Writing Tips, Part 3: Crafting a Clear Narrative

Been on the train for 

Writing Tips Part 1 

and Part 2? 

 

Well, next stop: TECHNIQUE TOWN! Population: 1 writer desperately trying not to sound like a thesaurus exploded into a confusing fever dream. Next Station Stop!

 

We’ve all written a paragraph where we switched from past to present tense three times and suddenly the character is both dead and ordering pancakes.

I know, I know SNORE. Technique! Blergh! While it might seem trivial, basic writing mistakes impact the clarity and cohesion of your narrative. I’m not talking about rigid, stuffy, “perfect” grammatical linguistics being superior to other forms of perfectly decent communication, nor am I promoting that style has nothing to do with compelling writing! Quite the contrary, this blogger-since-2007-who-is-currently-playing-games-with-hyphens feels rules are more than merely meant to be broken, she encourages you to explode the rules altogether. Don’t think outside the box! Blow up the box altogether. Kablamo.

But you can’t explode rules you don’t even acknowledge are there, ready for you to come at ‘em with a jackhammer. And good narratives don’t just happen—they’re built. Carefully, lovingly, with a deep respect for the reader’s time, brain-space, and experience. Having a firm grasp on “the rules” gives you a strong foundation to mindfully make artistic choices within the bounds of English language mores, and also give you more agency over when you break them. That’s technique enhancing natural talent.  

Crafting a clear narrative isn’t about sounding smart — it’s about not confusing the hell out of your reader (by making them feel like they’re trapped in a confusing improv scene with a rogue thesaurus and a drunk time traveler) 

 

So buckle in, grab a red pen, and let’s clean up that storytelling like it’s a murder scene on Dateline.

*

1. Consistent Tense Usage ( aka: Stay in One Time Zone)

Look. You can write in the past. You can write in the present. But if you’re out here switching between “She walks into the room” and “She had screamed in terror” like you’re building a literary time machine? Your reader is going to throw your book across the room and whisper, “I just wanted peace.” A novel unfolds over chapters and settings, making it crucial to maintain consistent tense usage for a seamless reading experience. If your narrative shifts between past and present tense without a clear purpose, readers will find it disorienting and get literary whiplash.  Pick a lane, babe.  Consistency keeps your reader anchored in reality. Consistency creates rhythm. And rhythm creates trust. Strive for cohesion by choosing and sticking to a tense that aligns with your narrative vision.

Try this:

• Do a “tense pass” after your draft is done — highlight all verbs and check for traitors. Are they all dancing to the same beat?
• When you do shift tenses, do it with intention—like a scene change on a stage— not like you blacked out mid-sentence.
• Practice rewriting a paragraph in both past and present tense. Which feels more alive to your story?

2. Be Faithful with Your Pronouns (aka: Keep References Clear and avoid “Pronoun Chaos”)

“They didn’t know if she meant him or her when she said that to them.”

Baby. WHAT?!
 
Who is “they”? WHO IS “HER”?! Pronoun consistency is vital if you don’t want your reader to feel like they’re deciphering ancient scrolls.
If you start a story talking about Valentina, then suddenly start saying “she” without reminding us who she is, readers start mentally flipping back like, “Wait—who’s ‘SHE’?” Clarity is kindness. Make sure your pronouns are pointing in the right direction and staying loyal to their person. You are the GPS of your story. Please don’t reroute us into a ditch.

Try this:

• Every few paragraphs, double-check: does “he” still mean the same “he”?When in doubt, use the character’s name again. Especially if “she” could mean three different people. Clarity > style. 
• If you're writing multiple POVs, color code them in your notes like a messy little genius.
• Read your piece aloud and circle every “he,” “she,” “they,” or “it.” Could a stranger follow who’s being referred to? 
• In scenes with multiple characters, reintroduce names now and then to keep us grounded.

3. Balancing Active and Passive Voice (aka: Let the Verbs Lead and STOP SAYING “WAS”)

If you keep writing “She was being chased,” and “The door was opened by him,” I’m going to gently tip over a chair. 

Active voice gives your sentences backbone. It says: “I did this.”
Passive voice says: “This was done… by someone… maybe?”
 

While passive voice has its place for specific effects, an overabundance dilutes the impact of your narrative, and if you lean too hard on the passive, your prose gets foggy.
Let your characters do things!
Let the actions leap off the page!

What is Passive Voice?
Passive voice is a grammatical construction that places the object of the sentence before the verb. A sentence written in passive voice shifts the focus from the subject doing the action to the recipient of the action. Sentences in passive voice can be less clear, direct, and concise.
 

The biggest problem with passive voice is that it removes agency and responsibility from the individual carrying out the action. This distinction is particularly important when discussing power dynamics.

How to Spot Passive Voice
Not every use of a “to be” verb is passive voice. A passive voice sentence generally goes like this:

[object of the action] + [to be verb] + [past tense main verb].

TIP: If you can add “by zombies” to the end of your sentence and it still makes sense, it is likely in passive voice. For instance, “The pizza was eaten” still works when you add “The pizza was eaten by zombies.” So, this sentence is written in passive voice. You’re welcome.

How to Change Passive Voice
Identify the subject of the sentence and put it first:

[subject] + [main verb] + [object].

That changes the previous sentence to: “Zombies ate the pizza.”

Passive voice isn’t evil — but if your whole novel sounds like it’s being narrated by a terrified butler, we’ve got a problem. Active voice brings the juice. The guts. The oomph.

Try this:

• Take a page of your writing and rewrite every passive sentence into the active voice. See what happens.Keep passive voice for when the receiver of the action matters more than the doer (e.g., “The cake was eaten”—because the cake is the tragedy here). Use passive voice when you want to obscure responsibility (useful for mystery!). Sparingly.
• When editing, ask: “Who’s doing the action here?” If it’s unclear, bring them to the front of the sentence.
• Highlight every “was” in your draft and ask yourself if you’re being lazy or brilliant.

 

4. Punctuation Precision (aka: This Comma Could Save a Life)

Grammar is like deodorant: you don’t have to use it, but things get real uncomfortable real fast when you don’t. Think of punctuation like the conductor of your sentence symphony. A well-placed comma can create breath. A period can drop the mic. Overusing em-dashes or ellipses? That’s like waving your hands in the air. Readers get tired. Know the rules so you can bend them with style—not confusion.

“Let’s eat Grandma” vs. “Let’s eat, Grandma.” 

Respect the comma.
Respect Grandma.

Try this:

• Read your writing aloud, and pause at every punctuation mark. Does the rhythm feel natural, or like a hiccup?
• Beware of overusing “!” or “…”—they can dilute your power. Trust the words themselves.
• Learn the difference between an em-dash (—) and a hyphen (-). They're not the same. 
• Use commas to separate ideas, not glue them all together into one endless sentence. If your sentences read like breathless text messages from a manic ghost, your reader will quit on you.
• Use periods. Stop writing 97-word sentences, I beg.

5. Know how to Properly Plan. (aka: Don’t Wing It)

Writers love to romanticize chaos—but a clear story needs some kind of map, even if it's scribbled on a napkin. So plan your story (yes, even you, chaotic Pantser!) 

Relatable content

 

“But I don’t want to outline! I like discovering the story as I go!” 

Wahhh. That’s cute. But guess what? You don’t need to outline every beat on a spreadsheet, but you do need to know the emotional arc. Where are we going? Who’s changing? What’s at stake?
Your story needs bones before you start putting skin on it.

Try this: 

• Write a one-paragraph summary of your book. If you can’t? You don’t know what it’s about yet.
• Before you begin, jot down three sentences: where it starts, what shifts, “Oh Sh*t, Everything's Falling Apart” part, how people change, and how it ends.
• Use index cards or sticky notes to lay out scenes. Move them around like a deranged detective. At some point, something will click.

And the big, big. big one:

6.  "Show, Don't Tell" (aka: Let the Reader Feel It)

When you tell readers something, you make a statement they have not choice but to accept as true. When you show them something, you describe and dramatize it, allowing readers to see what's happening and draw their own conclusions. Readers love to “people watch” as much as ordinary humans do—we all draw conclusions based on the snippets of information we collect as we go, and make meaning of those snippets. This is why people watching is fascinating! Telling, (when used sparingly!) IS an excellent way of conveying a lot of information or exposition quickly, but it doesn't allow readers use their imaginations; it doesn't engage or arouse them.

So. Don’t tell me the character is angry—show me how her hands tremble as she tries to unlock the door. Readers want to feel the story, not be briefed on it. Use action, dialogue, body language, and setting to convey emotion and conflict. You’re not just telling a story—you’re building an experience.
Consider these examples of showing and telling:



 

Telling:

Third-person version:  “She was sad.”
First-person version:  “I’m sad.”




This description doesn't actually provide a clear picture of Sadsack Susan.

In what WAY is she sad?
What KIND of sadness is she experiencing?
In what WAY is she demonstrating her sadness?
What kind of activities is she doing to mitigate her sadness?

Also, this passage doesn't reveal anything about Susan. You don't know what age she is or what kind of life she leads, and you don't really care.



 

Showing:

Third person version:  “Susan picked at her dinner, 10 pounds lighter than last week, her sunken eyes fixed on the blinking cursor of her unanswered email.”
First person version:  “I am eating cold fries in the bathtub while Googling ‘how to be a person’ but otherwise fine.”

Here, you can see Sadsack Susan in action, observe her directly and make your own judgements, instead of having the author telling you what to think. 

The telling version gives us information; the other gives us an experience. Your job isn’t just to relay events—it’s to invite the reader inside the emotional weather of the world. In reality, you do need to tell your readers some details to move the narrative from one dramatic passage to another. But mostly you need to build up a vivid picture, which the reader can visualize like a film passing before their eyes.

So once more for the people in the back:

Don’t tell me she’s sad. Show me the woman standing in line at CVS crying into a melted bag of peanut M&Ms! Readers want scenes, not summaries. Telling skips the good stuff. Showing pulls us in like the nosy little drama goblins we are.

Try this: 

• Take a telling sentence and rewrite it with sensory detail. What does it look like? Smell like? Feel like?
• Cut out 5 “feeling words” in your draft and replace them with physical actions or dialogue.
• Pay attention to body language—it’s often more honest than dialogue. (So swap “She was furious” and transform it to “She crushed the paper cup in her hand and whispered, ‘Coolcoolcoolcoolcool.’”)
• Read your favorite novel’s dialogue or description. Where does it show instead of explain?
• Ask yourself: “Could this be a GIF instead of a sentence?” If yes, show it.

Finally:

Crafting a clear narrative doesn’t mean stripping away magic—it means building a vessel strong enough to carry it. Think of these techniques as lanterns along the path, helping your reader move through the woods of your story with wonder, ease, and light.
 

You can do this. And when you get stuck, just say “Gerald the grammar gremlin is acting up again,” eat a snack, and go fix that passive voice.  And remember: you’re not just writing for them. You’re writing for you, too. So be precise, yes—but also be kind.

Let your story breathe.
Let it shine.

Where the Rivers Meet

In January, I was convinced—for the twenty-sixth time in two years—that I was absolutely, for real, not-a-joke-this-time, quitting show business. All to say: jokes on me, I didn’t plan an extended stay in Red Bank, New Jersey to act in a play, which I believe the very definition of being in show business, at Two River Theater.

 

Let me be clear: I did not go to Red Bank, New Jersey, on any kind of overly earnest, self-healing pilgrimage. I went because I was having a Category 5 Identity Crisis™ and accidentally drove past the exit to my therapist’s office, then kept going because I didn’t feel like crying in front of someone with a quartz paperweight and aggressively kind eyes.

 

So, there I was in Red Bank. It sounded fake. (Doesn't it sound fake?) Like a town from a children’s book where woodland creatures run a gift shop. But there it was. A real place with real rivers. Two, in fact. The Navesink and the Shrewsbury. I know this because I Googled it while eating a panic hot dog in the car on the way there, twenty hours after completing jury duty. 

 

Before I could take a Tums I found myself in the cutest little one bedroom you ever did see, situated along said rivers (a pro), nuzzled up to the industrial-sized garbage dump of the (quite fancy) retirement home next door (a significant con), and a hop-skip-and-a-jump from a tavern called The Molly Pitcher Inn (a hoot). 

 

Tatiana in tow, I took the job, we moved in, and the first night I cried. 

 

I've never been great at transitions, at change. A Cancerian through-and-through, I love my home, my nest, my comforts, and the first 72 hours in any new digs are always agony. I now know to just allow it to happen—the ploppy tears. I bring a few comforting things with me (and possibly get that 72 hours down to a respectable 48). It helps to ease me in to unfamiliar bed-sheets, cutlery, strange lighting and weird noises. A blanket from home. A heating pad. "Professor Owlinski" the stuffed owl I won in a poker game hosted by Tyne Daly sometime in the mid 20-teens. Come to think of it, I brought these same three comforts to each of my surgeries in the hospital back in 2020-21. We've been through stuff. 

 

Human beings can adjust to a lot, but when time is of the essence, when you have to go to rehearsal and appear to be a functional person and work must get done? There is just something about one's things. Let's just say after nearly 20 years in said-showbiz-I-have-yet-to-quit, I've learned how to "be on the road." 

 

But this time? I was coming out of a time I can only describe as a personal landslide—though even that sounds too dramatic for what it was: a slow, silent erosion of meaning, purpose and the former pert-ness of my cheekbones. I was hollowed out. Still churning out one-liners like a pro! But hollow. This must be why stand-ups have drinking problems. I considered starting one, or nurturing another vice, or getting a 'shoulder crow,' but I was honestly too tired to really commit to becoming an "Interesting Town Character." 

 

 

You ever completely fall apart in such a boring, scenic place that your misery feels almost rude? That was me. Sitting by the water, feeling like an exposed nerve while a couple nearby named Gary and Lisa discussed crab cakes and laughed like no one had ever ghosted them on Instagram. I wanted to scream, HOW ARE YOU LAUGHING? THE WORLD IS MELTING! But I didn't. And Gary and Lisa wouldn't have reacted if I had anyway. This was New Jersey, after all. These people have seen some shit.

After the show finished in the evenings I would walk over from the theatre, snuggle up with Tati and watch true crime shows—heists, mostly. It felt as though I was achieving something: I was solving crimes. Good job, me. 

To be clear, I enjoy true crime in the following very specific order: 

1. heists + scams
2. missing people
3. celebrities "losing it" (but not Reality TV, a separate genre, and not for me)
4. and then and only then do I enjoy murder mysteries.

I read recently that people who watch true crime "to relax" have something deeply wrong with them and? Can confirm. 10/10 I am likely very unwell. At least I have been for the last year or so. 

Emotionally more mature, better regulation skills, perspective and capacity to navigate the world? Definitely. 

Size of the emotions? The same.  

 

Dammit.  

 

 

So fine: I had come undone, in a slow, creaky implosion! But bahahahahahahahaha my career was booming! I had worked 43 out of 52 weeks making art! Even some of it was great art! I had health insurance! A pay check! A literal financial plan! A cute haircut! Subscriptions to things! 

 

But my sense of purpose was... missing, presumed dead and starring at me sadly from the back of a 1980s milk carton. I had reached that particularly dramatic point in a downward spiral where you start listening to Lana Del Rey on purpose. I kept whispering, "What is the point of anything?" like I was a sad Victorian boy with scarlet fever. And in one particularly preposterous moment I stared at my fingernails about to paint them before I quietly muttered "....why?" (Alec can attest to this, he bore witness. We laughed. But for a few seconds it was bleak). 

And then Red Bank just—let me be. No one in this town tried to fix me. The ducks ignored me. The barista slid me a free kitchen sink bar muffin without asking if I was okay. Even the rivers weren’t trying to teach me a lesson. They were just doing their thing, converging in the background like, “Hey, we’ve been here for 10,000 years and we didn’t figure our lives out either.”

 

One afternoon, I watched a seagull eat half a bagel off a park bench with such pride I almost cried. I thought: Maybe I could do that. Not eat bagels off benches, necessarily, ya know: snatch at life. Survive. Find something small and beautiful and eat it like it was a feast. And also? rude that this is a seagull which is very theatre-coded and I get the message Universe, I am tryyyyying to get a grip over here. 

 

But I didn’t. I just sat there in my sweatpants that I definitely should have retired three emotional breakdowns ago, and I watched the seagull do its thing, water swirl in that calm, competent way only water can. Not trying to be inspiring, just being very busy and wet. 

In the end?

Red Bank didn't fix me. There was no lightning bolt of revelation, no cathartic sob on a riverside bench. 

 

But something shifted. My thoughts softened. My hands unclenched. I stopped needing to name every pain, stopped auditing my life like a failing business. I didn’t throw my phone into the river (or the other river), or sell all my belongings and open a paint-your-own-pottery studio (a foolish idea anyway because there already is one and it's adorable).  I just... felt a little better. Like maybe I didn’t need to know what comes next to just exist.

 

Eventually I left, of course. You can’t hide in New Jersey forever. (Or maybe you can, I don't know your life.) But something stayed with me. A sense that even when everything feels like it’s falling apart, it’s still okay to eat fried clams, talk out loud to ducks, and let two unbothered rivers remind you that the world keeps flowing, whether you’re thriving or just trying really hard not to cry in public. 

 

I didn’t get all the answers. But I did get a seder plate I painted myself at 'A Time to Kiln,' and to my great relief: a couple of weeks of peace. 

 

I’ll take it.

Writing Tips, Part 2: Finding Material to Work With

Continued from Writing Tips: Part One. 

 

7. Be Open to What’s Around You
Look around you. Behold both the natural and man-made world. Observe how people dress, move and behave. Listen to conversations and note people's vocabulary, phrasing, accents and subject matter. Consider their motivations, hopes and fears. Observe colors, feel textures, be aware of smells and sounds. Create images to capture and convey these details to others. 

Everything is material. 

Your neighbor’s screaming baby? Material. 

The awkward interaction you had with the barista where you accidentally said “I love you”? Definitely material. 

You don’t need to travel the world or sit in a cabin in the woods because life is handing you material on a dirty little platter every single day.

Regard these things like a philosopher.
An actor.
A monk.
A teacher.
An animal.
A child. 

 



Be a collector. Collect objects, photos and props to help you in your writing. Put them in a notebook (it doesn’t have to be fancy— mine is very plain because fancy notebooks make me nervous that I have to put brilliant things in them!). Study maps and guidebooks to find tucked-away corners in cities or the countryside. Develop a nose for unusual settings and locations.


Inspiration rarely arrives with fanfare. Sometimes it’s in a half-heard conversation, a peculiar dream, a word you’ve never heard before, a new story that sends you down a research rabbit hole. Nothing is ever too trivial or unimportant to observe and build upon in your writing.


 

8. Read Like a Writer
Read widely and with curiosity. Reread passages you love and ask why they work. What’s the rhythm? The word choice? Use of metaphor? The structure? The linguistic play? Let great writing thrill and please and teach you. 


Becoming a good writer is impossible without reading, re-reading and thinking about what you read. Don't be afraid to be influenced by really good writers; they will have done the same.

Read widely, in all genres.  When something moves you, stop and ask why. 


 

You can learn an enormous amount about plotting a narrative from a potboiler thriller, 
and about imagery from a great poem. 


Newspaper headlines and advertising slogans can demonstrate clarity and conciseness. 


Narrative non-fiction can show you how to make hard facts interesting and personal.


Carry a book with you wherever you go. Actually read the poems on the subways. Read in libraries and bookshops, on the bus, in bed and in the bath. Just read!


Don't be afraid to experiment in your reading. Go to a bookshop and ignore the piles of three-for-two offers and titles that you've already heard of. Read the blurbs on the back of books and consider which ones appeal to you and why. Browse the shelves and pick something obscure that for some reason appeals to you.

 

 

When you read, do so slowly and really think about how the author achieves the effects you enjoy or find interesting.

 Copy out or photocopy passages that you really like and put them in a scrapbook to consult when you hit a problem in your own writing. If you're wondering how to make a piece of dialogue sound natural or convey a personality in a few phrases, you can take a look at how the experts have done it and learn from them.

 

 




9. Learn from Others
You don’t need to reinvent storytelling. Read stuff. Good stuff, weird stuff, stuff you hate.

 

You don't only learn from reading and observing the world around you. You can actively research events, places and people you can't otherwise describe or write about. Listen to authors talk about their process.
 

If you're writing a scene in your novel involving a doctor, for example, talk to one. Read medical books. Interview people who've experienced the kind of illness or accident you're writing about to gain their perspective.



 

You can learn from other beginner writers, too. Listen to their work and take note of mistakes that you've also made. Consider what does and doesn't communicate well. Mentor someone! Loads of scientific research proves that mentoring someone juuuust behind you in any kind of process has enormous benefits for solidifying our own grasp on subjects, particular abstract ones (this data is particularly strong for algebra and calculus, philosophy, and the arts). Start a writing group and meet regularly to share your work in a supportive and constructive way. Discover how to shape your work, delete the parts that don't ring true, cut scenes or verses that go on for too long or provide the crucial information that's missing.



 

Also learn from published authors. Go to their readings, watch videos, and read  essays about how writers work. Listen to interviews with authors on television or radio or live at literary festivals.

Here are a few of my favorites: 

• Toni Morrison – The Art of Fiction No. 134 (The Paris Review)
• Jhumpa Lahiri – At Work
• Stephen King – The Art of Fiction No. 189 (The Paris Review)
• Margaret Atwood – A Living Legend on Creative Process  Zadie Smith – In Conversation with Brick Literary Journal
• Sahlman Rushdie in Conversation with Charlie Rose 
• Alan Moore – Philosophy on Writing

Writing is often solitary, but learning doesn’t have to be! Get some pals to come over and watch trashy TV and notice what keeps you all watching. Stalk your favorite writers and steal all their good habits (and only the legal ones). You can absolutely learn while also laughing at Real Housewives.


10. “Write what you CARE TO UNDERSTAND”
"Write what you know" has always struck me as the kind of advice that sounds wise until you actually try to follow it. Taken literally, it suggests that writers should only draw from personal experience, which can be both limiting and creatively stifling. While grounding your work in emotional truth or familiar settings can bring authenticity, the idea that writers MUST stay within the boundaries of their own lives discourages imaginative risk and experimentation—two things that are essential to great storytelling. 

What if all you know is your grocery store job, your awkward adolescence, and the insides of your own head? That’s a narrow garden to plant stories in. And besides, isn’t part of the thrill of writing the chance to utilize the vast expanse of imaginative possibility? To step outside yourself, to sneak into other lives?
 

What I counter this age-old advice with is these: “Write what you WANT to know.” Or “Write what you are willing to thoroughly explore.” Or my favorite: “Write what you CARE TO UNDERSTAND”
Powerful fiction comes from curiosity, empathy, and the ability to ask “What if?” Writing should be a process of discovery, not just reflection. It’s not about what you already know—it’s about what you’re hungry to understand and make meaning of. When we write beyond the boundaries of our own experience with curiosity and care (this includes utmost respect for people, cultures, realities and existences far beyond our own), we don’t just create richer stories; we also expand our own worldview. Isn’t that what the best writing does—change both the writer and the reader?

If writers only stuck to what they literally knew firsthand, we wouldn’t have Beloved (Toni Morrison was never an enslaved woman), or Life of Pi (Yann Martel did not, to anyone’s knowledge, survive a shipwreck with a Bengal tiger). Mary Shelley was 18 when she dreamed up Frankenstein, and she wasn’t exactly surrounded by galvanic experiments—she was surrounded by poets and stormy weather and big questions about science and ethics. That was more enough.

Here’s the thing: writing isn’t a diary entry. It’s an act of empathy and imagination. You don’t need to have been a surgeon or a spy to write about one, but you do need to be curious and thorough. You need to ask good questions and care about research so you get the answers right. That might mean reading memoirs, interviewing people, going down research rabbit holes, or just sitting very quietly and asking yourself what it might feel like to live inside someone else’s skin. If you can do that—if you can make another person’s experience feel vivid, true, and specific—you’re doing something much richer than “writing what you know.” You’re writing what you care to understand.

So if you want to break out of your own story, start small. Give a character a job you’ve never had. Set a scene in a place you’ve never been. Let someone make a choice you never would. Follow your questions instead of your memories. Writing adventurously doesn’t mean accuracy over imagination; it means combining the two. It means being courageous enough to leave the trodden paths of what’s familiar, and trusting that your curiosity will steer you somewhere fascinating… somewhere you might never have believed… and the world has never conceived of before.

Books-by-the-Month: May

Each May, the world is reborn— its hues sharp, the air narcotic with growth. 

 
I like to turn to books that speak — in their vastly different languages—to the alchemy of spring.
Because though full of warming days and the promise of jacket-free softly lit days, May is delightfully deceptive. On the surface: sunny, sprouting, slightly unhinged from the pollen. Underneath: existential dread with a side of compost.

So here is a varied collection that hums with May’s energies: growth, mystery, intellectual fertility, and the shivering joy of the irrational.

And what more can we ask of Peak Spring than that it remind us, gloriously, that we have not yet read ourselves to the end?


1. The Wild Iris by Louise Glück

 
A poetry collection for when the world is turning green again. Glück’s poems are spare, clear, and full of the voice of flowers—serious and quiet and somehow thrilling. Reading Glück’s The Wild Iris in May is like walking barefoot through cold dew: it arrests, it cleanses

The poems, spoken in turns by gardener, flower, and G-d (Herself!) create a polyphony in which voice and silence, blooming and burial, despair and redemption, are not opposites but connected, natural realities. Glück’s garden is a battleground of consciousness, where the soul grapples with its mortality and the silence of the divine. And yet, the book shimmers with hope.

The iris, that May bloom with its blade-like leaves and solemn faces, becomes a totem of persistence.

“It is terrible to survive / as consciousness / buried in the dark earth,” 

she writes in the title poem.
 

But survive it does. The plants, anthropomorphized but never sentimentalized, speak in the dry, luminous diction that is Glück’s signature—each line tight as a root. Her flowers are not metaphors—they are selves speaking from the dirt.
 

In May, when the garden is both promise and proof, The Wild Iris is the most honest prayerbook I know. Read it with the window open.

 

2. The Hearing Trumpet by Leonora Carrington
Why: May can feel mischievous — a perfect time for this surreal, hilarious story about a 92-year-old woman uncovering a mystical conspiracy at her retirement home.
And that? Is all I shall say lest I spoil the mischief.

 

3. Arcadia by Tom Stoppard
A play about gardens, chaos theory, and the collision of past and present? Sounds like May to me!
As Guenevere famously touts in Lerner and Loewe’s Camelot— the “lusty month of May” is “that darling month where everyone goes wistfully astray.” The month of May is a kind of c h a o s.

Tom Stoppard’s Arcadia takes place in an English country house where past and present slide over each other like water over glass. The play toggles between 1809 and the 1990s, between a 13-year-old genius named Thomasina and a cadre of modern academics trying (and failing) to make sense of her brilliance.

The precise “gardens” of Enlightenment-style thought give way—in the play and in the outside world of the play—to romantic wilderness. In both timelines, the characters are giddy with questions, love, and ruin. 

The brilliance of Arcadia lies in its marriage of head and heart. It makes fractals romantic and carnal love scientific. It is the ideal spring read because it is both fecund and formal—its dialogue clipped and exquisite, yet drenched with emotional urgency. Like May, it is a hinge: a time when intellect and instinct flirt outrageously, each stealing the other’s lines.

Read Arcadia aloud I say! Do all the voices! Don’t skip the stage directions! Revel fully in Stoppard’s wit, or better yet, see it performed live.



4. Weather by Jenny Offill

Early summer often brings a hum of low-key anxiety about the future (think graduation, life changes,
existential dread). This fragmented, witty novel captures May’s atmosphere beautifully—the month when the world is either blooming, buzzing, or quietly breaking into a sweat.

Reading Weather in May is like sipping lemonade while doomscrolling—it hits both your sweet spot and your spleen. Offill’s prose, famously fragmentary, lands like poetic pollen: light, airborne, and likely to spark a reaction. It mirrors the May mood—attention fractured by birdsong, barbecues, and the gnawing sense that climate change might just cancel June.

Weather is the literary version of overhearing a whip-smart stranger muttering to herself in a community garden. It’s a domestic novel, sure, but with apocalyptic garnish. Our narrator, Lizzie, is a librarian who collects anxious questions like others collect wine:

“What if we all become bugs?”

“Is it OK to eat meat if the cow wanted to die?”

And yes, Librarian Lizzie will help you renew your books while the world teeters on collapse.

May is also the month when we remember we’re animals—squinting at the sun, dreaming of reinvention. Offill gets this. Her characters are always evolving, molting old selves. Weather doesn't hand you answers; it hands you a dandelion puff of paradox and invites you to blow.

 

So if you’re standing at the intersection of “should I plant tomatoes?” and “is civilization crumbling?”, Weather is your match. It’s short enough to finish on a breezy Sunday and dense enough to haunt you until the solstice. 

 

 

5. The Three-Body Problem by Liu Cixin

 
Liu Cixin’s The Three-Body Problem is a groundbreaking science fiction novel that blends Chinese history, political intrigue, and astrophysics in an utterly unique way. Set against the backdrop of China’s Cultural Revolution, the novel explores the consequences of first contact with an alien civilization. 

The story revolves around a physicist named Ye Wenjie, who, after a series of traumatic events, sends a signal to the stars—a signal that is eventually answered by an alien race on the brink of extinction.
Liu’s writing is at once intellectually stimulating and emotionally compelling, exploring themes of scientific progress, humanity’s place in the universe, and the unanticipated consequences of our actions.
This first book in the Remembrance of Earth’s Past trilogy will take you on a mind-bending journey through space and time.