Books like Half Broke — picked by fans

Tory Bilski hooked me with her first line. I searched riding trips sites by the end of the paragraph. Wild Horses of the Summer Sun is a crafted odyssey. The book gifts us with Icelandic horses, foreign travel exploration, and the human (and herd) dynamic of a group of women who crave to “be Iceland.”

Tory is a writer in all that the craft implies. Her storytelling speaks to the explorer in us. She guides us around each mystical curve and through a physical (and emotional) blinding fog. She swims us across a (gulp) deep lake. We encounter “Tippi Hedren-esk” killer birds and truculent bulls. We hunger for the “gifts of the earth” meals and well-earned, decadent desserts. Ancient Nordic Sagas of trolls, ghosts and a fatal love affair spice the travelogue.

Bernice tells us a story. Her clean, quiet narrative rides us with her. Bernice was soft spoken, unpretentious, and steadily courageous. A long-time, long distance, trail boss told me he was humbled after sitting on an Adventure Riding panel with Bernice.

Bernice lived and wrote the partnership she had with her horses. Her book is a last gift to those of us who dream of horse adventure.

Horse People is an oldie but a goodie. It is a canter through Central Park... being thrown onto the hood of a taxi... his horse startled on Columbus and Ninth then trying to back through the door of the White Tower hamburger shop. It is riding lessons on Staten Island, and close-your-eyes-and-hope-for-the-best at the Break Your Neck Fox Hunt. Korda’s story is honest—an equestrian smile. My ego was salved when I read some activities on horseback scared Korda too. The quality writing takes us over each jump.

Timmons’s little treasure book is “Nuggets of truth for people who love horses... no matter what” (Bonnie Timmons quote). Hold Your Horses is a laugh at ourselves and the horses we love. We are exposed on her pages. Our goofs, gaffs, and trials are not easily explained to those who don’t kiss horse faces. Timmons’ book is a smile, a cringe, and an “I am not alone.” No arduous tome, each page of this little book is a quick elbow in our equine-loving ribs.

The Gen X memoir that I didn’t know I needed.

Most memoirs of Native life describe Native-White relationships. Taffa dives into relationships among Native communities and between Native and Chicanx neighbors and family members in both the Fort Yuma Quechan Reservation and Farmington, New Mexico.

Threaded throughout are the TV shows and diner dinners and dusty hikes and radio soundtracks that almost any New Mexican who came of age in the 1980s and 1990s will remember.

This was a wonderful novel that gave me a sense of how cruel the Spanish occupation was in New Mexico in the 1600s. I loved how Anaya adapted Spanish folktales throughout the novel.

The Spanish treatment of indigenous people can be compared to any occupier, even in present times. The main character in the novel is the Governor of New Mexico and his difficulties governing Pueblo Indians and other indigenous tribes who reject the Spanish occupation and the religious beliefs of the Catholic Church. He is a sympathetic character who has just lost his wife and is lonely.

A group of Pueblo Indians are arrested for plotting a rebellion against the Spanish—the punishment is usually harsh: either death or enslavement. One of the conspirators is a fifteen-year-old girl named Serafina, who speaks Spanish well and is a gifted storyteller. She makes a wager with the governor to tell him a… show more.

It’s so tough to choose just one novel from Phyllis Whitney’s voluminous stack.

She is quite arguably the queen of the gothic suspense genre. With this pick published in 1974, I am highlighting my very first read by her.

Why do I love it? It rocked my world and, to this day, draws me right into its web.

With all her books, she depicts unique settings that allow for “armchair travel”. This one is set in what was a completely exotic location to my younger self, the American Southwest.

I also learned about the element of suspense from this novel mixed together with gothic details. The mask and how it fits into this mystery is so chilling that I have never forgotten it.

By now, McCarthy is well known for his books on the Southwest. Cities of the Plain is painfully overlooked.

I read it in college as a precocious creative writing major and fell in love because the towns mentioned (Belén, where my grandmother was born, as example) were familiar to me and yet I had no idea these nowhere places of my youth were known to anybody else in the world, to say nothing about their value to any artistic form.

Unlike All the Pretty Horses, Cities of the Plain has zero romanticism to it: it’s a contemporary, hard-driven tale of ranching in the badlands of New Mexico. McCarthy focuses on the pumpjacks and the stench of creosote that encapsulate the southern part of the state.

There’s also a gruesomely funny passage about an Oldsmobile and dozens of jackrabbits. 

This is a gritty depiction of a young boy whose decisions are far from a child’s resolve. The portrait McCarthy gives the reader left me with trail dust in my throat it was so gritty. I was uprooted from my easy, protected life and transformed into the world of 16-year-old Billy as he chooses the hard way.

His decisions have consequences, but his resolve is strong.

One of my permanent, permanent favorites. Cather’s novel about a pair of French Catholic missionaries in 19th-century New Mexico is a lot of things: a portrait of a complex and life-giving friendship, a “loveship,” if I can borrow from Alice Munro.

It’s also an immersive historical treatment of Catholic proselytizing in the Southwest and a lyric poem about the beauty of that land. It’s smart about the rigors and consolations and the inevitable condescension of missionary work. It’s smart about everything. A perfect book.