100 Books Like The Girls

This book is about a young mother who takes her two daughters to Marrakech, Morocco in the 1960s so she can study Sufism, which, although not technically a “cult” does seem rather cult-like when described from the point of view of a five-year-old child who is watching her mother do strange ritual spinning to try to annihilate her ego.

You might remember the 1998 movie adaptation of this book starring Kate Winslet, but I think the book is better because of its dreamy, almost other-worldly descriptions of street life in Marrakech. This gem of a book is steeped in childlike wonder and longing and it will be over far too soon.

This is the book that made me want to be a novelist. I stole it off my dad’s shelf when I was 11—way too young to be reading about the seedy, violent, sex-fueled underbelly of 1970s counterculture. It’s the story of the an American journalist covering the war in Vietnam who gets the bright idea to smuggle heroin to California. I read it at least once a year, and it gets better every time.

Near the end of the book, an ex-Marine named Ray Hicks flees into the desert with the heroin on his back, gut-shot and bleeding out. The scene, masterfully intercut with hallucinations and memories from Hicks’s childhood, was clearly the inspiration for Frank Semyon’s death in Season Two of True Detective. My advice? Read this book instead. 

This book has haunted me for decades. 

So much so that I’ve read it several times since I first encountered it as a teenager. (Plus watched both movie versions, twice each.)

The first line, "Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again," drew me in and refused to let go. I wanted to return to Manderley. I wanted to find out what dark secrets would be revealed there. The unnamed, naive young heroine is haunted by the all-pervading presence of her husband’s first wife, Rebecca… and so was I.

And although some of the social attitudes are jarring to a 21st-century reader, and although I know the plot by heart now… I will still return to it.

I loved how the novel doesn't reveal right away what it is truly about but lets it dawn on you and then invites you into a moving family story. Another tale of humans and apes, it made me feel the joys and repercussions of deep bonds across species and between siblings.

I was moved by a family that begins as a scientific experiment, struggling to find love and justice and what we like to call humanity, though maybe we need to find another word.

Who knew a book about sleeping could be so funny and engaging?

As someone who constantly wants and needs more rest, I related to the protagonist’s hunch that a year of (almost uninterrupted) sleep would change her life. And it does, though not at all in the way she expects.

Moshfegh writes about trips to the local bodega and the edgy conceptual art scene in such a brilliant way that the book will (perhaps, unfortunately!) keep you up late.

I love this book because it sweeps me into the wild, wonderful, free spirit of the 1960s.

Although it is ostensibly nonfiction, Wolfe uses a singular hip, frantic voice to propel readers into the weird world of Ken Kesey and his Merry Pranksters as they cavort with the Grateful Dead at the infamous, hedonic LSD-laced Acid Tests, journey around the country in the psychedelically-painted bus nicknamed Further, and eventually head for Mexico to avoid arrest.

I've read this book multiple times, and on each occasion, it's like time-traveling to one of my favorite eras.

This selection is a bit of a cheat, given that the novel is about a mother and son (as told by Jack, the 5-year-old boy), but it’s also a moving evocation of maternal resilience under the most appalling circumstances.

I include it because this exceptional story strips bare the fundamental ties between a helpless child and a fiercely resourceful parent. And it’s a great read.

I find this book to be an unsettling but impactful read, both thought-provoking and complex. We Need to Talk about Kevin follows the mother of a troubled teenager responsible for a school shooting.

It’s about nature versus nurture, the relationship between mother and child, and deeply seated guilt. It draws inspiration from real events, including the 1999 shooting at Columbine, which wasn’t the U.S.’s first mass shooting at a school, but it would become one of the most infamous.

Shriver’s novel raises unsettling questions about a mother’s guilt and self-justification and a community’s heartache and blame. I consider it to be a captivating and moving book.

Hannibal Lecter’s silky smooth menace still chills me like no other villain on my shelf.

Silence of the Lambs taught me how to write a terrifying villain with more than enough charisma to start a devoted cult. Every reread of this book hooks me with that hypnotic voice. Hannibal’s character is so persuasive and razor-sharp, I catch myself sympathizing before the dread slams back in.

I love how Thomas Harris forces me to straddle the line between fascination and horror, then shoves me into Clarice Starling’s head for that heart-hammering showdown with Buffalo Bill.

Decades later, for me, no thriller matches its psychological intrigue. It’s a timeless classic that keeps my lights blazing and my imagination deliciously unsettled.

This novel is a masterclass in unreliable narration. It follows Will, a young man estranged from his family and religion, as he attends college and falls in love with Phoebe.

As Will takes over and narrates his recollections of their relationship, Phoebe’s friendship with a man named John Leal, and her inculcation into a religious cult, he becomes increasingly untrustworthy. Will rails against John Leal, his lies, and the damage he has done to Phoebe, revealing his complicity in toxic masculinity and his own harmful actions.

Kwon renders her characters as entirely believable, frightening people, in lyrical and considered prose.