Books like The Artist of Blackberry Grange

I first loved Rebecca for its atmosphere, but what stayed with me was something more unsettling: how completely another person’s version of the past can shape the present.

I remember finishing it and thinking about how easily we accept a story when everyone around us seems to believe it. As a writer, I keep returning to that idea.

Du Maurier showed me that an absence can dominate a novel as powerfully as a living character, and that what people refuse to say can matter as much as what they reveal. That has stayed with me in my own writing about memory, silence, and family secrets.

This incredible read was especially so because I remembered every single plot point and detail from the 1970s TV series—which was truly faithful to the novel—despite being young when I watched the show.

Upon finishing the novel, it made perfect sense why it had stuck in my memory grooves like cement. Because this story… this story… is really, really something. The fictional village in the story is called Cornwall Coombe because the villagers are all descendants of Cornish people who settled the area.

It delves into folk traditions from the ages brought over and carried out. These traditions are the basis of a gothic, folk horror nightmare that unravels for a family who move into the town and leads to a truly chilling outcome.

In this book, the author reveals herself to be a mistress of the craft as the storyline is deftly spooled out and never dips into a lull or period of tedium.

It is an impressive feat to keep the reader’s interest line by line. Then there is this gothic plot. I listened to Wright discuss the inspiration of this story at a book festival panel called “American Gothic,” where she explained the profound influence of the Shakespeare play, Measure for Measure, and how it formed a loose framework for this novel.

That said, though, this story is so refreshingly original—no tropes, no obvious plot points. I continued to be struck by this originality as I read it. I did not want the experience to end; however, I could let it go for one reason: SNAKES!! 

This novel's compelling cover reeled in this reader straightaway and, indeed, delivers with a plot that captures the gothic folk horror genre in a tidy and well-written package.

As I read it, it felt like Harvest Home and The Wicker Man were seated on either shoulder. Overarching the story is also a "morality play" at work, expertly woven in. Bonus points for historical roots and an English village setting.

So original, so folky horror, so good and, simply put, a treat.

It’s hard to go home again after you’ve lived outside the state for several years, but coming home knowing everyone thinks you’ve killed a man after his body turns up? Well, that’s a great way to open a book, and it just gets better.

Kelly Ford always paints a nuanced picture of Arkansas, juxtaposing the region’s beauty and potential with the poverty and reality of actually growing up there. The relationship between Janie and her high school love interest, Gloria, builds beautifully with a plot twist I didn’t see coming.

Nothing much happens in Maggody, Arkansas, so Arly Hanks figures her job as the first female police chief will be a yawn. Life is so boring that the locals resorted to gobbling up every rumor of creatures from outer space invading their burg.

Give me an irreverent protagonist, dialogue dripping with sarcasm, and a zany plot that spits in the eye of society’s absurdity. I love the way life-long Arkansan Hess gleefully makes mincemeat of the hypocrisy of the caste hierarchy often found in small southern towns by reducing them to a parody of themselves.

I’m a happy camper when a Queen of Cozies like Hess pushes a mystery to the brink of merry madness—and then pushes it even farther.

I love a quirky small-town mystery with screwball comedy, and this one absolutely delivers–with a wonderful twist: the detective is Sheriff Arly Hanks, a woman forced to go home and start over after a meltdown in the big city.

I love Arly’s intelligence and spirit…and the fact that while she has a gun (and even a bullet or two), she doesn’t need more than her wits and the help of the crazy locals–including her own mother–to catch the killer. She’s my favorite funny, badass woman sleuth. 

Once upon a time, I was the founder and president of a book club, Literary Ladies Alliance. Many moons ago, LLA chose Sugar as our monthly reading selection. I was absolutely floored by this unlikely, unconventional heroine of the same name as the novel set in a small southern town that wasn’t ready for this seductive storm, i.e. Sugar. I found her shockingly bold and beautifully unapologetic despite her disreputable past and “questionable morals.” She hungered for love, endured dangerous risks and scandal; and yet for me, Sugar moved with an air of voluptuous freedom that captivated my church girl imagination and respect. While Dianne McKinney Whetstone is my favorite author, Sugar is undoubtedly my favorite novel! I’ve read the book twice and would readily devour it again for its captivating journey back in time and its uncharacteristic, boldly unforgettable heroine. 

I was working as a flak at Simon & Schuster when this book came out, and I helped to write the flap copy, so it feels to me like I had a hand in it. As an aspiring writer, I remember admiring the hell out of this novel. On a recent re-read, as a grizzled, wizened veteran writer, I still do. Hays gives us a collection of memorable characters, and a wild, vagabonding tale that offers a glimpse at minor league life in the deep South. There’s humor and heartache and all that good stuff. 

One of nine Black students to integrate the high school in Little Rock, Arkansas in 1957, Beals faces threats to her life as well as constant cruelty not only from white people but also from members of her own community, who disapprove of her decision. Her book gives us an unflinching account of what it feels like to be inside the maelstrom. Education seems almost beside the point when she needs protection from the National Guard. Most resonant to me, Beals admits that being a warrior for social change is exhausting. “Sometimes,” she writes in her diary, “I just need to be a girl.”