100 books like The Slowworm's Song

Say Nothing captures, perhaps better than most, the sheer nothingness left behind by moral injury. And, in doing so, Keefe manages to spawn empathy, even for those who “disappeared” others—a menacing verb; an unspeakable crime.

The book, then, is another reminder that moral injury can affect anyone, no matter how innocent or despicable—and that we should, just maybe, express a bit less judgment and a bit more empathy.

History books tend to be two-dimensional, stagnant even. But I found Keefe’s storytelling to be masterful and engrossing. He avoids the tedious unloading of historical facts that makes a story dense and unmemorable, and instead brings the story, cliché as it may be, to life

Few today know of moral injury, and I found this book to be a great introduction to the condition. The heart of it concerns betrayal—by those above and even ourselves.

Often seen as the father of “moral injury,” Jonathan Shay reveals that the condition itself actually stretches deep into the bowels of history, at least as far as Shakespeare, if not the Homeric epics written 2,400 years earlier: a reminder that everything old is new again. 

Rather than acting as ventriloquist, Shay quotes his patients, allowing the veterans to speak for themselves; to express their traumas and the consequences thereof. And he emphasizes, as few do, the responsibility of society to aid in healing those traumas.

An accessible, practical read for understanding moral injury, trauma, and our communal responsibilities.

Oftentimes, we focus on the injured individual, forgetting that the injuries extend to—and harm—others in our immediate orbit: spouses, children, family, and friends. I appreciated, therefore, that Wood, in detailing moral injuries to our servicemembers, simultaneously exposes the reader to the soul wound-adjacent injuries to our loved ones, reminding us of the aphorism, “hurt people hurt people.” 

My list contains a theme, of course: that the responsibility for helping those living with moral injury and post-traumatic stress heal lies beyond the individual, requires the community. So I welcomed Wood’s willingness to cite the “prefab patriotism,” to borrow Barbara Ehrenreich’s words, of American civilians and their “thank you for your service” platitudes as also worthy of blame. Healing, as Wood rightfully suggests, requires listening without judgment.

A provocative title combines with an introspective account of one soldier’s slow descent into madness to provide an edgy read. I enjoyed Edmonds’ choice of a unique narrative device, jumping backward and forward in his story, to introduce the impossible questions with equally hard answers he faced advising an Iraqi official involved in interrogation—and Edmonds’ ensuing breakdown.

The lion’s share of war literature concerning moral injury and post-traumatic stress comes from “trigger pullers.” But in God is Not Here, we see how war spares no one. And, in exposing war’s reach and how trauma can affect anyone, I believe Edmonds validates—rightfully so—those who might otherwise feel their trauma doesn’t “measure up” to those who experienced “real” trauma.

I really liked Tommy Orange's book because it places Native people in an urban context, which is where the majority of Native Americans live. It showed the adaptations our people make to urban environments while maintaining connections across generations. It shows that being Indigenous is "of the land" even when someone is displaced from the exact piece of land they came from through the reforging of community and connection.

The storytelling is constructed in an interesting way, too, because multiple characters, each on their own tense journey, start converging and colliding with one another in a great crescendo to the narrative. 

This is one of the first books I read when I realized that I had a serious problem with drinking. Not only did it help me better understand my addiction from a genetic, scientific point-of-view, it also helped me diagnose myself as an alcoholic. Written for the lay-reader, it’s short, packed with hard facts and eye-opening studies about alcoholism. It’s a classic. And it’s also inspiring when it comes to recovery and treatment. I’ve recommended it dozens of times to people who’ve asked me where they could find out more about alcoholism, if not for themselves, then for those they love who have a serious drinking problem.

This book is also a semi-autobiographical and painful exploration of a writer’s addiction to alcohol.  It is the story of a talented writer, Don Birnam. Birnam lives in a rundown neighborhood in Manhattan and is praised for his realism in his writing but he drinks to numb himself to his struggle with his homosexual feelings. The novel follows him on a five-day binge as he uses all kinds of ingenuity to get a bottle of rye to sustain him. He contemplates murdering his selfless, dedicated girlfriend’s maid to get a key to a liquor cabinet. He bangs his head in frustration and winds up in an ‘alcoholic ward.’ Enjoying quoting Shakespeare and confident as a writer, his worst enemy is not a blank page but the need to drink. It was adapted into a brilliant film.

You can’t stay married if you’re dead. Don’t die. Read this book. 

There’s a reason TIME Magazine included the central text of the world’s most prolific recovery organization on its list of Best 100 Nonfiction Books of All Time: the book that gave AA its name likely has saved more lives than any other singular narrative in the past century.

AA not really for you? Reading Alcoholics Anonymous does not mean joining Alcoholics Anonymous. The themes co-authors Bill Wilson and Dr. Bob Smith discuss – and the Twelve Steps of Recovery in particular – have near-universal relevance to anyone attempting to break the grip of alcohol or drugs.

More than eight decades after its publication, the book offers timeless truths that captivate addicts via ironclad identification. 

Besides the fact that Laura and I have so much in common (our first name, our publication date, our genre), I am a huge fan of the way she makes recovery accessible to everyone. 

In Push Off From Here, Laura uses her experience to encourage the reader to explore their relationship with substances. Her ‘nine essential truths to get you through sobriety and everything else’ are simple, spot-on, and user-friendly.   

Bad boy, Tim, has struggled with drinking and now is a member of AA and is trying to start his life over. He and my character, Christopher, could attend AA meetings together and I am always happy to find a young adult character who is a reformed bad boy and trying to stay sober with AA and this story does not disappoint.