girl and get all the attention from boys who drive by as often happens when girls walk down the street. This experience of attention will thread through the main plot of the story which is that she is separated from her husband, soon-to-be ex, with whom her son still lives. She’s waiting for the son’s arrival to visit her new home, and she says, “I walk through all this carrying an invisible girl, buried under the flesh of a wife, a mother, an ex-wife by September, my hand out as I cross streets with an invisible boy, little outline just so-high when I saw him last, solid body, feet right on the ground outside that big other house with his father next to him.” What poignant language to reflect on these kinds of emotions and experiences so many women have either had, or can still relate to.

Lancelotta is a thoughtful poet and each of her stories uses this skill to create a universal longing, even among different stories. She threads main plots alongside thematic events that work together to create a bigger message in such a short space. The stories were beautiful.

I was drawn to some more than others (I particularly was less interested in her stories near the end which involved a few of the narrators living on the beach). I’m not sure why those types of stories appeal to me less — I can’t say it’s because that life is less familiar to me (because the dark urban settings that I love reading about aren’t exactly my life either), but maybe it’s because the connotation of such a life feels less taboo, despite the plot. Either way, I’d say the collection definitely includes some stories that are stronger and more vivid than others (as with most anthologies).

I would consider this mild transgressive fiction, which I discuss in my previous blog post, because it definitely incorporates transgression (like I said, politically and socially taboo relationships, actions, etc.) and at some points the abuse of the body (which I discuss here as a great technique for transgressive fiction) but because Lancelotta’s stories seemingly focus more on the beautiful language than the shock of the plot, it’s hard for me to define this as complete transgressive fiction. It’s mild. It definitely includes elements, and anyone who enjoys pretty language, deep reflections, and subtly taboo relationships, will love this book.

I bought this book by accident — I was at 2nd and Charles, a used bookstore, just browsing books. Couldn’t find anything by authors I knew who I hadn’t read yet, and they had a sale going on for buy 2 get 2 free, so there’s no way I couldn’t find more books when they were free books anyway. So I’m just pulling out book after book across a ton of different shelves and this cover image (along with the title) caught my eye. They say “don’t judge a book by it’s cover” but there was no way this was your average fiction book. I skimmed a story and was sold. I’m grateful I stumbled upon this and was inspired by Lancellot’s craft!

Okay, so, wow. Yes. I got caught up in reading Tampa and felt so uncomfortable - in a way that I’ve never felt when reading a book before.

Tampa by Alyssa Nutting is about Celeste, a 26-year-old, ‘bombshell’ middle school teacher, who is sex obsessed — but not with her husband or other men (or women for that matter) — but with adolescent boys. The story follows her first year and a half of teaching middle school, and selecting boys to sleep with.

I will be the first to admit that I like weird, dark stuff, but Tampa by Alyssa Nutting was something else.

Every sex scene (which took up a large chunk of the book) was written like a regular sex scene, something that could be found in an adult romance/erotic novel or a movie. In one way, this way of describing the sex Celeste was having made the scenes seem normal after a while — the author did not shy away from it — which also led to me feeling disgusted when I’d remind myself it wasn’t normal because these were kids in the scenes. That’s where the complications of this book lay — a story in normal language, relatively ‘normal’ events, but with characters who should not be in those situations, participating in those events. Sometimes I had to replace the boys with adult men in my mind to read the scenes. Nutting does not spare readers of any dirty details or fantasies that her narrator has.

Nutting expertly weaves in Celeste’s obsession and manipulations, making her interactions with her students (and other adults in the novel) obviously disturbing.

This book was especially hard for me as a former high school teacher. It had me feeling completely ‘wrong’ for even reading it — but that’s what makes this book excellent. It’s disgusting, but expertly executed to make it disgusting. I read a lot of transgressive fiction, but have never felt as repulsed by it as this one (and I recognize part of that is my own experiences impacting my feelings — other people’s experiences might have them feeling disgusted with other books) but it did something that most transgressive fiction actually doesn’t do to me. So while this one grossed me out when most books or movies don’t, and I can call it disgusting, it was great. Throughout it, I still wanted to know what was going to happen (although I did feel the ending could have been fleshed out a little more).

Nutting does a great job creating her characters. With the first-person

narration, we get to understand the way Celeste’s mind and manipulations work. Nutting also creates an easily hate-able main character, but in a story so rooted in injustice, that I was left desperate for some sense of justice so it kept me engaged and reading. If you’re up for something dark and for an engaging read, I recommend this book.

This book is a perfect example of where Coco D’Hont (in her book Extreme States: The Evolution of American Transgressive Fiction 1960–2000, 2020) talks about transgressive fiction not prompting social change. Tampa is certainly transgressive, for so many reasons, though I can’t imagine it redeveloping society and pedophiles. Not every story is meant to change people though, right? Sometimes a story is just a story, for entertainment, to convey information, whatever.

(But sometimes people might want to change something in society, so that’s where my research falls. How could someone write a transgressive story that can make change? Still working on the answer to that… In the meantime, we get books like this that continue to bring its readers closer to all parts of humanity.)

I’ve seen other reviews compare it to Vladimir Nabokov’s Lolita and I can agree that they both have a pedophile using manipulation, but I will say I was actually much more engaged in this book than I was when I read Lolita, and this one disgusted me more. Again, maybe because it hit so close to home with my own gender and professional career. Tampa had me feeling dirty and intrigued. If you don’t think you’re morally above this ‘wrong’ behavior, and interested in something that could make your skin crawl, I definitely recommend this.

I bought my copy off a used book website and was surprised to find, when I got it, that I had actually gotten someone’s signed copy. As Nutting herself so aptly says in her comment to “Gavin”, enjoy this awful book.