I read a lot. (That’s a fairly well-known fact, especially if you check my Goodreads profile and see how many books I read in a year.) I read many different genres–fantasy, contemporary, dystopian, science fiction, literary, even some memoirs and non-fiction. I read pretty much everything.
But there’s this certain kind of book that I’ve always gravitated towards.
The “sad” books. The “hard” books. The books that push us to read about pain and grief and suffering and healing–the kind of books that make us sit in un-comfortability and force us to feel. The books about addiction, about screwing up, about depression, about self-harm, about abuse.
The thing about books like these is that they aren’t fantasy. They aren’t made up. Sure, the characters may be, but that plot? That idea? That topic? That’s not made up. That’s real. That pain? Real.
Growing up, I’ve been blessed to not live through that kind of pain, but I’ve always read books about it. These books made me realize that everyone has their own kind of pain, their own demons, their own daily struggle. Whether it be a parent’s divorce, a guilt that you can’t shake, a friend who you’ve been trying to let go of for years and just can’t. These books made me realize that all of our pain is valid and real and that we’re not alone.
Girl in Pieces reminded me of all of this. It reminded me of why I fell in love with Jellicoe Road six years ago, why Wild Awake still gets me thinking, why What We Saw made me understand in a different way. It reminded me why we all read–we read to understand. We read to understand people’s lives, to understand our own, to get a telescope into a new dimension we ourselves don’t experience. We read to feel. To feel deeply and fully and without questions.
And these books? These “hard” books, the books that break us apart and leave us in a puddle of tears, begging the characters to heal, and aching to know what their lives become? These books are vital. These books change people’s lives. These are the kinds of books we have to read. These are the books we should give every teenager to remind them that they aren’t alone, that there are hundreds of people out there just like them. That they can heal.
Charlotte Davis is a girl with a past. A past filled with a father in a river, a mother with a palm on Charlotte’s cheek, a best friend who doesn’t want to feel anymore. A past with a home under an overpass, a past with glass shards and skin, a past with Frank who takes so much and gives nothing in return. Charlotte is, in many ways, broken. She’s what people would call broken, a girl who will never heal. Except Charlotte wants to heal. She wants to get better.
And Girl in Pieces is her story. Her story of pain and relapses and trying to get better and having all the wrong people in her life, but maybe a few good ones. Her story of drawing and washing dishes and getting her first apartment and stumbling through her life, searching for a new story.
Girl in Pieces is a book I don’t think I’ll ever forget, because it made me remember that we’re never alone. Not really. We may feel like we’re the only ones in the darkness, stumbling around for a light, but there’s always someone there, standing next to the switch, just waiting for us to ask them to turn it on. It made me remember that we all have our own Mikey, Blue, Linus, and Tanner. Our own Alice. Our own Casper. Our own Evan, our own Ellis.
Kathleen Glasgow has written a book that feels. It understands what it’s like to be human, to suffer, to want to heal, to struggle to keep it together. It understands what it’s like to start over, to find new friends, to find the good in people. It is real.
Girl in Pieces is a song I never wanted to end.