Books like Edith Holler — picked by fans

I’ve seen this book described in terms of confectionery repeatedly, and sure—it’s a sweet love story. It’s also a story about grief and loss, family secrets, and deepening a connection between mother and daughter across time and place. And did I mention the sweet love story? Because I’m a sucker for a good (and believable) romance, and this is an A-plus entry in the genre.

Added bonus: it definitely made me want to travel to Italy even more than I already did.

I come from a dysfunctional family. Perhaps that’s why I’m drawn, like a rubbernecker to the scene of an accident, to novels about dysfunctional families.

To quote Tolstoy: “Happy families are all alike. Unhappy families are different, each in their own way.” To call the family that inhabits the house in We All Live Here unhappy is putting it mildly. They’re more like survivors of a shipwreck adrift at sea in a lifeboat, hoping to be rescued before they die or kill each other.

This novel is funny, wickedly so at times, with a lot of heart. And like the patriarch of its fictional family, a failed actor with substance abuse issues and a habit of stretching the truth when it suits him, never dull.  

I loved this book because it was a psychological thriller, done right.

I was guessing the whole time, second-guessing myself when I thought I might have some of it figured out. I admire Lisa Jewell’s writing and her ability to make you want to read through the discomfort.

Ultimately, I love how this book showed a mother’s unrelenting search for the truth and how a mother won’t give up until she has answers for her child. It had me flipping the pages furiously til the end.

Melanie’s memoir is a testament to how love and grief can live side by side.

Her story of grappling with faith, family, and loss resonated deeply with me, and her prose is simply luminous—elegant, honest, and profoundly moving. Like my own path, Melanie’s journey is about making peace with life’s messiness—finding the courage to create beauty in the ruins and hold fast to love, even when faith itself is in doubt.

I came away reminded that doubt is not the opposite of faith, but the companion that keeps it real and tender.

This book includes one of the most famous portrayals of a sculpture on stage, and is one of my favorite Shakespeare plays. One of his later works, it combines a story very like the tragedy of Othello with a second half that has an entirely different mood of youth and hope, love, and redemption.

In the play’s final scene (spoiler alert!), a party including King Leontes and his newly-found daughter, Perdita, gathers to admire the work of a celebrity sculptor, Julio Romano. The statue perfectly depicts Leontes’ wronged wife, Hermione, whom he believed dead.

In this glorious moment, Hermione comes back to him in the form of a living statue stepping down from its pedestal. There’s a delightful ballet version of the play, too.

I loved this book because it was another daughter reminiscing about her relationship with her father following his death.

I could empathize with the emptiness Schultz felt in the midst of her father’s absence, but also feel the joy she experienced when remembering him. Also, I like reading books written by other lesbians, especially books about family.

In hard times, we rely on family to support us emotionally, and Schulz, through her relationship with her partner, demonstrated that beautifully. 

Katya Apekina’s debut novel, The Deeper the Water the Uglier the Fish, compelled me to do something that I have not done in a very long time: read an entire book, cover to cover, in a single night.

There are certain writers who excel at meting out their prose with deceptive flatness, or muted lucidity (Raymond Carver and Marguerite Duras being two prime examples), and it is this “awesome simplicity,” of which the jazz musician Charles Mingus raved, which Apekina deftly demonstrates in her rendering of a searing family drama and modern American gothic.

Subtly weaving together a tapestry of voices and shifting perspectives, the novel centers on two teenage daughters—Edith, sixteen, and Mae, fourteen—who go to live with their dad in New York, after their mother has been hospitalized for a suicide attempt and breakdown.

Their dad, about whom Mae has no memories and Edith has a scattered scarcity… show more.

This book appealed to me because of its strong central character, Helena, who’s carrying around a big secret. Let’s face it—we all have secrets. But most of our secrets are comparatively minor. Helena’s is anything but. Helena’s past is complicated, which makes the plot complicated, just the way I like plots, but the book is still easy enough to follow.

I was interested to see how Helena appreciated some aspects of her past life, even if most people would consider her present life much better. I kept wanting to know more about this imagined place in the U.P., which seemed so strange even though it’s not that far from St. Ignace or Sault Ste. Marie or even the Mackinaw Bridge. 

Ree Dolly is seventeen, raising her little brothers because her mother is too mentally unwell to do it herself, while her meth-cooking father has gone missing. His disappearance will ruin her already impoverished family if Ree cannot figure out what has happened.

Woodrell's Ozarks are in the same territory as my own debut, in pretty much every way: geographically, culturally, and in terms of the drug epidemic that continues to destroy American communities, especially in the South. Ree and Honey would probably never meet. But the same forces shaped them both, and the same neglect threatens them.

This is the book I would assign as required reading for anyone who is interested in what my book is trying to do.

Many an idealistic young law student like me felt that jolt in our spine early on when we saw up in the balcony of that courthouse a sleepy Scout being told, “Stand up, Jean Louise. Your father’s passin’.”

The movie is as faithful to the novel as the medium would allow. The novel is told entirely from Scout’s POV and not only focuses upon the racism of the time and place, but also upon her coming of age as a tomboy and being told to act “As a little girl should.”

The book offers more to those of us for whom the rule of law and not of men is a passion, especially in Finch’s closing: “There is one human institution that makes a pauper the equal of Rockefeller, a stupid man the equal of Einstein… That institution, gentlemen, is a court.”