86 books like The Woman Who Married a Bear

This whole series always makes me smile–Mma Ramotswe remains one of the most hilarious main characters in any cozy mystery I’ve ever read. The crimes she comes up against are usually low-key, usually secondary to the backdrop of Botswana, and often solved by accident as much as design.

Precious Ramotswe’s commentary on Botswanan life is simply brilliant, but almost even more amusing is her sidekick, Grace Makutsi, who bumbles through her role as secretary-promoted-to-assistant-detective, and the interaction between the characters never fails to give me laugh-out-loud moments.

This whole series has to be the most feel-good series ever, and now I’m rediscovering it as an audio production of the radio series; it’s as heart-warming as a bright bunch of flowers on a dull day, a bowl of hot soup when you’re sick; a hot bubble bath when it’s snowing outside…I love it, love it, love it!

I admit I’m old enough that memories of the post-Vietnam War era had begun to fade (mercifully?) until this book brought them back into sharp focus.

Vientiane, Laos, in 1976, after the Communist takeover, is so vividly portrayed–from the scent of the “Crow Shit blossoms” on the banks of the Mekhong to the inertia of the socialistic hierarchy, to the chicken counter spies turning their neighbors in for their capitalistic extravagances. And I found the 72-year-old Laotian coroner protagonist so endearing!

His cynical outlook and visitations from the dead make him a singularly sage and unconventional hero who can roll with the wildly absurd changes of the new regime. 

I love that the endless drought in the small Australian town of Kiewarra is as much a villain as the human antagonist in Jane Harper’s debut novel. The oppressive heat, the flies, and the smothering dust harbor their own brand of desperation and evil.

The human characters seem to struggle vainly against the burden of their own secrets and the forces of nature around them. All of Jane Harper’s novels make me feel like a stranger in a strange land, but in a dramatic, enlightening way. The Dry is Harper's first, and the best at this, in my mind. 

I like all of the Dave Robicheaux novels, but this is probably my favorite. Burke captures the sights and sounds of the Louisiana Bayou with the intense affection of someone raised on the Gulf Coast. In fact, I think he treats the setting as lovingly as Robicheaux treats Alafair, the Salvadoran orphan girl he rescues from a downed plane and raises as his own.

The three-legged raccoon, the wet moss hanging ghostlike from dead cypress, the blue crab shelled with a wooden mallet–just a few of the images that add to the patina of New Iberia. Much of the action takes place in Montana, but Robichaux–and James Lee Burke–return home at the end of the book to the bayou they both love.

I loved this book because it told the inner story of Southeast Alaska, a place where I grew up, a story I had never truly known. Tragic yet also easily relatable, the book tells of a family both deeply injured by and standing up against institutionalized racism. This is the Alaska that tourists do not see but that is powerfully, achingly real.

I’m recommending Raven Stole the Moon for a few reasons. First, it addresses maternal guilt and loss, which are important themes in my novel. Second, it incorporates Native Alaskan mysticism, drawing on the author’s Tlingit heritage. I am always intrigued by spiritual lore, and one of my characters, who also has a Native Alaskan background, relies on nature to anticipate—or even predict—the future. And finally, I’m an overall fan of the author (who also wrote The Art of Racing in the Rain) and found the book to be entertaining—and let’s face it, entertainment is one of the key reasons we read!

Set in Southeast Alaska, Jimmy Bluefeather honestly depicts both environmental and generational change.

A Tlingit-Norwegian canoe carver anticipates the end of his life while his grandson struggles with his own future and a whale biologist resists authority in favor of moral action. Heacox grounds his beautifully-written story in considerable research as well as with respect for cultural beliefs and practices.

The canoe carver in particular is well-drawn and memorable, with toughness, resilience, and humor earned from living close to the Earth and its waters, in a place of stories. A canoe journey carries the story into a wild landscape, questions about conflicts between economic development and the preservation of lands and cultural values, and understandings of human frailty and strength. 

This is an ancient, novel-length tale of a hero in the Alaska wilderness near the dawn of time, confronting the cruelty and grief endemic in a world in which survival always hangs on the luck and skill of the hunter. Oman, who died in 2018 at 102, told me 30 years ago about holding onto the Qayaq story, even through the years when her cultural practices were effectively outlawed. She grew up at a time in Kotzebue when her father, a shaman, could only tell the ancient stories of her Inupiaq people at night, in secret, vouchsafing them with her for another generation. As an adult she continued collecting them, and then, in her old age, published this graceful and haunting story, which seems to reach to us from another world.

I love the lyricism of this book. Set in the Tongass National Forest, I love how the girl and her grandmother gather the bounty of the earth, including lots and lots of berries. I never knew so many different kinds of berries existed.

I like the nod to their ancestors singing to them and their voices dancing on the water. They sing, too, so they will always remember their ancestors and their land.

This novel is like a wild ride on the ocean. I loved how it took me into the Indigenous communities in the Hawai’ian Islands prior to contact with Europeans and revealed their longstanding links to the Pacific coast of North America. There’s an epic story, and it’s chock full of marvelous detail about culture, food, clothing, migration, and worldview, and even explores the nature of time. However, what most struck me was considering what it would be like to orient my thinking to the sea and its rhythms instead of the land. It shifted the way I see the place I live.