100 Books Like Till We Have Faces

Farley Mowat once declared: “I never let facts get in the way of a good story.” I have read Never Cry Wolf as fiction many times, even though its author pretended it was factual. As a writer interested in Canada’s north, Mowat’s universe is an obvious choice for me. The inclusion of Inuit characters is also quite appealing. In this book, a naturalist studies Arctic wolves in a makeshift camp in northern Manitoba and deals with the ridiculous expectations of the bureaucrats who sent him out there to fend for himself. He discovers that contrary to public opinion, wolves are not responsible for the decimation of caribou herds, humans are. Some elements are exaggerated for comic effect, and as one of Canada’s best storytellers, Mowat delivers on laughs. 

I was about thirteen years old when I picked up Charles Portis’ book, and from the very first line, I wanted to be Mattie Ross. The novel was the first Western I remember reading and remains imprinted on my brain as a first to mash up the traditional themes of the righteous Code of the West and the hopelessness of a world awash in lawlessness and violence, all the while eliciting whoops of laughter.

Mattie was the first female protagonist I remember encountering with pluck and impertinence to match the infamous U.S. Marshal Rooster Cogburn and inspire my own.

This book was like a fisherman with bait on the hook. I was the fish; the fantasy setting and the author’s magnificent ability with words were the bait.

Mary Stewart was, of course, the sportswoman out to snag something in my soul. I was prepared to be entertained, but the story carried a surprising amount of weight, asking questions like What do we live for? Can humanity ever be enough? Merlin came into an understanding of his place in the world — not through romance or fantasy adventures as we so typically read —  but through internal revelation.

With his journey, I was invited into soulful reflection and some uncomfortable truths of my own. In the end, I decided Mary Stewart knew very well what she was doing. The stinker.

Before I was an author, I was primarily a national magazine copy editor, a job I finally scored after eight years of climbing up the magazine journalism ladder.

I wrote once in a while, but this mostly meant TV recaps by the time I was entrenched in magazines. But one day, an article about a safe-driving activist crossed my desk, and soon I was speaking with him in high schools.

Around the time I checked off “swim the width of a river” from my father’s bucket list, I also read Huckleberry Finn, as the setting seemed only right. I wrote a tribute to it in the second chapter of my book. My dad’s favorite author was Twain, but what I appreciated about him was that he wrote the novel as veiled propaganda. It’s a book that professes Twain’s anti-racism perspective. He just put his cause into a novel.

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A cult novel from the early twentieth century, beloved of everyone from C.S. Lewis to Neil Gaiman to literally Kafka.

It starts at a peaceful suburban garden party, then plunges us into the secret anarchist conspiracy to bring down civilization, and the equally secret police force dedicated to stopping them. Duels, disguises, and mind-blowing revelations ensue, with writing just packed with Edwardian-era wit and charm.

Lakoff famously contends that metaphor is the crux of all human understanding. This classic academic, literary, philosophical, and sociological text suggests that at the root of what it means to be human is an absolute need to describe all experience and knowledge through comparison. Read More Than Cool Reason to begin gaining an appreciation for the theory of how metaphor makes us who we are and establishes our place in the universe.

Lewis considered George MacDonald his spiritual father, having never met the man. He said that MacDonald introduced him to the gospel through his stories before he even knew that that’s what was happening. How? Metaphor. George MacDonald knew of God’s love more than most and did his best to share it with the world, deeply hidden in fairy tales, the kind of folklore that Lewis, Tolkien, and the rest of the Inklings loved so dearly.

Sorry that Lewis made my list twice. Honestly, I’m sorry. I didn’t want to do it. But two images in this book have wheedled their way into my brain so deeply that the metaphors have become a part of me.  Glimpsing that far-off paradise through the hedge as a child! Only seeing the precariousness of his path in retrospect! Wow! Read it and you’ll understand. These two metaphors will be with me until I die.

I was raised Protestant in Québec, a province with a post-Catholic culture. There were few novels I could relate to growing up there. I was in my early teens when my sister-in-law lent me Emily of New Moon from her personal collection. Possibly because it’s about a nascent author, but also because it describes a Presbyterian lifestyle that felt familiar to us both. Emily Starr is a passionate girl who’s sent to live with her aunts and cousin on a farm on Prince Edward Island following her father’s death. Writing to her father “On the Road to Heaven,” she offers hilarious criticism of her culture’s religious legalism and takes her first steps as a poetess. Considered Montgomery’s most autobiographical work, it is a story full of laughter, excitement, and beauty. 

There were so many things I loved about Son of the Shadows when I stumbled upon it in a second-hand book store decades ago.

The story was immersive and intense. But the quality I loved most had to be that, buried beneath its movie-like adventures, its poetic blend of fantasy and history, and its spiritually rich thoughts, was a story of redemption.

I found so few authors allow for the kind of redemption that tempestuous Bran was given. My whispering hope that he would come out at the end of the novel no longer broken blossomed into full-blown wonder as his damaged soul took its first steps towards daylight… and he started living again. I thought to myself, “I'm gonna write just like that when I grow up.”