The Poppy War by R. F. Kuang is a military fantasy novel deeply inspired by the Second Sino-Japanese War, exploring imperialism, genocide, addiction, revenge, and the cyclical nature of violence. Through the journey of Fang Runin (Rin), Kuang examines the devastating cost of power and the illusion that destruction can ever fully solve suffering.
Rin begins as a poor orphan raised by adoptive parents who profit from smuggling poppy products. In order to escape being married off to an older man, she studies obsessively to gain entrance into Sinegard, an elite military academy. Once there, her intelligence does not make up for her lack of combat training, and she is repeatedly targeted for being from the countryside. Alienated from the academyās traditional paths, she becomes drawn toward Master Jiang and the world of shamanism, opium, and the gods.
Master Jiang explains the spiritual potential of the poppy seeds:
āThese seeds are a shamanās dreamā¦ used with the proper mental preparation, give you access to the entire universe contained within your mindā (47).
The poppy becomes more than a narcotic within the novel. It functions simultaneously as a spiritual gateway, a destructive addiction, and a metaphor for war itself.
War as Addiction
One of the strongest literary elements within The Poppy War is metaphor, particularly the relationship between opium and warfare. Throughout the novel, fire, the Phoenix god, and narcotics become emotionally intertwined. Rin gains access to incredible power through shamanism and the Phoenix, but every use of that power consumes her further.
When Rin first unleashes the Phoenix during battle, Kuang describes the fire almost like a drug overtaking the body:
āThe fire billowed outward with a vengeanceā¦ She controlled the flame no more than the wick of a candle mightā (252).
The power is intoxicating, overwhelming, and impossible to fully control. Just as opium offers a temporary escape while destroying the user, war offers the illusion of victory while consuming entire civilizations.
This metaphor becomes even more explicit later in the novel:
āBut something so destructive inherently and simultaneously has marvelous potentialā (192).
The same logic people use to justify opium is often the logic nations use to justify war: destruction becomes acceptable if it promises power, safety, revenge, or transformation. Yet both ultimately leave devastation behind.
Rin herself fears losing control to the fire in the same way someone fears surrendering themselves to addiction:
āShe didnāt want to admit that she was scared. Scared of being in a state where she had little control of herselfā (321).
Even Altan, who claims mastery over the Phoenix, eventually reveals himself to be entirely consumed by it. His use of power has become normalized to the point that he no longer recognizes it as a form of dependence. The novel subtly suggests that trauma, violence, and addiction can become inherited cycles passed through generations, particularly through Rin and Altanās shared history as survivors of Speer.
The Gods Do Not Choose ā We Do
The novel’s climax becomes devastating because Rin ultimately chooses annihilation. After witnessing unimaginable violence and genocide, she calls upon the Phoenix and destroys the Mugenese completely, including innocent lives alongside soldiers and political leaders. Before she acts, she is warned:
āTo give your soul to the Phoenix is to enter hellā (499).
And afterward comes the novelās most important line:
āThe gods choose nothing. You choseā (502).
That line reframes the entire story. The gods, addiction, war, and fate are not solely responsible for destruction. Human beings still make choices within systems of violence. Power does not remove accountability.
This deeply connects with themes in my own writing inĀ Discordia, particularly those surrounding Eris, the Kalonox, and the golden apple metaphor. Reading The Poppy War helped me think more deeply about autonomy, tyranny, and the illusion of destiny.
In Greek mythology, Eris uses the golden apple to create discord by appealing to vanity and self-interest. Eveās apple similarly represents knowledge, disobedience, and autonomy. In Discordia, the Kalonox draws inspiration from both symbols. The oppressors pursue power, believing it will give them control over reality itself, while the deeper truth may be that liberation only happens when people stop waiting for gods, rulers, or destiny to save them.
Like The Poppy War, I want the story to suggest that fate is not something handed down by divine power. The gods do not create reality aloneāpeople do. Tyranny survives because people fear standing alone against it. The Kalonox, therefore, becomes less about ultimate power and more about exposing the selfish desires of those who seek it.
What I take from Kuangās novel for my own writing is the strength of layered metaphor. The fire in The Poppy War is simultaneously war, addiction, trauma, rage, power, divinity, and destruction all at once. The metaphor works because it exists emotionally, politically, spiritually, and personally throughout every layer of the narrative.
July 2026- I used to hike all the time when I was younger. As part of the Environmental Resources Academy at Guajome Park Academy, our class and parents went on backpacking trips together. It was one of those experiences that builds character without you realizing it at the time. In my twenties, I spent years traveling up and down both the East and West Coast, living out of a backpack. Most of my hikes after traveling were day trips. Hiking has always stayed with me.
Fast forward a few years. My husband and I have been struggling, and I desperately needed space. There was something about disappearing into the mountains that sounded incredibly healing. As I planned out my summer adventures, Trinity Alps landed at the top of my list.
I’ve tried convincing girlfriends to go hiking with me before, but every trip seemed to fizzle out before it happened. This time I decided I was going, whether I had company or not.
I told Jeremy, “I’m doing this.”
His response was, “We need to train before we do a hike like that.”
I laughed and told him, “I’ve been training my whole life.” I was tired of waiting until I had more experience, better gear, or the “perfect” moment. My plan was simple: hike as far as I could. If I couldn’t make it to the lake in the estimated time, I’d turn around. There was no shame in that.
To my surprise, he agreed to come with me.
I didn’t over-prepare. I looked up the trail online: 15.6 miles, 2,942 feet of elevation gain, estimated at 8ā8.5 hours, and rated as hard. Good enough. I had bought Jeremy a Garmin watch for Christmas the year before, so I put a surprising amount of faith in that little piece of technology to keep us from getting lost.
Our packs were pretty simple: an extra set of clothes, extra socks and underwear, bathing suits, jackets, a hammock, camp stove, toiletries, a notepad, sleeping bags, food, and, most importantly, our Bear Box and Sawyer Squeeze water filters. Jeremy packed an extra jacket and his fishing gear, which was about the only difference between our backpacks.
Food wasn’t fancy. Nuts, sausage, Cup Noodles, tea bags… the backpacking gourmet experience.
We had two days to finish the hike.
We hugged the kids goodbye, climbed into the car, and hit the road.
We left Eureka at 4:30 in the morning, stopped in Weaverville to grab our self-serve wilderness permit, and picked up our online burn permit for the camp stove.
When we finally reached the trailhead, the parking lot was absolutely packed.
We didnāt know that this is how hiking trails were, full of people.
There were two trailhead signs reminding everyone that fires were prohibited. Ironically, we’d needed a burn permit just to use our tiny stove, and we’d end up seeing more than a few old stone fire rings throughout the trip.
Before we even started hiking, my CamelBak began dripping water. Jeremy suddenly remembered that the bladder had a small leak and admitted he’d been hoping it would somehow fix itself.
It had not.
Then he realized something even better.
Despite my reminders, he had forgotten to fill his own CamelBak.
Classic.
So we dumped my water into his pack, reassured ourselves that we’d use the Sawyer filters once we reached a creek, and finally started hiking.
The beginning of the trail was wonderful. Easy. Shaded. The kind of trail that tricks you into thinking, People said this was hard?
There was a steady stream of hikers coming and going. About two miles in, everyone seemed eager to swap stories or offer advice.
“This is our third day,” one woman told us excitedly. “It’s my first time doing anything like this!”
There were campsites surprisingly close to the trailhead, and they were rather comfortable. Large groups had chairs, hammocks, coolers, and all kinds of comforts spread along the riverbank.
Jeremy reminded me not to use the bathroom, wash dishes, or dump dirty water anywhere near the river. He wasn’t convinced everyone else had gotten the same Leave No Trace memo.ā¦ my little Boy Scout.
There was another trail branching off toward Forbidden Lakes at Trailhead 5, so everyone we met seemed to be comparing destinations. It quickly became obvious that we were some of the only people trying to squeeze this adventure into two days. Many hikers planned to spend three, four, or even five days exploring the backcountry.
We passed families, solo hikers, groups of friends, and even one mom carrying a baby. It made me smile. Hiking really is for everyone.
The scenery kept getting better with every mile. Towering mountains, dense forests, waterfalls tumbling over granite cliffs, squirrels leaving neat little piles of pinecone shells on rocks, and the constant soundtrack of rushing water. It was one of those places where silence never really exists because nature is always speaking.
I didn’t want to stop.
Then we ran out of water.
Naturally, Jeremy claimed I’d been chugging all of it.
Naturally, I reminded him that maybe I wouldn’t have had to if someone had remembered to fill his CamelBak.
It had been a while since we’d crossed a creek, and we hadn’t filled our Sawyer bags yet. I remember joking, Ask and you shall receive.
Sure enough, sitting right in the middle of the trail was a full bottle of water.
Yes…
We drank it.
Before you judge us, it looked freshly abandoned, and we left the bottle where we found it in case the owner came looking for it on the hike back.
The trail was full of little forgotten treasures like that. A blue bandana with roses, a lone hiking sandal, the water bottle… random reminders that hundreds of people had walked this same path.
We were still making good time, but Jeremy was starting to slow down.
When we finally reached another stream, we eagerly filled our Sawyer bags and filtered fresh water. I don’t know why I expected freezing mountain water, but it was surprisingly warm.
Back on the trail, we watched a couple of guys cross the creek and assumed they knew where they were going.
They did not.
Well… maybe they did, but we certainly didn’t.
Instead of crossing where they had, we followed the trail until it completely disappeared into a dead end. There was an old rock fire ring and several trees that looked heavily damaged, almost like people had carved or broken pieces off them over the years.
Something didn’t feel right.
We pulled out the paper map, ignored Jeremy’s expensive Garmin for the first time all day, and quickly realized we’d missed the creek crossing entirely.
Score one for old-fashioned maps.
After crossing the river, the real climb began.
The shade disappeared, replaced by endless switchbacks and giant stone staircases that looked almost too perfect to be natural.
Apparently mountains make stairs now.
Who knew?
Jeremy was officially over it.
His backpack suddenly weighed a thousand pounds; we’d pushed ourselves too far; we should have planned for another day… you know, all the things people say when they’re exhausted.
So we traded packs.
Somewhere along those rock steps we met another couple making the same climb. We encouraged each other the rest of the way up, each pretending we weren’t equally tired. Sometimes all you need is another struggling human nearby to convince yourself you can keep going.
Then we saw it.
Lower Canyon Lake.
Eight miles from the trailhead, surrounded by granite cliffs, crystal-clear water, and enough beauty to make every aching muscle disappear.
There were already quite a few people enjoying the lake, but somehow it still felt peaceful.
I didn’t waste any time.
Bathing suit on.
Straight into the water.
It was freezing.
It was perfect.
While Jeremy settled in to fish, I stretched out on a warm rock to dry off. I tried convincing him to come swimming, but he wasn’t interested. Then I switched tactics.
“Come on. Let’s hike to Upper Lake.”
He wasn’t having it.
He wanted to fish.
I wanted to explore.
Honestly, it worked out perfectly.
I wandered off on my own toward Upper Canyon Lake.
Finding the trail turned out to be harder than I expected. At times I was bushwhacking through brush, scrambling over boulders, and wondering if I was even going the right direction anymore.
Less than twenty minutes later, I climbed onto the rocky ridge separating the two lakes.
Victory.
Upper Canyon Lake spread out in front of me, and it was breathtaking.
I must have taken fifty pictures.
Of course, once I got there, I immediately wanted to keep going.
The map showed another destinationāL Lakeāand suddenly that became my new mission.
I followed the shoreline around the right side of the lake until the trail simply… ended.
Across the water I could see another campsite, wide grassy flats, and groups of campers swimming together. That side of the lake was calmer, less windy, and somehow felt even more secluded despite the extra people.
Eventually I made my way back to Jeremy.
He admitted he’d had plenty of time to rest and kind of regretted not coming with me.
I told him about climbing over rocks and pushing through brush, and we both agreed that maybe spending a little time apart had been exactly what we needed. He got to fish. I got to explore. We both came back happier.
On my way back, I met two men and a young boy who insisted they had found the best campsite around.
“You’ve got to take it,” one of them told me.
It was tucked into a little corner beside Lower Lake, hidden behind granite boulders with the water only a few feet away.
I excitedly told Jeremy about it.
After talking it over, though, we decided to head back down to the quieter campsite we’d seen near the creek crossing.
As tempting as camping beside the lake sounded, we’d come out here to reconnectānot to spend the evening surrounded by dozens of other hikers.
A little more privacy and protection from the wind sounded like the better adventure.
I actually think this version reads much more like a memoir than a travel log. The relationship is becoming the second storyline without overpowering the hiking story, which makes me want to keep reading. I have a feeling Part 3āwith the bear encounter and the conversations around the campfireāis going to be the emotional heart of the piece.
We made it back to the creek crossing where we’d decided to camp. There were a few fallen logs, and I remembered reading the trailhead sign about a beaver that had recently moved into the area. Hikers were encouraged to report any sightings.
Jeremy decided this was the perfect place to cook dinner.
His reasoning was simple: never cook where you sleep unless you want bears to associate your campsite with food.
Fair enough.
We dropped our backpacks, pulled out the little camp stove, and settled onto the logs. I complained for a minute because it felt like such a random place to stop, but I quickly gave in. I stretched out across one of the logs, arms spread wide, letting the miles we’d just walked finally settle into my body.
We heated water for tea and Cup Noodles.
Neither of us was particularly hungry, but we both knew this was our chance to eat something warm before calling it a night.
Then came the hot dogs.
Yes…
Hot dogs.
Nothing says backcountry adventure quite like carrying hot dogs eight miles into the wilderness.
I somehow managed to eat mine, even though I felt like I was about to explode.
Jeremy wasn’t as committed.
I’m pretty sure he tossed a little piece into the woods.
For the bears.
I’m kidding…
…mostly.
As we sat there, hikers continued crossing the creek. Couples, groups of friends, fathers hiking with their kids. Everyone had a story, and for a little while it felt like we were all sharing the same adventure, just at different points along the trail.
Once dinner was over, we packed up every scrap of trash. Leave No Trace isn’t just a slogan; it’s the reason places like this stay beautiful.
Our campsite wasn’t far away, so setting up didn’t take long.
The biggest challenge was figuring out our brand-new hammock.
Neither of us had ever slept in one before.
Fortunately, it was basically idiot-proof.
Wrap the straps around two trees.
Clip.
Done.
I looked up through the branches and told Jeremy how excited I was to see the stars. Part of me wished we’d camped closer to the lake where the view would’ve been completely open.
Then we both laughed.
I almost never stay awake long enough to actually see the stars.
As evening settled over the mountains, something shifted between us.
We stopped trying.
There wasn’t some big relationship talk or dramatic breakthrough.
We just… talked.
Most of the hike had been quiet. Whenever conversation started, it usually drifted back toward bills, work, responsibilities, or all the little stresses waiting for us back home.
That evening was different.
We simply enjoyed each other’s company.
Jeremy climbed into the hammock beside me.
Yes…
We attempted hammock adult time.
Would I recommend it?
Not particularly.
Is it worth checking off the bucket list?
Absolutely.
After that, I never got back out.
I lay there listening to the forest until I fell asleep.
And, as predicted…
I completely missed the stars.
Then…
CRASH.
The sound echoed through the trees.
The bear box had fallen.
“There’s a fucking bear.”
Jeremy shot upright, frantically searching for the headlamp.
“Calm down,” I whispered.
“First, find the light.”
He was shaking.
He grabbed the bear spray in one hand and his knife in the other. Then, in what was possibly the funniest survival strategy I’ve ever witnessed, he started smashing them together while making every gun sound effect imaginable.
Chk-chk.
Bang.
Pew pew.
Apparently, if you don’t own a gun, you can simply become one.
Once he found the headlamp, he shined it toward the bushes.
“I can see its eyes.”
Sure enough, the bear was standing out in the field watching us.
After several very long minutes, Jeremy worked up enough courage to check on our food.
The bear had climbed the tree and managed to rip the handle off the bag we’d used to hang our Bear Box.
That absolutely blew my mind.
The Bear Box itself had protected our food perfectly, but the bear had nearly figured out the system anyway.
Later we learned the trailhead sign apparently recommends burying the bear box rather than hanging it.
Turns out these bears are a lot smarter than we are.
For the next couple of hours, Jeremy sat outside the hammock keeping watch while the bear occasionally wandered through the field in front of us.
I eventually fell back asleep.
The next morning, we woke to scratching.
Scratch…
Scratch…
Scratch…
Three trees away was the same bear, happily tearing apart a rotten log for breakfast.
Jeremy looked over and said, “You know they call hammocks bear burritos?”
Then he looked at our tent.
“I guess tents are bear tacos.”
I laughed.
Jeremy immediately told the bear to move along.
Meanwhile, I wanted to just watch him for a little longer.
There we were.
Jeremy standing outside the hammock talking to a bear.
Me still bundled up inside, thinking he was beautiful.
Eventually the bear wandered off, looking strangely disappointed, almost exactly like our wolf dog whenever we tell her she’s done sniffing something.
We made tea one last time before packing up camp.
As we hiked back, we crossed paths with many of the same people we’d met the day before. Several mentioned seeing a bear.
Maybe it was ours.
The hike out felt longer than the hike in.
Funny how that works.
The excitement had worn off, my legs were tired, and every uphill section seemed twice as steep as I remembered.
Jeremy, on the other hand, had somehow found a second wind and kept our spirits up for most of the walk back.
We passed families, solo hikers, school groups, seasoned backpackers, and first-timers.
Jeremy pointed out the little piles of pinecone shells squirrels had left behind and the stacked rock cairns hikers use to mark the trail.
There was something comforting about sharing the wilderness with so many different people, all searching for something of their own.
Looking back, we probably didn’t need to train any harder for this hike.
What we probably needed was one more day.
Two days was enough to finish it.
Three days would’ve let us truly settle into it.
But maybe that’s true for more than just hiking.
We came out here because our relationship needed space to breathe.
Somewhere between the miles, the silence, the freezing lake, the terrible backpacking cuisine, and one incredibly determined bear, we found a little of that space again.
We talked about our kids.
We missed them constantly.
We laughed more than we had in weeks.
No, the mountains didn’t magically solve our problems.
But they reminded us that underneath the bills, responsibilities, and everyday stress, we still liked spending time together.
For my birthday, that was the greatest gift I could have asked for.
Carroll, Jonathan. Sleeping in Flame. Doubleday, 1989.
Sleeping in Flame by Jonathan Carroll is a surreal fantasy novel that reimagines the fairytale of Rumplestiltskin through themes of reincarnation, manifestation, gender roles, generational trauma, and memory. Set largely in Central Europe, the novel follows Wilson, the stolen son of a beautiful woman who once manipulated a magical little man named Breath in order to gain the love of a king. Breath loved Wilsonās mother deeply and willingly used his magic to help her, turning hay into gold so she could rise into royalty. But after gaining power and status, she rejected him completely. In retaliation, Breath claimed her firstborn son and raised him himself.
Unlike the traditional fairytale, however, Breath becomes far more emotionally complicated than a simple villain. He loves Wilson like a son, teaches him magic, and raises him across multiple lifetimes through reincarnation. Yet that love becomes possessive and destructive. Every time Wilson grows old enough to fall in love or begin a life of his own, Breath kills him and reincarnates him again, unable to let him go.
The novel moves fluidly between past, present, and future, slowly revealing how memory and identity bleed into one another across lifetimes. Wilson begins recovering memories of previous lives while becoming aware of the emotional manipulation and loneliness that drive Breathās actions. To break the cycle, he must eventually remember Breathās true name. Ironically, Breath had always wanted to be known and understood. The mother never asked for his name, even though he would have given it to her freely.
Manifestation and the Present Moment
One of the strongest themes in this novel is manifestation and the power of focused thought. Breath teaches Wilson that magic depends on specificity and intention. Even the smallest overlooked detail can alter the outcome of a wish. Carroll uses magic less as spectacle and more as an extension of consciousness itself.
A particularly powerful scene takes place during the Nazi occupation of France. A German soldier enters a classroom searching for Jewish children. Although he knows the children are being taken to their deaths, he sees them as innocent and beautiful rather than monstrous. Without realizing it, he unconsciously uses magic to save them:
āWithout them doing anything, we watched them fly away over a purple field of lavenderā (136).
The moment feels dreamlike and devastating at the same time. It raises difficult questions about free will, morality, obedience, and human choice during times of tyranny. Would people choose compassion over orders if they truly understood the consequences of their actions? The soldier himself does not even fully understand what he has done. When he later asks where the children and teacher disappeared to, another boy responds playfully:
āThe boy giggled and threw up his hands as if they were full of confettiā (136).
The scene captures how manifestation in this novel often occurs unconsciously through emotion, desire, or instinct rather than deliberate control. This is deeply connected to themes within my own writing surrounding resistance, moral awakening, and the question: When do we rise against tyranny?
Love, Memory, and Reincarnation
Maris, Wilsonās lover, becomes one of the emotional anchors of the story. As a child, she builds intricate LEGO cities, creating detailed worlds that others dismiss or fail to understand. Building cities becomes her way of grounding herself in the present moment. Later, she creates a detailed image of medieval Vienna for Wilson without realizing its connection to his past lives. Vienna is the city that Breath repeatedly reincarnates him throughout time.
Maris leaves Wilson a note reading āBreathing you,ā a phrase that ultimately helps him remember Breathās name and unravel the cycle controlling his life. Carroll writes:
āWhen you love someone deeply, you know secrets they havenāt told you yetā (253).
That line beautifully captures the emotional core of the novel. Love becomes tied to memory, intuition, and recognition across lifetimes. The novel suggests that people carry emotional traces of one another through time, even when they cannot consciously explain why.
Generational Trauma and Gender Roles
The story also explores gender roles and inherited emotional wounds. Breathās obsession with Wilsonās mother stems from rejection and humiliation. Instead of healing from that rejection, he transforms his pain into manipulation and control, continuing to haunt both mother and son across generations. At one point, he says:
āIād go back to her in her dreamsā¦ Weād show her what she was missingā (208).
What begins as heartbreak evolves into possessiveness and emotional cruelty. The cycle of masculine control and manipulation becomes an inheritance, repeated over time. In many ways, the novel mirrors the same themes of generational trauma and gendered violence I saw explored in Grace by Natashia DeĆ³n, where harmful gender roles continue echoing through families and relationships across generations.
What I take from this novel for my own writing is the idea that the past, present, and future constantly consume and inform one another. Carroll shows how memory, breath, love, trauma, and identity move through generations almost spiritually. More importantly, the novel suggests that awareness, presence, and emotional honesty may be what finally breaks inherited cycles.
Rulfo, Juan. Pedro PƔramo. Translated by Margaret Sayers Peden, Grove Press, 1994.
Pedro PĆ”ramo by Juan Rulfo is a ghost novel of magical realism, centered on generational trauma during and after the Mexican Revolution. The story follows Juan Preciado, who travels to the town of Comala after his motherās death in search of his father, Pedro PĆ”ramo. What he expects to find is the beautiful town his mother once described to him: āa beautiful view of a green plain, with a bit of yellow from the ripening cornā (13). Instead, he arrives in a decaying landscape, almost entirely occupied by ghosts.
The guide who first leads Juan into Comala describes the town as āthe very mouth of Hellā where the dead return to reclaim their blankets (15). From the beginning, death is normalized within the setting itself. The living and the dead exist together, conversations blur between memory and hallucination, and time moves in fragments rather than straight lines. Juan eventually becomes consumed by the voices and ghosts surrounding him, dying from fear and exhaustion before continuing the story as one of the dead himself.
One of the most striking aspects of this novel is its nonlinear structure and fragmented narration. The story shifts between timelines, memories, conversations, ghosts, and interior thoughts without warning. At times, this can feel disorienting, but it also reflects the emotional collapse of Comala itself. The town is haunted not only by literal ghosts, but by the lingering violence of exploitation, corruption, revolution, and abandonment.
Setting as a Protagonist
What interested me most in this novel was the way Comala itself functions almost like a protagonist. The town is not merely a backdrop to the story; it actively shapes the emotional atmosphere of every scene. Comala represents exploitation, ruined revolution, abandoned women, inherited suffering, and the decay left behind by powerful men like Pedro PƔramo.
Throughout the novel, the setting constantly shifts between memory and reality. Damiana Cisneros recalls hearing celebrations and parties in the streets: āThere was a time when I could hear the commotion of a party that kept going night after nightā¦ā only to discover āNothingā when she investigates (50). Ghosts roam through the town as though death itself has become part of the landscape: āIf only you could see the horde of shadows roam the streetsā (60). Yet memories of the past briefly illuminate the darkness through Juanās recollections of his mother describing carts filled with corn and life moving through the streets (55).
The novel repeatedly contrasts beauty with decay. One moment, the sky is described as bright and full of light, and the next, the physical world becomes suffocating and grotesque:
āThe bed was made of otate reeds and covered with burlap sacks that smelled of urineā¦ā (64).
The environment mirrors the emotional and moral collapse of the town itself. Rain, heat, rot, dust, and darkness all become extensions of grief, violence, and abandonment. Later, after Susana San Juan recounts traumatic memories connected to her father, the narration shifts outward:
āOutside it continued to rain. The Indians had left. It was Monday, and the valley surrounding Comala was still drowning in rainā (100).
The environment reflects the narrative’s emotional state. The endless rain feels less like weather and more like accumulated grief soaking into the town itself. In Pedro PĆ”ramo, nature and atmosphere become emotional language.
Pedro PƔramo and the Corruption of Power
Pedro PĆ”ramoās influence poisons every layer of Comala. Wealth protects him from accountability while everyone beneath him becomes disposable. When a woman comes demanding justice because Pedroās son murdered her husband, Pedroās administrator attempts to pay her off with corn rather than acknowledge responsibility:
āI offered her fifty hectoliters of corn if sheād forget the whole thingā¦ā (74).
When Pedro asks who the grieving people were, and his manager responds that he does not know them, Pedro simply replies that they therefore ādo not exist.ā This moment captures the emotional core of the novel: people without power become invisible. Comala is haunted because suffering was ignored rather than healed.
Susana San Juan becomes one of the most emotionally powerful figures in the story. Her mental instability, trauma, sensuality, and longing are written with poetic intensity. Before her death, she speaks of swimming naked in the ocean and surrendering herself to the sea (105). Water becomes symbolic of purification, release, and returning to something natural beyond suffering.
When Susana dies, the town erupts into celebration:
āThey buried Susana San Juan and few in Comala noticed. They were celebratingā (126).
The celebration is not because of Susanaās death itself, but because the town is distracted by festivities while Pedro loses the only person he ever truly loved. Her death marks the emotional collapse of his power. Just as Pedro spent his life taking from others, loss is finally returned to him. After Susanaās death, Comala fully descends into ruin.
What I Take Into My Own Writing
This novel taught me how setting can function as an emotional force within a narrative rather than simply a location. Through memory, atmosphere, ghosts, weather, and fragmented storytelling, Rulfo transforms Comala into a living embodiment of generational trauma.
For my own work in Discordia, I want to explore a similar setting by showing Zetheus before and after societal collapse, using memory, hallucination, storytelling, and environmental shifts to reflect emotional change within the world itself. Pedro PƔramo also reminded me to pay close attention to diction, pacing, and the emotional rhythm of sentences. Even in confusion and darkness, the language remains poetic and intentional.
Beneath its ghosts and fractured timelines, the novel ultimately becomes a story about how violence and exploitation echo through generations long after death itself.
Butler, Octavia E. Parable of the Sower. Grand Central Publishing, 2019.
Parable of the Sower by Octavia E. Butler is a dystopian science fiction novel set in a near-future California, where climate disaster, addiction, violence, poverty, and political corruption are collapsing the state. Told through the diary entries of Lauren Olamina, the story follows a young woman trying not only to survive societal collapse, but to create a new moral philosophy within it. Through Laurenās belief system, Earthseed, Butler explores religion, adaptability, community, and the human need to create meaning during times of chaos.
The story begins in a gated Los Angeles neighborhood, where Lauren lives with her family. Her father, a Baptist minister and professor, attempts to preserve structure and faith within a rapidly deteriorating world. After his death, the fragile safety of the neighborhood collapses completely. Drug addicts obsessed with fire burn the community to the ground, forcing Lauren to flee northward on foot, disguised as a man. Along the way, she gathers companions, slowly building a community of survivors connected not through blood or traditional religion, but through shared ethics and collective care.
Eventually, Lauren meets Bankole, a doctor who owns land in Northern California. The group travels there hoping to create Earthseed, a sustainable and intentional community built around Laurenās philosophy that āGod is Change.ā However, even upon reaching their destination, violence and destruction continue to follow them. The property has already been devastated, and corrupt systems remain close behind. Still, Lauren refuses to abandon her vision.
Religion as Adaptation
One of the strongest themes in the novel is not simply survival, but transformation. Butler presents religion not as rigid doctrine, but as something living and adaptive. Lauren does not inherit her fatherās Christianity directly. Instead, she develops her own spiritual philosophy through observation of the natural world, human behavior, and change itself. Earthseed becomes both a religion and a survival strategy.
The world Lauren inhabits is already accustomed to suffering: āSeven of the homeless people sleeping inside on that last night burned with itā (2). Violence has become normalized to the point where people emotionally detach from it. Laurenās response to this chaos is not despair, but the creation of a moral structure centered around intentional ethics, adaptability, labor, and community responsibility.
What stood out to me most is how Earthseed represents the refusal to blindly follow inherited systems that no longer serve humanity. Lauren creates a belief system aligned with her own understanding of justice and survival rather than simply repeating tradition. The novel asks an important question: how do we build morality in a world where institutions have already failed?
Humboldt County and Returning to the Land
As someone living in Humboldt County, the ending of this novel resonated deeply with me. Butlerās depiction of people migrating north toward the land felt eerily familiar to the history of Humboldt itself. Many people came to these mountains searching for freedom, sustainability, self-governance, and a closer relationship with nature.
I especially connected this to the Green Rush and the migration of cannabis growers into Humboldt County. People originally came to the mountains seeking alternative ways of living outside traditional systems, but over time, corruption, cartel involvement, outside investment, overregulation, and corporate expansion transformed the culture entirely. The same systems people hoped to escape eventually followed them into the mountains.
That connection made Butlerās novel feel less like distant science fiction and more like a warning already unfolding around us. Parable of the Sower suggests that societal collapse is not simply caused by violence or environmental disaster, but by the breakdown of shared ethics and collective care. Laurenās answer to that collapse is not perfection, but a community rooted in intentional values and cooperation with the earth itself.
What I take from this novel for my own writing is the importance of creating belief systems within stories that shape every layer of the worldbuilding, character decisions, and themes. Butler does not simply tell the reader what Earthseed isāshe builds the entire narrative around its philosophy. The story becomes a reflection on how people survive not only physically but also spiritually and ethically during times of collapse.
Jones, Stephen Graham. Mongrels: A Novel. HarperCollins/William Morrow, 2016.
Mongrels by Stephen Graham Jones is a coming-of-age horror novel told through the perspective of an unnamed boy growing up in a nomadic family of werewolves. Living alongside his Aunt Libby and Uncle Darren, the nephew struggles to understand who he is as he waits to discover whether he will eventually transform himself. Throughout the novel, Jones uses the werewolf figure not simply as a monster but as a metaphor for poverty, marginalization, generational trauma, displacement, and survival.
The nephew is rarely named directly. Instead, he is often referred to through shifting identities such as āthe nephew,ā āthe vampire,ā āthe mechanic,ā or āthe prisoner.ā This creates a feeling of instability surrounding identity itself, reflecting the uncertainty of adolescence and self-discovery. Although his experiences are supernatural, the emotional core of the story feels deeply human: the desire to belong somewhere while fearing what you may become.
As the family is forced from town to town, instability becomes their normal way of life. Darren works dangerous and degrading jobs, while Libby repeatedly pulls the family back together whenever things fall apart. Eventually, Darren disappears after falling in love with a woman outside the family, leaving the nephew once again abandoned by a male role model. Shortly before the nephewās own transformation, Libby promises she will remain beside him:
āIāll still be here,ā the aunt says, reaching her hand across, taking his. āJust like Darren,ā the nephew says. āWerewolf promises arenāt any good, donāt you know that one by now?ā (296).
That line captures one of the novel’s strongest emotional themes: the fear of abandonment inherited across generations.
Werewolves as Social Outsiders
One of the most powerful aspects of Mongrels is the way Jones compares werewolves to the poor, the criminalized, and the socially unwanted. The nephew grows up believing imprisonment and suffering are inevitable for people like him: āEverybody goes to jail at some point. Werewolves especiallyā (53). The family survives through scavenging, temporary work, theft, and constant movement. Childhood friendships are temporary because they never last long enough to take root.
The werewolf mythology becomes a framework for exploring inherited trauma. The nephewās mother became pregnant after an act of violence and died during childbirth. Throughout the novel, there are fragmented stories surrounding her death, some softened or disguised by family storytelling. The grandfather often āhumanizesā horrific events through strange, indirect narratives instead of telling the truth directly. One disturbing example involves him describing killing a rabid dog:
āOnce I hit her that first time, little pup, I like to have never got that next lick inā¦ā (17).
The story feels awkward, violent, and emotionally detached, especially through the child’s eyes. Later, however, the novel reveals a much darker parallel beneath the story: the brutal death of the nephewās mother during childbirth while infected with the werewolf condition. The grandfather seems more comfortable transforming trauma into folklore than confronting the real violence directly. In Mongrels, the āhumanizedā stories often become the fantasy, while the true human experiences underneath remain unbearable to speak aloud.
Memory Through Cars
One literary element that deeply stood out to me was the way cars function throughout the novel. The vehicles are disposable, stolen, temporary, patched together, and constantly changing, much like the family itself. Yet at the same time, the make and model of each car becomes a way of tracking memory, emotion, and periods of life. The cars become emotional landmarks.
Jones repeatedly introduces vehicles with careful specificity:
āNearly two weeks later, he finally drifted in again. What he droveā¦ was a pretty pristine old Mercury Montereyā (71).
And later:
āThe Sabre wasnāt close to street legal anymoreā¦ā (71).
The naming of the cars grounds the timeline emotionally. Instead of remembering life through stable homes or permanent places, the family remembers periods of survival through whatever means carried them at the time. The cars become connected to memory, identity, grief, movement, and family history. Each one marks a chapter in the nephewās life. Because the family is constantly uprooted, the vehicles become one of the only consistent ways to orient time and memory.
This detail resonated with me deeply because it reflects how people living unstable or nomadic lives often attach memory to objects in motion rather than permanent locations. In Mongrels, cars become temporary homes, escape routes, symbols of survival, and emotional timestamps all at once.
Monstrosity and Emotional Truth
What I take from this novel for my own writing is the permission to lean into dramatized or monstrous figures to express emotional truth. By filtering lived experiences through imaginative characters like werewolves, the novel creates a bridge between realism and metaphor, allowing readers to emotionally inhabit difficult truths. The supernatural elements never feel disconnected from humanity. Instead, they intensify it.
Libbyās warning to the nephew echoes throughout the novel:
āNot all kids born to a werewolf are a werewolfā (21).
Beneath the horror and mythology, Mongrels becomes a story about inheritanceāwhat we fear inheriting, what we cannot escape, and the possibility of becoming something different despite where we come from.
Grace by Natashia DeĆ³n is a historical horror novel that follows the life and death of a young Black woman named Naomi. Told through a nonlinear narrative, the novel follows Naomi as a ghost after her death, watching over her daughter Josephine while reflecting on the trauma, violence, love, and resilience that shaped her life. The story blends ghost story, historical fiction, and lyrical prose into something emotionally devastating and deeply human.
Gender roles and the brutality of slavery play a major role throughout the novel. Naomi begins as a hidden child, concealed by her mother from Massa, the slave owner who controls their lives. After witnessing abuse and violence against her family, Naomi kills Massa in order to protect herself and avenge her mother. She is then forced into survival alone, wandering through a world where Black women are constantly vulnerable to exploitation and violence.
Throughout the novel, men repeatedly fail the women around them through manipulation, abandonment, rape, cheating, and abuse. Yet alongside this darkness is an equally powerful theme of motherhood and feminine endurance. Naomiās mother survives by complying outwardly while secretly protecting her children. Hazel, Naomiās sister, becomes an example of survival and sacrifice. Even when Naomi herself is betrayed by Jeremyāthe first man she truly lovesāshe eventually refuses to remain trapped in abuse. Jeremy attempts to pimp her out, abandons her during pregnancy, and later returns only to shame her. Naomi ultimately walks away, choosing both herself and her child over submission.
Motherhood Beyond Death
Shortly after Josephineās birth, Naomi is killed by slave catchers. However, death does not end her connection to her daughter. As a ghost, Naomi remains tethered to Josephine, unable to fully let go. Some of the most haunting moments in the novel are not the supernatural ones, but the emotional truths surrounding motherhood, attachment, and grief. Annie tells Naomiās spirit:
āOne day you will leave her, by your choice. Itās what youāre supposed to do. At some point, every mother has to let her child goā (185).
That line stayed with me long after reading the book. It transforms the ghost story into something much larger about the pain of motherhood itself: loving someone enough to eventually release them into the world.
Lyrical Prose and Emotional Rhythm
One of the strongest literary elements in Grace is DeĆ³nās lyrical prose. She slows down intimate moments and emotional observations until they almost feel suspended in time. Her writing often moves with a poetic rhythm that makes even painful scenes feel beautiful and deeply sensory.
āI wish he would smell sweet to me like a man looking for love or seemed soft like a man who could love me silly and forgive me for the thangs he didnāt know about meā (38).
The prose lingers inside physical sensation, emotion, memory, and desire. Rather than rushing through events, DeĆ³n allows moments to fully breathe. Her storytelling carries humor, sexuality, tenderness, and humanity even within the horror of slavery and violence.
What I take from this novel for my own writing is the importance of slowing down and honoring the details of life itself. Grace reminded me that storytelling is not only about plot progression but about fully inhabiting emotional moments, relationships, and sensory experience. The novel feels like a ghost story not simply because of Naomiās spirit, but because it honors the cycle of life, motherhood, trauma, love, and memory itself. It suggests that even after death, the emotional imprint we leave on one another persists.
Amrith, Sunil. The Burning Earth: A History. W. W. Norton & Company, 2024.
The Burning Earth by Sunil Amrith is a historical examination of climate change, empire, war, and humanityās relationship with the natural world. The book explores how rising populations, industrialization, greed, and global conflict directly reshape the environment, while environmental collapse simultaneously reshapes the human condition. Throughout the text, Amrith presents history as deeply interconnected with nature rather than separate from it.
One of the most compelling ideas within the book is the danger of believing that technology alone can solve climate collapse. Amrith discusses the concept of the technosphere, humanityās attempt to āengineer the climate itselfā (331), while warning of the consequences that follow: āspecies loss, the depletion of fresh water, assaults on the forests and the oceansāand reducing the incentive for the wealthy and the powerful to change their behavior in any wayā (332). The book repeatedly returns to the idea that those in power often exploit both land and people while avoiding responsibility for the damage left behind.
War Against Nature
A major theme throughout this book is Man vs. Nature, but also the illusion that humanity exists separately from nature. Amrith argues that environmental destruction and human suffering are directly intertwined. Civilization expands, consumes, wages war, and extracts resources while ecosystems collapse alongside it. He writes, quoting Hannah Arendt, that āearthly nature, for all we know, may be unique in the universe in providing human beings with a habitat in which they can move and breathe without effort and without artificeā (252).
This quote deeply resonated with me because it reinforces how fragile and rare our planet truly is. The Earth is not simply a backdrop to human history but the condition that makes human life possible at all. Throughout history, conflict between rulers and the ruled, empires and indigenous peoples, industrialization and sustainability, has repeatedly led to environmental collapse alongside human suffering.
Amrith traces these patterns through multiple eras of history. In 1426, Portuguese colonizers burned the forests of Madeira for sugar plantations, destroying ecosystems alongside local culture and community. During periods of empire and expansion, gold, oil, and resources fueled war while forests, oceans, animals, and entire ways of life were erased in the process. The industrialization of warfare only accelerated this destruction. āWar machines were thirsty for oilā (171), Amrith explains, connecting environmental extraction directly to global violence and political ambition.
Discordia and Environmental Tyranny
This book strongly reinforced the central themes within my own novel, Discordia. My thesis asks: How does tyranny affect our environment? And beneath that: When and how do we rise against tyranny?
What The Burning Earth helped crystallize for me is that war, environmental collapse, and the human condition cannot truly be separated from one another. As long as we treat issues like sustainability, politics, war, and social inequality as isolated problems, the destruction continues to spread outward into every part of life.
One of the most haunting passages in the book describes wounded soldiers during World War II, comparing modern warfare to mythological monsters and apocalyptic visions. A Punjabi Rajput soldier wrote, āThis is not a warā¦ this is the end of the whole worldā (172). That line captures something deeply relevant to our present moment. Environmental destruction is not disconnected from political violence or greed; they are reflections of the same imbalance.
This book ultimately reminded me that humanity behaves as though it stands above nature, when in reality, we are part of a singular living organism. To harm the planet is to harm ourselves. Healing the environment also requires healing the systems of violence, exploitation, and tyranny that continue to consume it.
McCarthy, Cormac. The Road. Vintage International, 2007.
The Road by Cormac McCarthy is a dystopian horror novel set in an apocalyptic America where cannibalism has become normalized, and survival itself feels unnatural. The story follows a father and son, referred to only as āthe manā and āthe boy,ā as they travel west toward the coast searching for warmer weather and some remaining fragment of hope. Along the road, they encounter starvation, violence, death, and the constant fear of other survivors.
When they finally reach the coast, however, they discover the same emptiness and danger they faced throughout the journey. At one point, they discover an abandoned ship and recover supplies, including a gun. After the boy accidentally leaves the gun behind, the father injures himself retrieving it, further weakening his already dying body. Eventually, the father dies on the road, leaving the young boy alone in a brutal world. By the end of the novel, another man approaches the child, claiming to have a family, and the two continue down the road together.
Repetition as Atmosphere
One of the most noticeable literary devices in this novel is repetition. Much of the story moves back and forth between short conversations between the father and son. The dialogue often revolves around death, survival, fear, or reassurance. The boy constantly seeks affirmation from his father, asking whether his father is telling the truth or whether things will be okay. McCarthy writes:
āThe man was trying to kill us. Wasnāt he. Yes he was. Did you kill him? No. Is that the truth? Yes. Okay. Is that all right? Yesā (270).
The repetition creates a bleak emotional rhythm throughout the novel. The dialogue is stripped down, sparse, and often emotionally restrained. Even moments of tenderness feel muted by exhaustion and by the need to survive.
Another repeated element is the physical movement across the landscape: āThey sleptā¦ They hikedā¦ they followedā (88ā89). The repetition of actions and imagery reinforces the emptiness of the world around them. Town after town, road after road, ash after ash, the setting rarely changes. This creates a suffocating atmosphere where time and geography almost blur together.
Emotional Flatness and Monotony
While I understand that McCarthy intentionally uses repetition to create emotional desolation, I personally struggled to fully enjoy the novel because the dialogue and prose became overly repetitive. Conversations often felt dry or emotionally flat:
āIs it okay? Yeah. Itās okay. Does it hurt? Yes. It hurtsā (266).
The characters themselves sometimes felt similarly muted. Most people they encounter blend together under the same grayness of survival, fear, and hopelessness. I also noticed repeated imagery throughout the novel that made the world feel emotionally stagnant: āIn the morning they stood in the road, and he and the boy argued about what to give the old manā (173). The landscape, conversations, and interactions often carried the same tone, with little variation.
For my own writing, this book helped me think about balance. Repetition can absolutely be powerful when used intentionally to create mood, rhythm, or emotional weight. However, I also realized how important it is for me, personally, to vary dialogue, imagery, pacing, and character voice to maintain emotional engagement with the reader. Even in bleak or desolate worlds, I am more drawn to stories where moments of tonal variation, personality, or vivid emotional shifts break through the darkness.
Gomez, Jewelle. The Gilda Stories. Beacon Press, 2023.
The Gilda Stories by Jewelle Gomez is a vampire novel that explores racism, queer love, slavery, chosen family, and survival across generations. More than simply a vampire story, the novel examines what it means to belong to one another in a world built on violence and displacement. The story begins with a frightened young woman escaping slavery and finding refuge in Gildaās brothel, where she is introduced to compassion, education, and community in a way she has never experienced before.
āThe gambling, musical divertissements, and the private rooms were all well attended. Gilda employed eight girls, none yet twentyā¦ā (14). From the beginning, Gomez creates a setting that feels alive with intimacy and emotional texture. The young woman remains fearful of white men and the possibility of being dragged back into slavery: āAny of these men could capture her and take her back to the plantationā (29). Yet within Gilda and Birdās household, she witnesses something entirely different from the cruelty she has known. The women are intelligent, capable, compassionate, and empowered: āThey all had manners of ladies, could read, write, and shootā (24).
Eventually, the young woman learns that Gilda and Bird are vampires, though Gomez reimagines vampirism as something rooted in connection rather than violence. āIt is through our connection with life, not death, that we liveā (43). The vampires in this world do not exist purely as predators. Instead, they exchange energy, dreams, and emotional understanding with humanity. Gomez writes, āWe draw life into ourselves, yet we give life as wellā¦ Itās a fair exchange in a world full of cheatersā (43).
Chosen Family and Queer Love
One of the strongest elements in this novel is its exploration of chosen family. The emotional architecture of the relationships feels deeply intentional, especially the connection between Gilda and Bird. Their love is romantic, nurturing, and spiritual all at once. When Gilda prepares to die, she asks the young woman to remain with Bird, believing she belongs among them. Eventually, the young woman takes on the name Gilda herself, continuing the family’s lineage and identity she has entered.
Throughout the novel, Gomez repeatedly returns to the idea that family is not solely determined by blood, but by loyalty, protection, understanding, and mutual care. Eleanor later says, ā…to choose someone for your family is a great responsibility. It must be done not simply out of your own need or desire but rather because of a mutual needā (63). That line felt especially powerful to me because it defines family as a responsibility rather than ownership.
The language surrounding community and belonging throughout the novel is often breathtakingly beautiful: āThose of us who can withstand that uneasy pulling of the seaās waters swirling about the bay feel firmly rooted here and protective of each otherā (71). Gomez creates an emotional atmosphere where intimacy and survival become deeply intertwined.
Resistance Against Exploitation
The antagonist, Fox, represents exploitation, cruelty, and domination. Unlike Gildaās compassionate philosophy, Fox treats working women as disposable and slave-like. Because Gilda herself escaped plantation slavery, her conflict with Fox becomes deeply personal and symbolic. As the story unfolds over time, Gilda also becomes involved in activist movements such as Greenpeace and the Black Panther Party, continuing the novelās larger themes of justice, resistance, and collective care.
One thing I struggled with personally was pacing. I found myself wishing Fox had been introduced earlier within the story, possibly within the first sixty pages, to create a stronger central tension sooner. I also wanted the novel to slow down more often and remain longer inside the emotional and sensual details of each scene. The relationships, touches, environments, and emotional moments were among the novel’s strongest parts, and I often found myself wanting more time to fully inhabit them before the story moved forward. By the end, the pacing felt rushed to me compared to the emotional depth established earlier in the novel.
Still, what stayed with me most was the novelās belief in companionship and healing across time. Even after centuries, distance, grief, and transformation, the characters continue searching for connection with one another. The story ultimately suggests that survival alone is not enough; people also need intimacy, community, and love in order to remain whole.
Little Lost Forest 