I’ve gotten two really awesome book reviews so far, for Women. I’ve noticed something about them. They both talk about my WRITING. Less about the content. It makes me realize how much, with LGLA, reviewers mostly mentioned the content. Masturbating, the orgy, etc. But these reviews explore things I did stylistically. It’s interesting to see. One is in Chronogram, and the other in The Master’s Review.
I liked this part:
The book situates itself firmly in the precedent of queer women’s fiction; hardly a few pages go by without a reference to Anne Carson, Jeanette Winterson, or, in one case, The L Word. Caldwell uses these as tethers for her own book, and earns a spot for herself among those she references. She brings to the page such an urgency that it is impossible not to be swept up, to remember what it was like when we ourselves were so engulfed by another person that when we emerged, we had to struggle to find ourselves again. Women is a skillfully and engrossingly written novella, a small slice of overwhelming love and heartbreak, and the search for belonging and self. Caldwell proves herself as a writer to watch in the coming years.
And these parts:
Hudson-based Caldwell dedicated Women to her mother and to the late spoken-word doyenne Maggie Estep, and Caldwell’s language shares an edgy sisterhood with Estep’s fearless prose.
The book is infused with savvy, dark humor, including a hilarious bout on OK Cupid. Women at a queer dance party dress like characters from Brokeback Mountain; at a postbreak up coffee date, neither the narrator nor Finn will take off their sunglasses. Hearts are broken, but Caldwell takes care of us. It’s hard not to fall in love with this taut little book.
The reading last Friday was beautiful. I had the best time. Thank you for coming, if you came. Domenica Ruta read from her memoir, Emily Gould read from her novel, Elizabeth Wurtzel read her recent NYT essay, Why I Will Be Wed, and Ramona Emerson read a hilarious essay about stalking exes on Instagram.
I liked this, by Cheryl Strayed and Benjamin Moser: Is This A Golden Age For Women Essayists?