100 Books Like A Manual for Cleaning Women

Novellas are a perfect place to start for poets who are interested in writing longer, more narrative work. They’re slim, lyrical, and less daunting. I read this novella in college & haven’t stopped thinking about it since. It takes place in what I can only refer to as a “Sleeping Brothel” where elderly men pay to sleep beside young women. The story is haunting, but it doesn’t take cheap horror shots. Instead, it delves into the complexity of loneliness, the shared vulnerability of sleep, and the human need for comfort.

This French novella was written in the early ’90s but translated in 2019 to English for the first time. It lacks structure and is full of plot holes, but Serre’s writing is equal parts whimsical and erotic. It feels a bit like she wrote it in one sitting during some kind of fever dream but that’s why it feels like a poem. If you’re into chaotic women and turn of the century kink, then this is for you.

Justin Torres’s exquisite novel will make you want to beam and bawl and fight in all the best ways.

It tells the story of a clear-eyed, tender-hearted boy navigating a world where true safety is hard to find. As he comes of age in rural New York State in the 1980s, messages about masculinity, race, sexuality, and the expectations of family swirl around him, often violently, punctuating the world of inquisitive play he and his two older brothers create together.

We witness as Torres’s narrator fights for a vision of his own freedom, a complex fight that resists tidy endings, offering echoing truths instead. 

I’ll never forget this book because it put me front and center of a murder trial from the perspective of the victim’s family.

Imagine sitting in court and looking into the eyes of the man who killed your nearest and dearest. What would that feel like? How would I even begin to process that experience?

I found this story really opened a whole new perspective in the genre of true crime writing. 

I’m recommending this book because it brilliantly captures the overwhelm and mania of a woman whose husband of fifteen years has left her for a younger woman. This novel likewise brilliantly captures the overwhelm and mania of being responsible for children and living within the flimsy identity of being a wife and mother. 

What I like best about this book is its darkness and strangeness. Raising children is full of paranoia, fear, and threats of danger at every turn, and a mother’s state of mind trickles down to all aspects of childrearing. It is refreshing to read such well-rendered (even darkly funny) desperation of a mom. 

This mesmerised me and I still think about it often.

A daughter has taken her mother to Spain to see a doctor who they hope will be able to cure her from a mysterious physical paralysis. 

This is a throbbing sun-bleached, Mediterranean world, explorations of troubled familial bonds, of the nature of sexuality, an examination of exile, reminding me at times of Virginia Woolf in its interiority – and the writing is masterly: “My love for my mother is like an axe. It cuts very deep.”

A constellation of symbols scattered throughout with such a deft touch that it left me in love with Levy and wishing she was my friend in real life not just in the magic world of the written page.

Why Did I Ever falls into my favorite genre of fiction, which I will describe loosely as “narrated by a sardonic, wincingly funny, tragic woman.” (See also: Lorrie Moore, Amy Hempel, Lauren Groff, Mary Gaitskill, among others.)

The narrator, Money, is a self-sabotaging script doctor whose daughter, Mev, is addicted to opioids, and whose son is under police protection following a violent assault. 

As a seemingly directionless woman who spends much of the book driving or sourcing Ritalin, Money counts, in my books, as a “transgressive” mother. She’s also charming and likable. This book is dark and deeply affecting at times. At many other times, it’s hilarious. I recommend it to anyone who loves that hinterland — between the tragic and darkly funny.

Without giving too much away, this book follows a woman who lost a baby. We don’t witness her as a mother, as such. She’s someone whose choices resulted in no child at all. Instead, we witness her in a cavernous, self-destructive funk, in which she leaves her husband and flees to an ambiguous seaside town. 

Here, she drinks too much. She falls asleep in public places. She charms men, just to feel her power over them. And also — she longs for something. Deeply. Like the protagonists in all these stories, she remains somehow absolvable, despite the moments where she does something abhorrent or perplexing. 

If you were to list the protagonist’s transgressions on paper, the character portrait would be unflattering, even loathsome at times. But that’s not how I perceived her. I found myself sympathetic, charmed, and wanting to be her friend.

I have long thought that if the “Star Spangled Banner” was ever to be replaced—it shouldn’t be!—the new national anthem should be “God Bless America,” written by Irving Berlin in 1918 and revised in the years before World War II. I adore how author Churnin gets in all the essentials about Berlin’s path to America, fleeing hate in Russia to find a new home…and falling in love with it.

I was dazzled to learn that Berlin gave all his song royalty money to the Scouts. I think he was a great American; his song makes me love America more, and so does his story. 

Many of the plays written by Indigenous playwrights are usually dark and critical. This play is a little different. It’s an unabashed comedy celebrating the Indigenous sense of humour. Essentially, the play is about two German entrepreneurs who travel to a First Nations community planning to build the world’s largest Native theme park, called Ojibway world. The play deals with stereotypes and the global marketing of culture.