Books like The Slide Area — picked by fans

As a child, finding reality both overwhelming and boring, I was drawn to movies. My father, a New York City disc jockey also at odds with reality, had contacts at a sixteen-millimeter movie rental company. He often brought films home, shown in a makeshift screening room he set up in our basement. Singin’ in the Rain, the classic musical, made a great impression there. Its funny first scene at a movie premiere featured a pompous star’s ennobling account of his early days, comically contradicted by the tacky, scrounging, painfully undignified truth. What lay behind Hollywood's glamor, smiles, and success soon became as interesting to me as what was on the screen.

As a child, finding reality both overwhelming and boring, I was drawn to movies. My father, a New York City disc jockey also at odds with reality, had contacts at a sixteen-millimeter movie rental company. He often brought films home, shown in a makeshift screening room he set up in our basement. Singin’ in the Rain, the classic musical, made a great impression there. Its funny first scene at a movie premiere featured a pompous star’s ennobling account of his early days, comically contradicted by the tacky, scrounging, painfully undignified truth. What lay behind Hollywood's glamor, smiles, and success soon became as interesting to me as what was on the screen.

As a child, finding reality both overwhelming and boring, I was drawn to movies. My father, a New York City disc jockey also at odds with reality, had contacts at a sixteen-millimeter movie rental company. He often brought films home, shown in a makeshift screening room he set up in our basement. Singin’ in the Rain, the classic musical, made a great impression there. Its funny first scene at a movie premiere featured a pompous star’s ennobling account of his early days, comically contradicted by the tacky, scrounging, painfully undignified truth. What lay behind Hollywood's glamor, smiles, and success soon became as interesting to me as what was on the screen.

As a child, finding reality both overwhelming and boring, I was drawn to movies. My father, a New York City disc jockey also at odds with reality, had contacts at a sixteen-millimeter movie rental company. He often brought films home, shown in a makeshift screening room he set up in our basement. Singin’ in the Rain, the classic musical, made a great impression there. Its funny first scene at a movie premiere featured a pompous star’s ennobling account of his early days, comically contradicted by the tacky, scrounging, painfully undignified truth. What lay behind Hollywood's glamor, smiles, and success soon became as interesting to me as what was on the screen.

I have always had a thirst for mystery and puzzle-solving, which has expanded into books as I've grown. For me, emotions play an important role in any tale. Suspense novels that bring a personal element allow the puzzle to unfold meaningfully. Like slotting the last piece of a jigsaw in place, I want to feel their emotions—the fear that makes their hearts pump in rapid beats. Their sorrow and happiness. I want to know I have been on a journey when I finish. And one, I didn’t travel alone. I hope you, too, go on a journey with the books I have recommended.

I used to steal Tolkien and Piers Anthony books from my older brother’s bookcase and burn through library world mythology sections like a ravenous beast. When I reached college in the 1990s, I realized “world” mythology had usually meant “Western” myths, and that’s when I became a Japanese Studies major and dove headfirst into feudal Japan: kitsune, dragons, dream-eaters, tengu, and other fantastical creatures. I was in love. Perfectly natural that when I started writing novels, my brain conjured romantic fantasy based on East Asian myths. Hope you’re ready to fall in love as well, with the Japanese version of fox spirits—kitsune!

Have you ever done something on a whim and fallen in love with it? That was how I found Old Norse literature. I was taught the Norse language by reading the prose and poetry of medieval Iceland. In reading their literature, I discovered a rich, vibrant society filled with complex, passionate people. Here were doomed romantics, poets, and philosophers–along with chieftains and priests facing complex political and religious change. I undertook a PhD to study their literary craft. I hope, if nothing else, that my novel might encourage readers to go off and read the sagas themselves. And, if I am really lucky, they may just enjoy my stories too.

From the moment I could understand that there was a country very far away where my mother was born, where my parents met, where their Russian and Austrian families could live safely, where there was no antisemitism, I wanted to know more about China. The cultures my family came from could not have been more different than Chinese culture, yet my great-grandparents, grandparents and parents chose to find haven in a distant land that presented obstacles, but did not throw up barriers. I’ve come to discover that throughout time, regardless of culture, regardless of station, women have achieved amazing things in the complicated and mysterious society that has been China throughout time.

As a queer reader and writer of horror, I have little interest in anything that could be deemed “positive representation.” Horror is most compelling when it gets honest and ugly about the bad, selfish, cruel, or simply unwise choices people make when they’re truly scared–and that includes queer people. I love queer stories that aren’t primarily romantic or neatly resolved. I like messy groups of friends, toxic emotional entanglements, and family dynamics that don’t fit in a Hallmark card. These days there are lots of stories in other genres about queer people becoming their best selves, but horror also has space for us at our worst.

I consider myself a disruptor of sorts, both in my life and in the art I make (I’m an actor, too). So I am by nature drawn to novels that bend and reshape (and sometimes ignore altogether) the rules and conventions that are supposed to govern the novelist’s craft and lead me to experience the world—and often the art of writing fiction itself—in ways I have never experienced either before. The novels on my list do just that.