My Favorite Reads Of 2023
& I did a lot of reading!
It’s almost 2024, and I’m shocked again by how quickly a year can be swallowed up by the mundane. Shifts at work and going to the grocery store and searching for missing socks in the piles of dry laundry. All of these tiny moments culminate into a year, and those years eventually culminate into a life. I turned 26 this year, and have felt an undefinable shift in my brain from early 20s to now. This is the first year I’ve really felt like an adult—not all the time, but in certain situations. As I make the phone call to schedule a car inspection, for example. Or, doing chores as soon as I get home from my day job. Waking up before 7AM because it’s the only time of day I have available to write. Next year at this time I’ll be 27, and I’m already wondering what changes 2024 will bring me.
This year I’ve read 104 books, and am half an hour away from finishing True Grit on audiobook which would make it 105. My goal this year was 100, and I’m happy to have met that and then some.
This is the first year I kept a book journal, which I ended up really enjoying once I figured out what I liked and didn’t like doing. I plan to continue journaling about the books I read in 2024, but a little differently based on what I’ve learned. There’s something about doing a project bullet journal adjacent that scratches the right part of my brain.
Instead of an essay this week, I want to use this space to talk about some of the best books I’ve read this year and try to convince you to read them, too. It’s always hard to narrow down my favorite reads from each year, especially when there’s so many to choose from, but I’ve done my best to single out the books I feel stood out from the rest.
Here are my top 5 fiction reads, non-fiction reads, and poetry reads from 2023.*
FICTION
Detransition, Baby by Torrey Peters
“A whipsmart debut about three women—transgender and cisgender—whose lives collide after an unexpected pregnancy forces them to confront their deepest desires around gender, motherhood, and sex. Reese almost had it all: a loving relationship with Amy, an apartment in NYC, a job she didn’t hate. She had scraped together what previous generations of trans women could only dream of: a life of mundane, bourgeois comforts. The only thing missing was a child. But then her girlfriend, Amy, detransitioned and became Ames, and everything fell apart. Ames isn’t happy either. He thought detransitioning to live as a man would make life easier, but that decision cost him his relationship with Reese—and losing her meant losing his own family.”
This is a book that is so deeply rooted in the transgender community—for lack of a better way to say this, I’ve never read a book more trans than this one. This is a sex-positive book that isn’t afraid to be explicit, and studies its characters with a trained eye. The story has lingered with me all year despite reading this in January, and my book club all agreed that it has one of the most clever titles ever (read the book and find out why). There was so much nuance to the events here, and it was truly unlike anything I’ve ever read before. In a time where the rights of transgender people are being attacked by politicians and close-minded individuals alike, it felt revolutionary to read a book that was loud about its identity.
Station Eleven by Emily St. John Mandel
“One snowy night a famous Hollywood actor slumps over and dies onstage during a production of King Lear. Hours later, the world as we know it begins to dissolve. Moving back and forth in time—from the actor’s early days as a film star to fifteen years in the future, when a theater troupe known as the Traveling Symphony roams the wasteland of what remains—this suspenseful, elegiac, spellbinding novel charts the strange twists of fate that connect five people: the actor, the man who tried to save him, the actor’s first wife, his oldest friend, and a young actress with the Traveling Symphony, caught in the crosshairs of a dangerous self-proclaimed prophet.”
You can’t tell from the description, but this is a pandemic book (albeit, published in 2014). If you’d told me two years ago that I was going to fall in love with a book that takes place in a post-pandemic ravaged world, I probably wouldn’t have believed you. But it’s true; I love this book. The writing was stunningly beautiful. I held the characters close to my chest as I was reading, becoming utterly invested in their histories and lives. It sounds cheesy to type, but this book had a lot of heart.
Admittedly, I wanted a little more from the ending. One final plot twist or missing puzzle piece now found to put it all together. But for me, that absence didn’t detract from my overall enjoyment. It is a rare feeling to put down a book and know instantly that it’s a new favorite, and that’s how I felt after finishing this one.
Writers & Lovers by Lily King
“Blindsided by her mother’s sudden death, and wrecked by a recent love affair, Casey Peabody has arrived in Massachusetts in the summer of 1997 without a plan. Her mail consists of wedding invitations and final notices from debt collectors. A former child golf prodigy, she now waits tables in Harvard Square and rents a tiny, moldy room at the side of a garage where she works on the novel she’s been writing for six years. At 31, Casey is still clutching onto something nearly all her old friends have let go of: the determination to live a creative life.”
Even typing up that description, I found myself getting teary-eyed over my memories of reading this book. I think Writers & Lovers is especially monumental if you’re a writer or creative of any kind—it so painfully, beautifully, and realistically paints a portrait of what it’s like to keep clinging to your art, no matter how much the world tries to prove you stupid for doing so. It’s rare for me to read a novel about a writer and not want to rip my hair out, even rarer to set it down and feel newly inspired and invigorated with my own work. I purposefully didn’t put any of these books in a “favorite” order (I’m listing these chronologically as to when I read them) but if I was forced to choose, this would be my favorite book of the year.
I cannot praise it enough for the way it tackles love, grief, and the desire to write even when it feels like the whole world is conspiring against you. I already have another Lily King waiting for me on my physical “to be read” shelf for next year.
The Sentence by Louise Erdrich
“A small independent bookstore in Minneapolis is haunted from November 2019 to November 2020 by the store’s most annoying customer. Flora dies on All Souls’ Day, but she simply won’t leave the store. Tookie, who has landed a job selling books after years of incarceration that she survived by reading with murderous attention, must solve the mystery of this haunting while at the same time trying to understand all that occurs in Minneapolis during a year of grief, astonishment, isolation, and furious reckoning.”
Okay, I didn’t realize I’d put two pandemic books on this list—maybe there’s something to unpack there? This one is COVID specific, and especially COVID specific to Minneapolis. Erdrich writes gorgeous prose, and it carries you through this story with ease. What I was most impressed by was how cyclical this book became, and how incredibly Erdrich tied up all of the loose ends. It’s a beautiful thing, to complete a book and feel that all of your questions have been answered. To feel satisfied, completely and entirely—especially with a book that tackles a large number of subjects with apparent ease. This is a book that I would recommend to anybody, reader and non-reader alike.
Fruiting Bodies: Stories by Kathryn Harlan
“In stories that beckon and haunt, Fruiting Bodies ranges confidently from the fantastical to the gothic to the uncanny as it follows characters—mostly queer, mostly women—on the precipice of change. Echoes of timeless myth and folklore reverberate through urgent narratives of discovery, appetite, and coming-of-age in a time of crisis.”
It’s rare for me to be so enamored by a short story collection—nothing against the genre, I just don’t read them incredibly often—but this was a near flawless collection of stories. Though these characters, situations, and outcomes varied, I was blown away by how cohesive this book felt. The language was incredibly gorgeous, and the plots were memorable. I read this in the first half of the year and have been thinking about it ever since, unable to look at mushrooms in the same way (among other poignant images). Even if you’re not generally a short fiction reader, I think these stories might be able to convince you otherwise. Especially if you’re a queer woman!
NON-FICTION
You Could Make This Place Beautiful by Maggie Smith
“Poet Maggie Smith explores the disintegration of her marriage and her renewed commitment to herself in lyrical vignettes that shine, hard and clear as jewels. The book begins with one woman’s personal, particular heartbreak, but its circles widen into a reckoning with contemporary womanhood, traditional gender roles, and the power dynamics that persist even in many progressive homes.”
This description really doesn’t do the book justice. I devoured this memoir in one sitting, on a long plane ride from Seattle to Albany. I’d found an advanced reader copy of this at a used bookstore, waiting for me to pick it up, and it almost felt like fate. I was in tears while reading these vignettes, which depicted heartbreak, moving on, and keeping a family together despite tragedy with beautiful prose and startling accuracy. This is a memoir that speaks to women especially, but I think anybody that’s gone through a major life change will be able to find something meaningful in these pages. It was clear to me before reading You Could Make This Place Beautiful that Maggie Smith was a talented poet—it comes as no surprise that she is talented with her prose as well.
Make It Scream, Make It Burn by Leslie Jamison
“A combination of memoir, criticism, and journalism, “Make It Scream, Make It Burn” is Leslie Jamison’s profound exploration of the oceanic depths of longing and the reverberations of obsession. Among Jamison’s subjects are 52 Blue, deemed ‘the loneliest whale in the world,’ the eerie specter of reincarnated children; devotees of an online existence called Second Life, to the exclusion of their real lives; Civil War photography; and an entire museum dedicated to relationship breakups. Through these essays and through forays into her own obsessions and longings, Jamison delves into the nature of storytelling itself.”
This was the second book I’ve read from Jamison (“The Empathy Exams” was a favorite read from 2021) and it cemented her place as one of my favorite essayists. This is a book that you’ll want to read with a pen in your hand, for underlining and note-taking as you go. What I love about Jamison is how she balances the emotional and the factual. Not only are these reflections on loneliness and obsession, but they’re journalistic enquiries into various aspects of our world. I left this book feeling as though I’d learned a lot, and had been given a chance to reflect inward at the same time. If you’re new to reading creative nonfiction essays, I think Jamison is a great writer to start with.
(PS—Jamison has a new book coming out in February of 2024 that is one of my most anticipated reads of next year.)
Also A Poet: Frank O’Hara, My Father, and Me by Ada Calhoun
“When Ada Calhoun stumbled upon old cassette tapes of interviews her father, celebrated art critic Peter Schjeldahl, had conducted for his never-completed biography of poet Frank O’Hara, she set out to finish the book her father had started forty years earlier. As a lifelong O’Hara fan who grew up amid his bohemian cohort in the East Village, Calhoun thought the project would be easy, even fun, but the deeper she dove, the more she had to face not just O’Hara’s post, but also her father’s, and her own. The result is a groundbreaking and kaleidoscopic memoir that weaves compelling literary history with a moving, honest, and tender story of a complicated father-daughter bond.”
This was an easy five star read. I’ve never read a book which managed to be both biography and memoir, and the combination in this book was so stunningly beautiful, full of grief and love and tenderness. It was illuminating to learn about Frank O’Hara, a poet that’s hard not to love, but almost more so to learn about Calhoun’s personal relationship to O’Hara, her relationship to her father, and how all of them intersect. I was absolutely engrossed in this book, and found it extremely difficult to put down. If you read nonfiction, this is absolutely a book you should add to your list. The prose was concise, the information was fresh, and you’ll leave with a new understanding of how the things we love become part of us. How you can’t help but be a part of it right back. And, of course, a greater appreciation for Frank O’Hara (even if you’re not a poetry reader).
Killers Of The Flower Moon by David Grann
“In the 1920s, the richest people per capita in the world were members of the Osage Nation in Oklahoma. After oil was discovered beneath their land, the Osage rode in chauffeured automobiles, built mansions, and sent their children to study in Europe. Then, one by one, the Osage began to be killed off. As the death toll rose, the newly created FBI took up the case, and the young director, J. Edgar Hoover, turned to a former Texas Ranger named Tom White to try to unravel the mystery.”
Killers Of The Flower Moon has gotten a lot of buzz, with Martin Scorcese’s film of the same name being released earlier this year. I’ve had this book on my unread shelf for about a year now, and will admit that the movie’s release is what prompted me to finally pick it up off my shelf.
For those that are new to nonfiction, I always suggest narrative nonfiction as the place to start. It relays true historical events as if it’s a story, with characters and twists and everything you like about fiction. This book was a perfect example of the genre at its best. The writing was clear, easy to follow, and Grann keeps you on the edge of your seat as you learn about the horrors inflicted upon the Osage people. Killers Of The Flower Moon goes in depth into a piece of American history that I’d never even heard about, and I think that especially for Americans this is a crucial read. I could find no fault with this book, and I’m looking forward to reading more from Grann in the future.
Heart Berries by Terese Marie Mailhot
“Having survived a profoundly dysfunctional upbringing only to find herself hospitalized and facing a dual diagnosis of post traumatic stress disorder and bipolar II disorder, Terese Marie Mailhot is given a notebook and begins to write her way out of trauma. The triumphant result is Heart Berries, a memorial for Mailhot’s mother, a social worker and activist who had a thing for prisoners; a story of reconciliation with her father—an abusive drunk and a brilliant artist—who was murdered under mysterious circumstances; and an elegy on how difficult it is to love someone while dragging the long shadows of a shame.”
This was not an easy read, both in formatting and content. Heart Berries has chapters written in second person, and moves through time seemingly at random with no grounding as to where you are. Somehow, it works, and to read this felt like a crash course in memoir writing. The prose was so lush and detailed, beautiful and painful in the same breath. Though I wish this book was longer—it’s not even 150 pages, and takes almost that long to get used to the frantic, feverish style of writing—it was incredibly inventive. I love when a writer bends genre to fit their story, and this memoir was a great example.
(You might want to check content warnings before reading this one—there’s some upsetting stuff in this one.)
POETRY**
Unincorporated Persons In The Late Honda Dynasty by Tony Hoagland
This was my first time reading a full collection by Tony Hoagland and I was blown away by how well he was able to utilize humor. I find humor to be a difficult place to approach in my own writing, and reading this collection felt like a lesson in letting go and finding freedom in your work. Hoagland can write moving poems about taking everything personally while also exploring topics like Britney Spears and praising friends for finally getting a divorce. This collection was a joy to read from start to finish, and I’d recommend it for new and seasoned poetry readers alike.
Judas Goat by Gabrielle Bates
Reading this collection, it was difficult to believe that it was Bates’ debut. These poems have haunted me since I first read them—the opening poem in particular has an image of violence that I cannot shake from my head no matter how hard I try (which is the mark of something worth reading, in my opinion). Judas Goat was rich with imagery, and told dozens of stories that wrapped up into one cohesive narrative and swept me up entirely into their world. This is a poet to watch, if you aren’t looking already.
Postcolonial Love Poem by Natalie Diaz
Natalie Diaz is a gem in the poetry world. This collection won the Pulitzer in 2021 and it was easy to see why. These poems were fluid, unique, and inventive. Though I enjoyed her first collection, When My Brother Was An Aztec, Postcolonial Love Poem has you by the throat early on and doesn’t let go until the end. Diaz has such a clear poetic voice—I love that I can read a poem and know instantly that it’s hers. I don’t know what else to say other than if you’re a poetry reader, this is something you should put on your radar.
Odes To Lithium by Shira Erlichman
I loved this collection so much that I taught from it at the Excavation Retreat earlier this year (which was very full circle since I attended a workshop by Shira Erlichmann at the very first retreat I attended, at the Poets House in NYC). I’ve had this on my tbr list for a long time and this year it was finally time to read it. These poems explore mental illness with rawness, tenderness, and ingenuity. In one of my favorite poems, Phineas Gage is half-visitor, half-lover, in the speaker’s house. What more could you want from a collection?
This will ring especially true for those that have Bipolar Disorder or who have known someone with it. They are not entirely straightforward pieces (perhaps not the first poetry collection you should read, if you’re new to the genre), but there is an unmistakable energy sizzling at the edge of the pages. You can’t help but dive in and get lost.
frank: sonnets by Diane Seuss
Another Pulitzer Prize winner, this one from 2022 (I guess I agree with whoever decides these things). What amazed me about Seuss’ collection was how subtly she weaved a narrative through this collection. You think you’re just reading a series of sonnets, and then suddenly you’re halfway through and realizing that you’re moving through a chronology of someone’s life, someone’s lived experiences. It’s full of incredibly written lines and poems that stand alone (though are better when looked at in the greater context of the collection). This is one you’ll want to reread as soon as you’re finished, to pick up on everything you missed the first time around.
HONORABLE MENTIONS
AKA, books that almost made it onto this list and I feel the need to highlight.
If On A Winter’s Night A Traveler by Italo Calvino (experimental fiction)
Starfish by Lisa Fipps (young reader novel-in-verse)
The Idiot by Elif Batuman (contemporary fiction)
In Cold Blood by Truman Capote (true crime/narrative nonfiction)
Moby Dick by Herman Melville (classic fiction)
Rosemary’s Baby by Ira Levin (classic horror)
Gerald’s Game by Stephen King (horror)
We Have Always Lived In The Castle by Shirley Jackson (classic horror)
Soft Science by Franny Choi (poetry)
A Little Life by Hanya Yanagihara (contemporary fiction—read at your own risk, and I mean that sincerely)
Homegoing by Yaa Gyasi (historical/contemporary fiction)
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My wish for all of you as we move into 2024 is that you have the time to do what you need to do. I feel like this tweet has really summed up the year for me:
But I’m hopeful that next year I’ll be able to figure everything out. I’m sitting at my desk this morning, looking at the yellow grass on the lawn before me, thinking, too, about how arbitrary a new year’s resolution is. Time is something invented, and to buy into anything man-made too deeply feels like a bad idea. But I’m going to wake up tomorrow and feel different despite that. I’m going to go to work on Tuesday and probably write the wrong year on somebody’s gift certificate and sigh in sharp frustration. Buy into it or not, the new year carries a certain unique and often romantic quality to it. I’m equal parts scared and eager to see what it is.
Thank you for reading along with this newsletter in 2023. Here’s to more marginalia and more dancing..
Until 2024,
Caitlin