I don’t know what I’m going to write here, but I do know I haven’t written–really written–in a minute, so best to take the laxative these prompts grant me.

I am tired.

I suppose I haven’t “really” read in a while, either. I finished Tilt (by Emma Pattee) and lay there at the end too, held it like it was my own future, and breathed. It’d been a while since a book hit me like that, and it was always a rare thing, utterly unpredictable, totally divine. I spent the next couple of days reccomending it before realizing this level of spiritual connection deserved some kind of goodreads review, or something. I’ve been trying to think about potentially leaving goodreads reviews often, as my own career inches (hopefully) towards publication. Seems fair.

That’s when I saw this:

And like, let’s get one thing off the table right the fuck now: online-rando-made reviews are not known for like, any kind of actual comprehension or nuance. My favorite to date is this gem:

And the same book has this review near top of the page on goodreads:

For real, tho. If I loved Pride and Prejudice more, hands down I’d have that first one tattooed on my thigh.

Tilt got plenty of good reviews, is my point. Many of them were five stars, lots of people connected the same way I did. Many of them were also the kind of flat earth thinking that got Pride and Prejudice a one star “Jesus Christ, just have sex” review. Some totally missed the point, on some level knew they had, and that made them angry. Some legitimately didn’t like it because of their own feelings and opinions.

A lot, however, didn’t like it because they came here for a thriller.

It might be? I guess?

But honestly, nah, no. I don’t think it really is.

Genre mislabeling is something I’ve thought of before, sure. Honestly it kind of always tickled me before. I’d find something marketed to the masses that folks tended to dislike, but I’d see within it some gem of my every own flavor. It felt like panning for gold out there or some shit, and making a reccomendation to a like-minded friend was fun as fuck.

Now that I’ve got a book somewhere on the conveyer belt towards (hopefully!!) published, this genre mislabeling thing is terrifying.

Cuz there’s nothing wrong with thrillers. There’s nothing wrong with erotica. There’s nothing wrong with super eventful books where no one eats dinner at anyone’s house, whatever. But if you go in there expecting and wanting that thing and it’s not, it doesn’t matter how perfect the book is at being something it wasn’t sold to you as.

Where is the closure?!

For me, someone who does not read thrillers, but does read strange gut-wrenching emotional dystopia, Tilt had the softest, most hopeful ending I could’ve wished for. Nothing felt inauthentic, there was no fake stamp of complete, and there wasn’t any bullshit rhetoric. Our hero is the same mentally ill identity crisis she was at the start, but now she’s got more to carry.

Is that a good thing? Is it a terrible thing? Is the world lovely? Is it horrific?

Yes.

–SPOILERS AHEAD–

When I gave birth to my eldest, I was young and optimistic and set in the fact that this would be successful, that good things came out from here. I had expectations for it all, and when she came out I held out my arms, ready to hold her. They cut the cord quick and rushed her away.

She stayed in the NICU for two weeks.

I broke, and that wasn’t unheard of. That isn’t rare, to break. We are so conditioned to expect, to follow this or that format and be rewarded, to take the right steps and achieve the right result in turn. None of this happens, it’s all bullshit, but I didn’t know that. A great many first time parents don’t. The baby leaves their body and expectations crumble. The things stop mattering like they should, and fear grips you like a fist.

I couldn’t act, in that moment. Too much at once; my world broke and she was born in the same minute.

This is the same story, but blown up before us. This is the story of a woman who doesn’t know who she is, and believes the lie that a baby will define her in the way she craves. Then, it’s the story of nothing going to plan. She is left in the wreckage of her expectations far before the baby enters the picture. The final scene is them, two shadows in the dark, feral and afraid and together in this. People are approaching. Are they safe? We have no idea. We never will.

The story ends with her and her child looking into each other. Making eye-contact, both still bleeding and connected. The world has crumbled around them, both their futures are uncertain. It’s an inverse; there is now only one certainty, and we end on it, solid and real: they are both here.

Both here, in it together now, whatever it might be.

Fuck, man. That book, Tilt, dude. Tilt fucking broke and healed me in one sitting.

Is that thrilling, y’all?

Honestly, I have no idea. Is it?