100 Books Like The Low Road

Have you seen Nanette? If not, go watch it right now. I’ll wait.

Okay. Now that you’ve seen Gadsby’s Netflix special, you either get it or you don’t (and you either love Gadsby or you don’t). Gadsby, who grew up queer in a small, intolerant community, and who was later diagnosed with ADHD and ASD, recounts some of her formative experiences in order to construct a portrait of an artist in the 21st century.

Ten Steps to Nanette is at turns painful, hilarious, depressing, and inspiring. And: there are footnotes! (I used footnotes too in one of my novels and I do believe the footnote is a good and loyal friend to the writer with ADHD). 

Equally, pick a sapphic romance trope, and Georgia Beers will likely have written one of my favourites.

She has a wonderful balance of cosy with enough tension and angst to keep you flying through the pages. She has written many, and I so admire that she’s still producing her best work. Her recent Camp Lost and Found is one of my favourites yet.

For second chances, I’ve gone with Flavor of the Month. This one has so many wonderful ingredients. Small-town setting, food focus, chemistry, angst. A romance to snuggle up with.

Immediately following the events of Gideon the Ninth, the reader is thrust into the wreckage of Harrow just as lost as she is, both reader and character engaged in a mind-bending fight to unravel the mystery of who she is now and what she will become.

This is a sequel, and can’t be read without first reading Gideon the Ninth. And it is impossible to fully articulate this book’s place on this list without robbing the reader of the experience found in Harrow’s self-discovery. But I had to include it anyway; this book made me crazy (positive), it made me despair (as in I will never write something this cool), and it made me reflect on all the ways that queer people compartmentalize ourselves, the ways we perform normativity and queerness, and how mind-bending it can be when we try to sort the pieces of ourselves out into… show more.

This is absolutely the GOAT of lesbian historical fiction. Fingersmith is probably my favorite of Sarah Waters’ work, but this is simply iconic and changed my life when I read it as a teenager. 

It’s a raucous, vibrant riot of a book, and Nan is an unforgettable protagonist. Readers will barrel through the sights and sounds of Victorian London as Sarah Waters brings them to life in gorgeous technicolor. Sarah Waters is unbelievably skillful at blending Nan’s personal awakening in with the social and political context of England at the end of the 19th Century. A masterclass, and you’ll never see oysters in the same way again. 

The way Rey handles butch-femme relationships never fail to impress me, and I think so much of it comes down to how expertly she manages to make her butch characters so non-toxic in their masculinity. They support without taking over, lead without diminishing, and her characters are so often imperfectly doing their best that you root for them even when you know they’re about to do something they’ll regret. Twice Shy puts two women together who’ve both divorced their exes, and listening to Kiera Grace perform Quinn and Amanda tentatively finding their way to each other was as sweet as Amanda’s bakery’s cupcakes. Oh, I should warn you, though: any Rey book will make you hungry. Bring snacks.

Sapphic historical romances are few and far between, especially ones as intelligently written and historically grounded as Olivia Waite’s. My favorite moves beyond the typical Regency ballroom setting with its slow-burn romance between two 40-something women. Penelope’s a rural beekeeper, and Agatha a London printer, one whose worrisomely politically radical son might be putting her business in danger.

I admire both the lovely writing and the intelligently grounded historical setting (the story takes place against the backdrop of the Queen Caroline affair and the post-Napoleonic repression of the English press). Above all, I appreciate Waite’s deftly crafted and utterly appealing characters, two unconventional business owners who both enjoy their work almost as much as they do one another.

Andrea Gibson’s spoken word poems are gut-wrenching testaments to the power of vulnerability and tenderness, weaving anecdotes into fervent pleas for empathy, connection, and social justice. The magic of their pieces lies in the both/and of beauty and pain, unflinchingly facing trauma while clinging to hope. This collection’s strongest poems include “Ashes” (about a gay soldier burned to death) and “Somewhere, a Carpenter” (about the artist’s love for their grandmother). If you want to be truly spellbound, look for the recorded versions of these poems—I’ve attended two of Gibson’s live performances and had goosebumps all over and/or tears streaming down my face from start to finish.

When I want a historical romance that knows exactly what it is and how to hit the right notes with each of its tropes, I turn to Erica Ridley.

Take the opening conceit of The Perks of Loving a Wallflower: It felt so familiar to read about a shy heroine who has a secret group of bluestocking friends and who is trying to avoid her parents’ matchmaking schemes.

From there, however, Ridley uses the conceit of a missing cipher to match Philippa with Tommy, a master of disguises and rejecter of labels.

Through a very fun, comforting historical romance plot, we get to explore gender roles, identity, and class snobbery.  

After some challenges with reading the dialect, I became so intrigued by this heart-wrenching story of two teenage girls, one Trinidadian and one African-American, who come together unexpectedly in cold Minneapolis. I loved learning about their cultures, and I loved how they grew close despite their differences and supported each other through the crises of lost family and childhood cancer.

The language and pace beguiled me as a reader. The girls' viewpoints of their past and present worlds were engaging. I felt the heroism in each of them, one facing death, one trying to reunite with her family.

In contrast to stereotypes about lesbians that framed them as bra-burning, men-hating, hairy-legged feminists, Lauren Gutterman evocatively shows how the emergence of post-World War II lesbian desire took place at the center of American life, in the suburbs, often in marriages to men and heterosexual families with children. Married women rejected divorce or labelling themselves as lesbians even while they had affairs with their female neighbors. Her Neighbor’s Wife offers an extraordinary new interpretation of how post-World War II American marriages could accommodate women’s relationships with other women.