100 Books Like Didn't Nobody Give a Shit What Happened to Carlotta

This book is unhinged in the best way. I love Gideon’s unique voice. Around her is a deadly-serious necromancer murder mystery with interplanetary stakes, and she cares more about cracking dirty jokes and finally eating some warm food. Her relationship with her arch-nemesis/only friend Harrow leaps off the page.

I love the scene where they get into a pool so Harrow can finally confess to Gideon her darkest secret—so hot and so disturbing all at the same time. While this book isn’t technically a romance and the genre feels more like a horror fantasy set in space, I couldn’t resist putting it on the list. As Gideon says to Harrow, “One flesh, one end, bitch.”

Like a hipster Brooklyn transgender Sex and the City, this novel is a chatty, hilarious, and moving look at queer folks grasping for parenthood and family in a world where all the rules have been thrown out.

The book’s narrator, transwoman Reese, takes us on this ride with such sardonic, poignant insight about the world she lives in that we begin to feel like we live in it, too. When Reese’s ex, Ames—who has detransitioned from his former transwoman identity, Amy—gets his straight female boss pregnant, the three of them begin negotiating how they might raise the child together.

But the novel’s true power lies in how Reese explains her life and her friends to us—bravely refusing to portray trans people as angelic role models and instead offering something deeper and more endearing: showing them as real people.

When I sent my agent the first few chapters of a memoir I was writing, she told me to begin a different project. “You’re not famous, and you don’t have a distinctive, unforgettable voice like Mary Karr.” Harsh words, but so true. No one writes like Mary Karr. Her narration of her hardscrabble, traumatic upbringing in West Texas combines harsh truth, horror, and humor. The book is evidence that real life can be far more fantastical and engaging than fiction. 

I always love writers who play with language, and Mary Karr is an expert at creating wild and giddy combinations of words to present indelible images. She uses her poetic sensibility to distance herself from difficult memories, making it easier for me to read about them. When, for example, her mentally ill mother abandons the family without notice and returns several days later, everyone is so relieved, they can’t stop… show more.

I turn to Mrs. Ramsay, the wife, mother, and hostess of this book, whenever I question my value in the world. By Victorian standards, she “has it all”: a doting (if difficult) husband, eight loving children (with whom, amazingly, she seems to have no problems), and a comfortable way of life. She alone, not her renowned philosopher spouse, not the young poet nor the dedicated artist who comes for a visit, brings meaning and harmony to a group of guests over one holiday weekend.

Mrs. Ramsay reminds me that nurturing and feeding (in all the meanings of that word) other people is a sacred task, even if our society doesn’t recognize it as such. Even a simple dinner party can partake of spiritual eternity: “Of such moments, she thought, the thing is made that endures.”

When I spend too much of my own day on seemingly mindless chores or… show more.

Until I readthis book, I thought Satan was a bad guy. But the Satan of this book is surprisingly sympathetic. I love re-reading familiar stories from the point of view of a character who is not what I expect. Satan makes his rebellion of angels sound like a popular uprising against an autocratic ruler, one who was not elected but “upheld by old repute,/Consent or custom.” It’s like Satan is the George Washington of Heaven, rising up against God’s King George. And I applaud his acceptance of his current situation in Hell: “Here at least/We shall be free.” No whining or self-pity.

There’s also Satan’s honest self-appraisal. You’d think he’d spent years in psychotherapy. He admits to his “dread of shame,” his love of boasting, and his joy in his own ambition. I love an intelligent, clever, and complex character. When Gabriel chastises Satan for leaving Hell, Satan says… show more.

Who doesn’t love a book with dragons? Bonus—a magic Hogwarts-ish school where you go to learn about how to control your dragon.

The extra twist in To Shape a Dragon’s Breath is that the story is told from the perspective of an indigenous woman, Anequs. People like her aren’t supposed to have dragons, let alone be capable of learning how to manage them. No one at the Anglish dragon school she’s forced to attend believes Anequs can succeed, but Anequs doesn’t care what the Anglish think. 

What I loved about this book was how firmly grounded Anequs is in her family and her people, as well as the confidence that gives her. Anequs never wavers in her belief in herself and the value of indigenous wisdom and culture.

As a professor, I know that sometimes just getting through four years of college can be its own epic struggle, especially when you’re queer and half-Nigerian, like Sahara.

“The unfortunates” is the name Sahara and her friends use to describe the deaths of too many of their fellow Black students. As if that isn’t enough, Sahara sometimes feels like her only companion is her “Life Partner,” the name she gives to the ugly voice of her depression.

I loved the way The Unfortunates is told as an in-your-face “thesis” to Sahara’s university committee that mixes humor with high-stakes struggles. Follow along as Sahara figures out how to survive in the face of a campus and culture that is not just indifferent, but outright hostile.

In this book, I admire how author Vanessa Hua blends intimate storytelling about one teenager into a vast historical saga—drawing on her research skills as a journalist, a background we have in common. In this coming-of-age tale about a secret enclave of pampered and abused teenage girls, I could see why Mei was lured by a promise with feminist allure: that girls can become heroes.

My life experience told me she would get used, yet I loved Mei’s awakening: an idealist transformed into a sexual slave sharpens her wits against Chairman Mao’s even as she becomes his prey, then must use all she’s learned to save herself. Mei’s story is a wake-up call about the dangers women face when societies decline and the price we pay to become heroes.

One of the most kinetic books I read a few years back and told in a kind of beautiful, white-hot stream of consciousness, Sketchtasy is the tale of young, genderqueer Alexa and her friends navigating pleasure and survival in mid-90s, AIDS-battered Boston.

This is no “model LGBTQ person” book; Alexa and her friends, scarred by trauma and addled by every recreational drug on the planet, are creatures of the night, showing off outrageous looks in the clubs and turning tricks to pay the rent and put food in their mouths.

It’s a breakneck-paced look at both exuberant and terrified young queer people right before HIV went from being a near death sentence to a chronic manageable disease. 

Set at the height of the Trump era, this very New York City novel follows its title character, a lesbian former cop turned heroin addict who’s now fresh out of rehab and, in her new job as a private investigator, stumbles onto a murder she becomes determined to solve.

Maggie is a total mess—barely able to navigate a cell phone or the Internet, holding on for dear life at her Narcotics Anonymous meetings, stalking her ex outside her window in the pouring rain, and desperate to have her daughter, whom she was raising with her ex, back in her life.

The novel’s promise of a tight murder mystery kind of unravels, but it doesn’t even matter because Maggie’s fumbling, stumbling effort to put her life back together in a disconcertingly sleek new version of downtown Manhattan is a voyeuristic joy to follow.