100 books like Light at the Seam

This is the novel I can only wish I had written. Pancake’s expansive story of a family in a desperate struggle to save their homes and hollows from the ravages of mountaintop removal mining gives voice to modern-day Appalachians in the same way The Grapes of Wrath spoke for the displaced farmers of the Dustbowl era. (As one who loves Steinbeck’s epic, I don’t make this connection lightly!) Another heartrending masterwork that I couldn’t stop thinking about as I read this book is Barbara Kingsolver’s The Poisonwood Bible because of its centering on motherhood, its similar structure, and its ability to pull the reader into the lives of the characters. This is storytelling at its best. I couldn’t put it down. 

I loved reading this novel first and foremost for its exquisite craftswomanship; van Eerden just writes beautiful sentences. Her descriptions are palpable, delivering the reader to a hollow and its people—all characters who remain intricately bound to their homeplaces no matter how far away they travel. Like my own novel, this story revolves around women and also includes an LGBTQ character. And themes of grieving and motherhood, love and loss, and compromise, are naturally woven into the fabric of the story. 

This is not a work of fiction but a memoir by a novelist, an unflinching portrait of generations of a family ever at the brink. It reads almost as vignettes, exquisitely crafted and somehow soothing even in their brutal honesty. Poignantly rendered pieces of the author’s life reflect aspects of Appalachian culture that can often come across as stereotyping, but the personal nature of this work combined with Dodd White’s skilled pen makes it an authentic view into struggles endemic to the region. He bravely writes of suicides in his family, most heartbreakingly that of his son. Until I read this book, Joan Didion’s A Year of Magical Thinking was secure in its position at the top of my “best memoirs” list.

This book may seem an aberration, but it makes my list because it touches on my own research life, my own literary journey, and my heart: it connects Appalachia and Ireland. This is a book of poetry—simple, lovely pieces written in both places—accompanied by gorgeous photographs of nature and landmarks. As one who travels to Ireland whenever I can, and pines for it when I can’t, this book transports me from my mountain home to those shores across the Atlantic. I am a visual writer, in that I see my stories play out, and especially the stories I imagine for my Irish immigrant ancestors. So a picture book of poems that connects my two homelands strikes the right note with me, lets my mind relax and create.

I remember talking with Laura-Gray Street when they were planning this book, and I love how it turned out! A beautiful mixture of natural history, poetry, and artwork featuring species of the Southern Appalachians. If you live in or care about Southern Appalachia, I’d especially recommend this to you (and it makes a great gift for anyone you know who lives there). 

Charles Causley’s poems celebrate every turn of Cornwall’s stride. He writes of the sea, towns, moors, and people with incredible imagery humor, and tragedy.

The poems ask questions of love and nature. "And careless, like tide-marks, the hedges / Are bursting with Almond and May." Causley sings the magic of Cornwall, ‘Its anchor is glittering granite," "His smile was sharp as tin."

My favorites are the ballads, I was inspired to write the Caradoc ballads by reading Causley’s ballads over and over. Folklore underpins many of his poems, there are mermaids, giants, saints, and even a baby devil.

This book is a guided tour through poetry’s potential and its cliches. At its heart, this book is a toolbox (that’s not my metaphor; it’s literally on the book’s cover).

I once harbored an ambition to support myself solely through writing (secretly, I still do), so I encountered Kooser’s opening advice with a combination of humor and denial: “You’ll never be able to make a living writing poems.” But once I accepted this very pragmatic and practical mindset, I began writing better. (And, oddly, writing more.)

This book helped me become a happier, more relaxed writer. As a bonus, I’ve found that the tools readily adapt to prose.

I love this book because it teaches that real healing starts from within. This book doesn’t sugarcoat the work required to find your truest self; it’s about diving deep, stripping away the nonsense, and facing yourself head-on.

If you want real change, you’ve got to go inward, confront who you are, and do the work to heal. This book doesn’t just talk about it—it shows you how to get there.

I love Wordsworth’s poetry (and his comments on the creative process) for its beauty and its importance to the history of the art form. His best poems—especially Tintern Abbey and his Intimations or Immortality Ode—tell psychological and spiritual tales about the gains and losses of growing up, and the role that nature can play in a person’s maturation. 

His Preface to Lyrical Ballads lays out a Romantic program for poetry that has been hugely influential for two centuries. Wordsworth’s idea that poetry comes from “emotion recollected in tranquility” and captures the “spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings” encapsulates how, for me and countless other writers, reflecting on personal memories provides a storehouse of poetic material.

If some books inspire a rethink of recent history through hundreds of pages of forensic evidence or rigorous theory, Emtithal Mahmoud’s poetry recasts big questions that African societies have struggled with by weaving together hard-hitting metaphors and stunning phrases to open up new worlds of possibility and loss.

I find Emi’s writing an incredible call for solidarity, compassion, and the shattering of barriers—whether through the tender or the raw, the unspeakable or the gushing, the blistering and the comforting. A set of poems I return to regularly for perspective, whether on personal dilemmas, the contraptions of unity and division, or the political currency of love and othering.