100 Books Like The Lost Girl

I love YA dystopian as a genre because the stakes are always high, and we get more action and tragedy in a survivalist, future-fantasy setting. There are usually mutants, zombies, or even superhuman powers involved, which raises the tension and keeps things moving. The subtle social commentary and epic, poignant twists make them much more than simple teenage novels. My own dystopian series explores these themes, but with aliens, time travel, vampires, floating kingdoms, or technology. As an adventure junkie from Oregon, I love the rich, ruined dystopian landscapes of decay and natural overgrowth; and as a philosophy major I enjoy stories that grapple with humanity’s purpose. 

Here are words I like for their feel, especially when they describe fantasy: surprise; twist; subvert. I am generally a mild-mannered writer, but I do love the passing strange. By that I mean, twisty, not shocking. Surprising and intriguing, but grounded in a relatable story. A story with something wondrous and unexpected but also deeply human. I’ve written eighteen fantasy and science fiction novels, and each time, though I am creating a strange—hopefully wondrous, place—central in the story are people who desire, fear, love, and strive.

I spent all my teenage years daydreaming about being magical (cue a handful of sparkling glitter). Even as an adult, those daydreams haven’t stopped. Magic promises the ability to change the story. I revisit those teen years when I can because ultimately, what each of these stories of magic offer is a coming-of-age story. The struggle of being pulled between two different worlds has always felt familiar to me, whether those worlds are literally different worlds (magical vs non-magical) or figurative (childhood vs adulthood). I’ve felt some version of that struggle my whole life, and I think I always will, which is why these stories will always feel like home. 

I’ve always been in love with books and writing, but in high school I realized I wanted to touch people’s lives on an emotional level. A friend told me my writing had changed their perspective about an incident where their brother almost died. It made me think that if I could positively impact one person with a play, what else could I do (even for complete strangers). We all struggle with emotions, and it’s okay! We should be allowed to feel our emotions—regardless of our age or gender identity. Everyone should know that they’re not alone; emotions are universal. They are part of what connects us to each other. 

I'm a historian of global capitalism and South Asia, writing about corporations as they are and how they could be. I've looked at India with the eyes of an outsider, drawing on my experiences growing up in 1990s Eastern Europe during a time of political upheaval and shock privatizations as the old communist order crumbled. Having witnessed the rise of a new class of monopolists and oligarchs in its stead, I became interested in the many different ways capitalists exercise power in society over time and around the world, and how we as ordinary citizens relate to them. I'm now interested in thinkers, activists, and entrepreneurs who have tried to experiment with alternatives. 

I’m the child of immigrants and grew up imagining a second self—me, if my parents had never left India. Then, when I became a writer, doubles kept showing up in odd ways in my work. In my first play, House of Sacred Cows, I had identical twins played, farcically, by the same actor. My latest novel features two South Asian women: one, slightly wimpy, married to an unsympathetic guy called Mac, and another, in a permanent state of outrage, married to a nice man called Mat. My current project is a novel about mixed-race twins born in India but separated at birth.  

I’ve lived in small towns and capital cities and gone to school on four continents, so I love books in which the location is practically a character in the story. When moving, I struggle to put down roots and feel legitimate in my new home. Writing about old homes helps. While living in New England, I wrote my Jana Bibi trilogy, set in India. Now in New York state, I’m setting a new novel in my native New Hampshire. I’ve been a Jill of all Trades: teaching, software, editing, fact-checking, social science research, and, most happily, fiction-writing. I’m also an amateur musician and an avid foreign language buff.

There’s a surging Western school of thought which claims that there’s no Asia. Really? Just look at my personal cultural connections with all corners of Asia. As a Hindu Sindhi Singaporean, I can relate directly to India and Southeast Asia, which has an Indic base. My name, “Mahbubani”, has Arabic/Persian roots. “Mahbub” means “beloved”. My mother took me to Buddhist temples when I was a boy, too, giving me an intimate connection with China, Japan, and Korea. In short, Asia is intimately connected. The goal of my ten books has been to give voice to the larger Asian story in a world imprisoned by Western perspectives.

I am a historian of modern India at the Department of History, University of Delhi, with a longstanding interest in the intersections of gender, caste, sexuality, and religious identities in early twentieth-century North India. My work draws deeply from Hindi vernacular sources—popular tracts, magazines, cartoons, and pamphlets—which offer a rich yet underexplored archive for understanding the everyday life of Hindu nationalist ideologies and also ways in which it was punctured or questioned. Since my doctoral research in 1996, I have been particularly drawn to the everyday gender and caste dimensions of Hindu politics.

I grew up in Nepal, where politics was part and parcel of everyday life. During my childhood and teenage years, we lived under a monarchy, where the king was supreme. Yet there was always a simmering tension between what was a mildly authoritarian rule and what the people’s aspirations were. As I grew into adulthood, Nepal saw a massive uprising that ushered in a multiparty system, then later, after a bloody Maoist civil war, the overthrow of the crown. Yet, even amidst all these political upheavals, people do live quotidian lives, and the space between these two seemingly disparate things has always felt like a literary goldmine to me.