Books like Dolores Claiborne — picked by fans

This is the first novel I ever loved.

I initially read the story in sixth grade, then again in high school, both as assignments. At the time, I didn’t consider why I loved the book. I only marveled that a novel could be enjoyable. Until then, they’d been homework (emphasis on work) to slog through, mountains to climb to make sure I got an A.

I’ve read Rebecca many times since. What I can see now is that this story speaks painful truths that, as a child, I was living: that poison can lurk behind a beautiful face and within a picture-perfect life. Most importantly, Du Maurier gave me a new idea: that a quiet, honorable, well-meaning person can be the hero of their own story.

Humor wielded with ill intention is a cruel weapon. Yet in thoughtful and caring hands, laughter is such a balm.

This is a hard story, yet I’m not sure I can count how often I laughed out loud while reading—not at someone’s expense but at Gail Honeyman’s ability to adeptly portray so many of the odd moments that come along with being a human on this earth.

Most importantly, this story beautifully illustrates how one person with more emotional baggage than anyone should have to carry is able to walk herself into a peaceful life so different than the one that nearly crippled her. And of the help she gets along the way.

I fell into this story with the first line and barely came up for air until I was done.

I’m not sure I’ve ever read a book filled with so much beautiful and tragic truth, or an ending that filled me with so much optimism. Thousands have written gorgeous reviews about the story, the characters, the writing—so I won’t even attempt that here. 

These lines, from the book, are among the most beautiful and meaningful to me: “If you are surrounded by those who call what you are different instead of beautiful. If your mind or body has cried out for peace and acknowledgement and understanding, just know…You are part of an infinite family. The people who have been through terrible things and survived them. If you are reading these words, you WON today.”

A painful truth about the times we live in is that people often throw judgement when they hear about something terrible: Why didn’t they do something? How could they let that happen? My suspicion is that people judge because they cannot fathom—or bear to fathom—that such tragedy occurs. Others of us know it does.

In this story, Kate Elizabeth Russell profoundly illustrates how a perfect storm of people not-doing-their-best can guide an innocent and well-meaning person right into the arms of a monster. And how those events haunt her until she’s able to face the truth of what happened.

Most importantly, we see how that same person, with the help of honorable people, puts one foot in front of the other and walks herself back out to wholeness.

I’ve read many of this author’s works and enjoyed them all, but this one really dug in, grabbed on, and held tight.

I loved the fact that it covered generations instead of a short timeframe; it gave me more insight into the people and relationships. Transplanting a Low Country girl used to a simple life to the summer home of an upper-crust New Englander accustomed to only the finer things promises conflict, which we got in spades, starting with a mother-in-law who could barely hide her hostility.

This highly elevates the uncomfortable dynamics in extended families, and the challenges overcome—and those that aren’t—make the story incredibly satisfying.

I love this book because it is laser-focused on family relationships. Maine delves into the secrets and simmering emotions of one dysfunctional family during a crossroads summer.

It’s a ruthless yet tender ode to how understanding can bloom even in the most strained family relationships. I loved the quirky cast of family members and the beautifully rendered descriptions of the cottage and the town. I felt like I was along for the ride.

If you’re interested in learning about domestic violence from a cross-cultural perspective, the literature on domestic violence in anthropology is an excellent place to look.

This is the second book by Jennifer Wies and Hillary Haldane, two anthropologists who have carved out a space for understanding how to apply anthropological insights to actual domestic violence work. This book offers cross-cultural ideas for how to do just that from a variety of anthropologists working all around the world who continue to work together on this issue from an applied anthropological perspective.

Both Wies and Haldane are mentors of mine, and Haldane was a huge support in the development of my own research. I have also collaborated with several of the authors in this book and can attest to the excellence of their research.

As a writer of feminist myths, Kartika Nair’s exquisite poetic retelling of the Mahabharata from the women’s perspective felt like it was written for me. The title is from the African writer Chinua Achebe’s words, "Until the lions have their own historians, the history of the hunt will always glorify the hunter." Using formal poetry, free verse, and prose, Nair has created a palimpsest of the great Indian epic of kingship and warring dynasties which is several times the length of The Iliad and The Odyssey combined. Here the mothers, wives, sisters, and lovers of the protagonists tell their stories, providing a counterpoint to the much-quoted verse from the epic: "All that is found here can be found elsewhere, but what is not here can be found nowhere."

Band of Sisters gives us a book full of heroism, valor, combat action, and real sacrifices of women fighting in a foreign war. For me, this book beautifully portrays why women continue to serve—it highlights comradery, the willingness to put oneself in danger for another, the pride in a job well done, the ability to continue on after the unthinkable. Especially after reading a book such as The Lonely Soldier, Band of Sisters shows what The Lonely Soldier is missing—that women, too, want to fiercely fight and fiercely protect. It also proves that there are no front lines in modern war, and that women engage in combat, proving themselves well-suited for the role. A must-have to shut up those people who say, “Well, women don’t actually see combat.”   

Who hasn’t felt the urge to run away and start over at some point? And who hasn’t been devastated that the world we finally return to has been irrevocably altered?

In this book, Munro paints portraits of relatable, believable women who are dissatisfied with life and love and yearn for the better. Three stories focus on the same character, Juliet, who finds real life never matches her repressed expectations. She does a wonderful job of making us feel the frustrations, disappointments, and monumental significance of the mundane in our bones.