This terrifying twisted tale, set at a fancy boarding school in Virginia, USA, will keep you reading until the bitter end. Why? Because, well, you just have to know what’s really going on. Are these macabre monsters real? And if so, how will they be contained?
CG Drews has a talent for creating gruesome Young Adult stories. After reading Hazelthorn (2025) I was left wanting, so dug into this one (2024). The writing isn’t quite as lyrical but it’s still a strange, melancholy love song wrapped up in vines, thorns, flowers, blood, ink, and assorted greenery that invades the bodies of her adolescent victim. Drews must be a gardener or the child of one.
Andrew is a fragile, sensitive boy who writes dark fairy tales. Thomas—the wild, fierce boy Andrew loves—draws vile monsters, the creatures from Andrew’s stories. Dove, a studious young woman with her whole life mapped out, is Andrew’s twin sister. These three have been inseparable since Dove and Andrew arrived from Australia when they were twelve to study at Wickwood Academy. But this year, their graduating year, things are different.
Dove is keeping her distance. She’s preparing for a world beyond Wickwood, while Andrew seems to be fading into the forest. Feeling stuffed full of moss, he can’t eat. Thomas’s abusive parents were brutally murdered and everyone whispers that he killed them. When the boys venture into the off-bounds wild wood, they discover monsters everywhere—monsters created in Andrew’s imagination and brought to life by Thomas’ drawings. Feeling responsible, they take it upon themselves to keep the secret, destroy Thomas’s sketches, and kill the monsters. They must keep them from getting into the school.
Even as I turn the last page I’m left wondering. What really happened? The thing is: we see the story through Andrew’s eyes and he’s an unreliable narrator struggling with first love and his identity. Though he’s in love with Thomas, Andrew thinks he might be asexual. Yet he yearns for his first kiss. From Thomas. Only Thomas. And as the story progresses, Andrew hears other things from other people—things he doesn’t want to hear from people who don’t believe in the monsters, compassionate adults who want to send him home to recover.
It’s complex, twisted, and tragic. Note that the book comes with content warnings: “blood/gore, body horror, panic attacks, grief, eating disorder, bullying, and self-harm.”
The book itself—I read the hardcover— is an artistic creation with an entire page of editors and creative designers behind it, and obviously buckets of money. I love this trend to create pretty keepsake books. Full page sketches of Thomas’ monsters inspire chills. Yet the fairytale that weaves through the book—pale text embedded on a dark grey page—is printed in a font so fine and fancy, these old eyes can’t read it. Perhaps I missed something there. Artsy, but ineffective. This is a good reminder to always choose a legible font. Note: It’s easier to read in a digital image than on paper.
Psychological horror. A twisted love story. A feast of friendship and fidelity.
“His breathing evened out, but he made no move to get up. Andrew didn’t care, not while they still touched. He craved Thomas’s affection, with an intensity that left him dizzy. If he never had more, he had this.
It was almost worth being ripped apart by monsters” (109).
Some time in your life you must have been hugged by a poem written by Mary Oliver.
Upstream was published in 2016, not long before her death on January 17, 2019. It is both a memoir and an homage to her chosen town: Provincetown, Massachusetts. She moved there with her lifelong partner and soul mate Molly Malone Cook in the mid 1960s, and these essays celebrate fifty years of life lived in this artist haven at the northern tip of Cape Cod.
Provincetown resembles a crab’s claw on a map. It’s a long hooked peninsula, the historic scene of the Mayflower landing in 1620. Named Cape Cod by an English explorer in 1602, who appreciated the cod haul, it remained a fishing/whaling town for centuries. It is the ancestral territory of the Nauset People, who I’m sure had their own name for this place. The Nauset are an Algonquian-speaking People, who “sold” the pilgrims the land where they established Plymouth for “2 brass kettles, 6 coats, 12 hoes, 12 axes, 12 knives, and a box.”
But I digress.
I’m sure Oliver must have kept annotated journals as she writes:
“I saw wood ducks here for the first time in 1977” and “In 1985, a shoveler spent a spring morning on Blackwater Pond. Once, in late March 1991, a single hooded merganser appeared on Oak-Head Pond” (15).
The beauty of Provincetown is that the historic town stretches along a curved beach fronted by ocean and backed by a wildlife sanctuary. Blackwater Pond is there along the Beech Forest Trail. Idyllic. Paradisiacal. The town swells each summer with tourists. I can see why they chose this haven known for its artists and gays. This is a place worthy of a visit.
Why is Provincetown so Gay? explains the history and its liberal beginnings way back in 1899. A train connected it to Greenwich Village, NY, so many forward-thinkers found easy access to this out-of-the-way spot of beauty and freedom.
“Over the next two decades, Provincetown welcomed not only thousands of artists, but also writers, actors and left-wing political radicals who brought new ideas on gender and racial equality, artistic expression and sexuality.”
Oliver rises at 5am to greet the sun and go rambling through the wildlife sanctuary with her dogs. She writes as she walks. Nature is as much her muse as poets past. In particular, she loves Emerson, Shelley, young Wordsworth, Blake, and Basho. She writes of Emerson:
“The writing is a pleasure to the ear, and thus a tonic to the heart, at the same time that it strikes the mind” (73).
The same can be said for her own work. Indeed, she writes in the Romantic Nature Tradition. Oliver is, at once, passionate and observant in her relationship with the land; her prose streaked with lines so vivid I must pause to savour them and capture them in my journal.
She includes brief bits in Section Three on Emerson, Poe, Whitman, and Wordsworth, perhaps gleaned from her talks, as she travelled to lecture, though I think she would have just as soon stayed at home.
Oliver sees herself as one of Nature, both prey and predator. She harvests honey locust blossoms and once digs deep into a turtle’s sandy nest to steal half of her eggs (13/27). She takes them home to pierce and drain, scramble their big yellow yolks, and devour.
This I find horrific. It hurts my heart. I remember pregnant turtles crawling out of Bill Brown’s quarry pond north of Ajax, Ontario, and crossing Concession 5 on their way to nesting. I’d stop the car and help them cross. I can’t imagine digging up a turtle’s eggs to devour unless I was starving on some deserted island somewhere.
“Each of the turtles is a female, and gravid, and is looking for a place to dig her nest; each of the mosquitoes is a female also who cannot, without one blood meal, lay her own fertile eggs upon the surface of some quiet pond” (52).
This is her point. The mosquitoes bite the turtles in the circle of Nature and she takes from the turtle, including herself in the web. She is as much a predator as the fox and the red-tailed hawk she surprises one day ripping into a pheasant. She considers stealing that too, but decides against it.
“I am no fool, no sentimentalist. I know that appetite is one of the gods, with a rough and savage face, but a god all the same” (56).
I fear I am a sentimentalist, driven by feelings—though I’ve considered how culling the local Canada Geese flock might feed the homeless. They, the geese—not the homeless—leave such delectable hor d’oeuvres for my lab.
Oliver’s essays make me homesick for the East where I grew up. I recall the painted turtles, blue herons, hawks, and pumpkin-coloured Baltimore orioles, their nests streaming like long silk stockings; crimson cardinals against white snow, and canary-yellow finches … the great grey owl who soared over our bog, vampiric through the shadows.
I think I must nestle into my winter quilt and read more of Mary Oliver. There is much here to learn.
I was sucked into the current of this unique and memorable historical novel when I heard the author read the beginning aloud at a gathering of local writers in B.C. “It was a bitter afternoon, during one of the worst winters the province had ever seen. A ten-year-old girl walked into the forest with her two brothers and didn’t come out again.” Although it starts with a weather report—which authors are advised NOT to do—the question “what happened?” hooked me and hooked us all.
Beginning in Orangeville, Ontario in January 1931, the story of the girl and her brothers, Landon and Jem, morphs into something of epic proportions. When pulled from the clutches of the icy, whispering river by her brothers, the girl, known then as Kathleen or Kitty, is dead. And yet, like a princess in a fairy tale, after three days of Gaelic prayers, lamb broth, and sleep, a child is reborn with no memory of the past. “A changeling,” declares her Irish mother.
This all happens in the unmarked prologue.
When the gracious, intuitive Rebekah arrives in April 1939, she’s drawn into in a sensual, intimate relationship with the changeling Kit, but is also attracted to her handsome older brother, Landon. Though he feels peripheral and, perhaps, proper. Thinking Rebekah has chosen Landon, Kit hops a freight train, talks a scared, young boy out of his sign-up letter, and changes identity. Christopher McNair arises, joins the RAF, and disappears overseas to become a brilliant bomber navigator. Fearless and laced with fey luck, Christopher finds his own crowd of misfits in the air force. Landon joins the navy, and Rebekah works for naval intelligence in Halifax—which is where she spends a memorable night with Landon. And so, the war affects them all.
An epic Canadian saga, The Cure for Drowning, paints a picture of queer and transgender people with innovative charm. Anchored in history, but laced with love and wizardry, Paylor reveals their clandestine role in the military and the discrimination they faced, both under Hitler’s regime and within their own allied units. It’s not until Kit returns to their first loves in 1947—Rebekah and the farm—that pronouns change: “It was as though a skilled sculptor had taken a chisel to every feature and fashioned them into a sharper, purer version. The one I’d always seen, underneath,” Rebekah says.
This is Paylor’s debut novel, but their lush, masterful voice foretells a future in Can Lit. One of those unique souls who make complex writing seem a breeze—like they rest their fingertips on the keyboard and out flies music and magic—Paylor is as adept at riveting wartime action as soft sensual intimacy. An epic page-turner, laced with myth, romance and mystery, yet anchored at a time of brutal history and the landscape of place, The Cure for Drowning draws us deep into the river and keeps us there holding our breath until the very last page.
Loghan Paylor is a queer, trans author with an MA in Creative Writing from UBC. Their short fiction and essays have been published in “Prairie Fire” and “Room.” The Cure for Drowning was named a Globe and Mail Best Book of 2024, longlisted for the 2024 Giller Prize, and is shortlisted for the Jim Deva Prize for Writing that Provokes 2025—literature with “a sense of vitality and urgency that breaks boundaries and blazes new paths within their genre.” This is an author to watch and a must-read novel.
Can you believe it? I found this book sitting on the very end of the free shelf at my local library this morning. I’d checked it out and returned it last week, which means, that I was the last person to read it. How do libraries decide what ends up in the slush pile? I don’t understand. I mean, this series is amazing. Blue’s story is the focus of book three–this book. I actually finished The Raven King, which is book four, and realized I’d forgotten to write anything about this book. So, it’s come back to me. You see how that works? It’s not that I don’t have anything to say about it; in fact, I was so tucked into the characters, I didn’t really realize what was happening plot-wise. Urban fantasy doesn’t really work like that. It’s more about characters and emotions. And these characters are some of the best characters you’ll ever meet. So, what do I remember about Blue Lily, Lily Blue?
-the illicit love between Blue and Gansey. Illicit only because Blue kind of had a hand-holding thing with Adam to begin with and, Gansey and Adam are best friends, and well, there’s a social rule being broken
-her funky home with her psychic mother and aunts
-something tasty evolving between Ronan and Adam
-a ton of angst occurring at Gansey’s political mansion in Washington, DC. This is not the best space for trailer-park-son-of-an-abusive-father Adam. Or maybe it is.
-the elusive Cabeswater . . . What the hell is it, anyway? And when they finally get there, will Gansey find his Immortal Welsh King? And why a Welsh King? Is this the orphaned child of a real mythological legend? Damn. I wish I’d thought of this.
-details of Gansey’s horrific hornet experience. Have you ever been bitten by vicious meat-eating hornets with giant stingers and long, wispy legs? I have. When I was seven or eight, I climbed into my father’s old black pick-up truck. We started rumbling down the road. The hornets had build a nest under the bench seat on my side. Before we hit Dixie and Finch, they flew up my pant legs. I went so ballistic, my father pulled over, dragged me out of the truck, and ripped off my pants. I was horrifically embarrassed—I mean, there I was standing on the side of the road in my white cotton undies in front of my father. Now, I think, how did he have the presence of mind to do that? I mean . . . child-eating hornets? Did he get stung?
-something horrible happening at 300 Fox Way which I will not divulge
-some nasty-pants villains developing, of course.
Do I recommend this series? Yes. In fact, it’s in my Amazon Wishlist. Just sayin’. There may come a day when I pass this hardcover on to a little library somewhere in the world. Oh Maggie, what have you done?
To begin with, you should know that Isabel is not the name of the protagonist who lives in the Epitome Apartments and solves the crime in this book. Isabel is actually the name of Ogden Nash’s daughter. For the uninitiated, Mr. Nash was an American master of light whimsical verse, a poet who appreciated tone and rhyme and odd rhyme schemes. In his 1932 poem, which is printed in full at the end of the novel, the unshakeable heroic Isabel meets an enormous bear, a wicked old witch, a hideous giant, and a troublesome doctor. Are they all characters in the saga of our unnamed protagonist? That, dear reader, is for you to discover.
Like Nash’s poem, Dorsey’s novel is light-hearted and whimsical—though frosting serious violent themes like gay-bashing and murder for hire. It’s clever, casual, and abounding in asides. A cozy dramatic mystery written in raw, effectual, and not-so-cozy language. I feel, I must caution you here: Dorsey’s characters are LGBTQ, real, and raw. They live that way and talk as they live. This is the mark of a writer who understands that most of the world doesn’t live in a hallmark card.
Our female hero, her cat Bunnywit, who she affectionately calls F*wit, her lesbian lover, and her diverse crew, are extraordinarily unique characters. This, in and of itself, calls to me. Denis (one of my favourites) is a gay crisis worker and our hero’s best friend. He calls on her for help when his friend Hep—she’s Hep because of her uncanny resemblance to Katherine Hepburn—Hep’s granddaughter gets murdered. If you don’t know who Katherine Hepburn is, I suggest you google her as our hero recommends, or watch an old movie called The African Queen—or at the very least, google images of the movie—to get a picture of what Hep may be like except for her white spiky brush cut. Katherine Hepburn would never go for that; then again, she might if she were alive today.
Maddy—full name, Madeline Pritchard—goes by the same name as her grandmother, and is a prostitute with a drug problem, so Hep assumes the police won’t care much about her murder. Denis does though, and knows our unnamed hero, a “downsized social worker” who got locked up at age fifteen and is considering becoming a prostitute herself in order to pay her bills, will too. And so the story begins with our hero drafting personal ads to sell herself as a pansexual play-toy for hire.
Denis dresses our hero up to resemble Maddy in her hooker boots, and she and Maddy’s girlfriend, Vicki cruise the streets searching for clues. During her perambulation, our unnamed detective meets a homeless Asian woman in the subway named Jian who knows Maddy and recognizes the boots. (The thigh-high boots are a recurring motif as Bunnywit falls in love with them. Cats!) When she invites Jian home for a meal and a bath, the two quickly become lovers.
Other characters of interest are Roger, a homicide detective and one of the hero’s ex-lovers. And the hero’s Christian cousin, Thelma. The Christian question dominates the story as Thelma’s church supports a group of skinheads called “Soul Patrol” who use their placard as a crowbar to beat up gays and anyone else who gets in their way. Our hero, who provides footnotes, for the proper terminology to describe her gender identity—bisexual, ambisexual, pansexual—is targeted by this Christian hate group and suffers at least one major beating that lands her in the hospital.
Dorsey subtitles her work a “postmodern mystery, by the numbers” which, in and of itself, requires a professor to unravel and a whole lot of philosophical jargon which I’m not prepared to tackle. Suffice to say, the “postmodern” phenomenon grants Dorsey a license to run amok with language, style, and social morality. I say, “Yay, Dorsey.” Her narrative is structured in short, numbered, and wittily titled scenes with footnotes and casual asides. Moreover, her narrative flips at her discretion between first, second, and third points-of-view. Please don’t be put off by this. Dorsey explains as she does it, and you never feel like you’re not a crucial part of this narrative. In first-person the private detective tells her own story. In third-person she narrates the actions of others because she’s not there and can’t share their experiences. And, in second-person, she speaks directly to the reader about the writing process. “We put in what’s necessary to build character, create mood, and advance action” and leave things out that are boring “habitual actions.” Dorsey promises never to knowingly fool the reader by “withholding clues” and admits she hates those “Jeffrey Archer twist-in-the-tale things.”
To solve Maddy’s murder, our hero’s crew visit some unusual locations. The night of her murder, Maddy was seen with two nasty looking characters and a very tall and memorable drag queen who the crew think might be responsible for the young woman’s murder. Denis, Hep, our hero, and her lover, Jian, dress up and cruise the clubs searching for this enchanting being.
If you’re looking to cruise with a Canadian Lisbeth Salander (think Dragon Tattoo) you may discover that Isabel’s Adventures work for you. Our hero triumphs over every evil thrown at her as does the unflappable Isabel. She’s not only our postmodern poster woman, she turns the tables on evil and is a necessary hurrah in our chaotic world. Oh, and did I mention, she’s Canadian, as is the city where the story is set?
Published by ECW Press, October 2020 #ExceptionalCanadianWriting
*As reviewed on the Ottawa Review of Books, October 2020
