100 Books Like The Dressmakers of Prospect Heights

I love character rich, slow-burn reads and Waters always delivers.

The Paying Guests is set in 1922 London and eloquently (with psychological twists) reveals the effects of post-WWI. During the war, the protagonist, 27-year-old Francis, had found her independence in many liberating ways, and Mrs. Wray, her mother, clung to her genteel social status. Now that her husband and sons are dead, they’re forced to scrub their own floors and take in boarders, i.e., “paying guests,” Leonard and Lillian, a modern lower-class couple, in order to keep their home.

I never suspected what would ensue—from clandestine lovers to empowered women, to murder. Waters paints the changing times, social constraints, and class distinctions with a fine-tipped pen.

Each time I read this American classic, it changes in meaning and relevance.

Told from Francie’s point of view, it’s a family’s coming-of-age story about overcoming personal and societal choices in order to persevere and grow, just like the tree in the title. Smith is one of the first authors to write about the real, human struggles of working-class Americans at the start of the 20th century.

A Tree Grows in Brooklyn is not a light, whimsical read but it’s one that sticks with me. I relate to Francie, a vulnerable, observant young woman who uses her writing as a way to process, explore, and eventually propel her into a different life, away from the trauma and poverty of her beloved Brooklyn.

This book is one that everyone needs to read and that I find myself going back to again and again.

Character-driven stories are my favorites, and The Hazelbourne Ladies Motorcycle and Flying Club soars high with emboldened women forced to make significant changes.

Constance and her new-found friends, Poppy and her motorcycle crew, are faced with being “surplus women” since so many men were killed in the Great War. While being peppered with fascinating historic facts, I unwittingly learned about the untold prejudices, rules of class, abrupt life changes, and the camaraderie of friendships.

Simonson’s whimsical writing, from the British seaside hotel setting to the delightful cast of characters weaves this coming-of-age story in such a way that it’s hard to put down.

Don’t be fooled by the cover, The Masterpiece is an excellent dual-timeline about two seemingly ordinary women fighting for their independence in the same place, yet from two distinct time periods.

In 1928 Clara, a confident illustrator and art instructor and in 1974 Virginia, a recently divorced tollbooth operator, found themselves working at New York City’s Grand Central Terminal.

Davis brilliantly braids both stories about complicated flawed women challenging social injustices and entitled men of their time within a fascinating setting. (Yes, 50 years apart and they're dealing with similar issues!)

I stayed up late discovering how their stories coincide once Virginia uncovered a painting by Clara. Talk about unknown history—who knew there was an art school upstairs in the Grand Central Terminal or that it was almost demolished?!

This is a fun-filled mystery set in 1920s London. Cozies are not usually my thing, but I recently gave this a go as I am also writing a series in that exact time period and thought I’d see how Kinsey set about it. The historical beautifully captures the exuberance of the time period after World War I. Women have emerged from behind closed doors to interact on equal status as men, jazz music parades the pages with wild abandon, and the slang of the characters is spot on. The twists, turns, and action are blended in with the rich description to make this a delightful read.  

Ooh, get ready for a wild ride with this series. It’s cozy, but fast-paced and full of intrigue!

I’d love to be a part of these adventures. Each mystery is tangled around one or more characters, and I found myself rooting for all of them. And some of the villains? Well, they might have snuck their way into my affections as well because not all characters are simple, and some have a way of growing, changing, and becoming friends. Also, Dragons. The main one in this series is a doozy. 

This novel is hilarious. When I first read it, I was jealous that I hadn't written it—which is a silly feeling to have about a book that came out in the 1920s, I admit. It's a diary written by a blonde showgirl named Lorelei Lee, who uses her feminine wiles to get wealth from the gentlemen callers who want to "educate" her. Loralei isn't very smart—the diary is riddled with misspellings and confused assumptions—but she has a kind of innocence and practicality that keeps you rooting for her throughout. With her friend Dorothy, a brunette, she arranges it so that everything always works out in her favor, which usually includes lots and lots of diamond jewelry. 

This is not a novel, but a collection of Lardner's newspapers columns and short stories, many of which revolve around a bush league pitcher named Jack Keefe who tells stories to his friend.

I love baseball and am fascinated by the early days of the game, and Lardner's Jack makes me feel as if I am experiencing life in baseball's “bushes” back in the 1920s. Oh, yea, that's the other draw of this book for me a view, from his columns and other stories, of the daily grind of American life in an era that was much more than flappers and bathtub gin. (Although there is a bit of both therein). 

Probably the biggest tragedy of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s life was his wife Zelda’s descent into mental illness.

This magnificent biography chronicles their tumultuous relationship as well as Zelda’s upbringing, and how she became the perfect flapper, independent and even a little wild. While the story is drenched in sadness as we all know its ending, this book reveals the struggles of creative women to be respected and seen as individuals, not just appendages to their famous husbands.

It also illuminates Scott’s enduring love for Zelda. Even as he had an affair at the end of his life, he never abandoned his wife to public institutions, insisting she have the best care, no matter the expense, at private ones.

This might be my favorite history book, period. Conor explains how “modern womanhood” in Australia came into being and was marked by the successful managing of one’s (sexualized and objectified) public appearance, including the way “primitive woman” (aboriginal or black) was constructed as a colonialist foil for the modern (white) Australian woman—whether she was a “screen-struck” movie fan, beauty contestant, or flapper. This book makes clear how women, as the principal focus of a newly visual mass media, came to define their “liberation” in sexual as well as racial and nationalist terms.