Books like Colonial Ecology, Atlantic Economy — picked by fans

I love this book because it does such a masterful job of demonstrating how peoples, states, and the natural environment are closely linked with one another.

The book is about early modern Venice and its mainland empire, its immense and constant need for wood, and the state’s efforts to ensure that need could be sustainably met in both the near and distant future. The Venetians came to understand nature through the careful conservation of a vital but fragile resource, and their government developed to meet that challenge.

Over four centuries Venice created a unique bureaucracy of forestry and forest management, staffed by experts and tasked with counting and maintaining all of the trees within its vast territories.

A fascinating look at the use of coal as a main fuel source in early modern London, the fearsome pollution that resulted from it, and efforts to understand and mitigate the effects of that pollution.

I think the most impressive aspect of this book is how many different approaches Cavert takes in examining his topic—political and legal history, history of science, social and economic history, even literary criticism. He argues that London was the first “modern” city in that it was the first to rely heavily on burning fossil fuels to provide the energy that powered its early industrial economy.

Another book about wood, but this one focuses on England and its early empire on both sides of the Atlantic.

With chapters that address England, Ireland, Virginia, Bermuda, and Barbados, Pluymers shows just how complicated it could be even to understand the diverse forests found throughout the empire, let alone exploit and profit from them. I especially like the way he combines the broadest geographical scope with careful attention to the local details and nuances of each woodland he studies.

He also does a wonderful job of showing how both local needs and global markets shaped the ways that woodlands were understood and managed.

Mulry also takes Britain and its trans-Atlantic empire as her focus.

What most impressed me about the book was the exciting way she shows how individual health and personal character, public health, the natural environment, and statecraft were all strangely intertwined in the 17th century.

She argues that the many schemes for “improving” the landscape of both England and its overseas colonies were intended not only to yield a profit for investors, but also to foster public health and knit together the far-flung empire into a healthy body politic. I find myself recommending this book on a regular basis.

The first great American trashy novel, Peyton Place today seems rather tame, but in its day, it was scandalous. Plucking it from my mother’s bookcase when I was 14, I was engrossed by its roaring passion and sensational secrets.

Set in a small New England town, the book set the stage for the modern soap opera, and I wolfed it down like a big box of candy. It reminds me of those great, heady melodramas of the 1950s (and was itself made into a fabulously sudsy film in 1957), an intoxicating mix of all things forbidden.

I adored the fact that it was literary, which it doesn’t get enough credit for. I think its opening line—“Indian summer is like a woman…”—is one of the best in mid-20th Century literature. 

We highly recommend this capacious “counter-archive” of Native writing because it definitively lays to rest the myth of the “vanishing Indian.” Covering more than four centuries, it includes work from ten tribal nations from Maine to Connecticut in the form of early political petitions and land deeds to contemporary poetry and blogs. We love that its editor, a non-Native scholar, drew on the expertise of eleven Native editors from tribal communities for its diverse content, sourced from oral narratives, manuscripts stored in garages, and passed-around bootlegged copies. We also love that the book inspired a website for the extra material and for new work being produced now. In this sense, the website is a living document that illuminates the long history and vibrant presence of Indigenous writing.

This is one of the nonfiction books I read as a teenager that convinced me to become a professional writer. The author, Sebastian Junger, doesn’t just describe the titular storm (which hit the U.S. East Coast in 1991) in terrifying detail—he also manages to assemble all of the weather-driven chaos into a real, gripping narrative. We don’t know a lot about what actually happened to the Andrea Gail, the fishing boat at the center of the narrative, but Junger recreates its final hours in a way that feels bracingly real—and heartbreaking.

Even if you don’t like nonfiction books, The Perfect Storm has the pacing and heart of a novel. I consider it one of the finest—maybe the finest—disaster narrative ever written, and it’s a perfect choice of book if you’re trapped inside by a raging storm.

Although shorter than the other books on my list, I think the story and art is none the less impactful. The Wendy Project deals with grief, especially grief in younger readers with a gentle understanding. I loved the unique approach to the whole book as well. The book is the journal of the main character Wendy, who receives it and starts to draw in it during the events of the story. I found The Wendy Project in my hands at a time when I was struggling to acknowledge my own grief, and it certainly nudged me to face it.  

This book has all my favorite detective fiction elements: a beautiful cover, an independent heroine, Abigail Rook, crime-solving alongside an elusive detective, R.F. Jackaby, and a solid plot that kept me guessing until the end. Set in late nineteenth-century New England, Rook teams up with Jackaby in a parallel to a Watson-Holmes relationship except this detective novel features the supernatural. Rook learns quickly that Jackaby stands out among detectives as he can see supernatural creatures. I love so much about this book, particularly the chemistry between Rook and Jackaby as co-investigators. This is a must-read not only for detective fiction fans, but for Dr. Who and Buffy the Vampire Slayer fans as well.  

I chose this quietly devastating first novel by Susan Minot because it is a delicate family story, thought to be based on her own childhood of growing up as one of seven children. When it came out, many of her siblings became upset with her portrayal of events; a few even wrote their own novels with their version of what they perceived as “the truth”. My own sister stopped speaking to me when I sent her my first memoir to read. She eventually came around, and told me she was glad I’d told our story. I believe that the truth is not a solid, but a liquid. Truth is personal—it’s what we see, assume or believe filtered through our own lens and experience.