A Dozen Female-Authored Books

About two years ago I looked over the list of every book I’ve ever read and realized, “Damn, what a sausage fest.” Much like the higher-ups at a tech company or a group of legislators signing an anti-abortion bill, my list of authors had approximately one female for every 50 males. I resolved to change my habits and started by reading ten consecutive books written by females.

Looking for a new book to read? Here’s a synopsis and brief review of one dozen female-authored books I’ve recently read. I consciously chose books that varied in genre, era, and style.

The Album vs. The Playlist (w/Book Review – Interpreter of Maladies)

With Interpreter of Maladies in hand, I recently embarked on “A Return to the Short Story.”

…Although, I shouldn’t imply that I’ve been away from short stories. I’ve now set a personal record this year by reading three short story collections. Though they may not be as fulfilling as a full length novel, I do love short stories in their own right, which brings me to an interesting debate:

The Album vs. The Playlist

Book Review – Song of Solomon

Song of Solomon by Toni Morrison (1977)

1^st Reading: Fall 2014

Toni Morrison won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1993. As the most recent American to win said Prize, Morrison officially holds the title of reigning “Queen of American Literature.” (The Queen/King of American literature is something I made up but should be a for real thing).  President Obama* claims Morrison’s third novel, Song of Solomon, as his favorite book. Say what you will about his policies, the man has good taste in literature.

Book Review – Once Upon a River

As the saying goes, you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover.  Ignoring the metaphorical implications, let’s examine that phrase in a literal sense.

Example 1:

This cover has a boring old mountain on it. Is there anything more boring than a mountain with some dumb old clouds floating by? Maybe in Ansel Adam’s day mountains were exciting, but he lived before the invention of smart phones and color photography. One would assume this book is for dull elderly people seeking inner peace and tranquility when instead they could be out water skiing or following Phish on tour all summer.

Coming to Terms with Literary Sexism

Two notebooks were laid out before me. The one to my left listed every book I’ve read over the past several years. The one to the right listed the many books I intend to read at some unknown time in the future. I had just finished Ernest Hemingway’s “In Our Time” and was using these two lists to determine the ideal selection for my next read.

It was as I sat staring at these book titles that a disquieting realization crept into my conscience. It was soft, but unsettling nonetheless—imagine a late-night theremin playing from your attic and you’ll get the idea. But the more I examined the book titles, the more obtrusive the agitation grew. I turned away from my notebooks to analyze the contents of my nearby bookshelf. By now that small, creeping realization was no longer a soft theramin but a full drum and bugle corps marching around my living room. I was forced to ask myself a question:

Might I be a literary sexist?