As much an homage to her home state of West Virginia as a nod to those who have struggled to survive small-town limitations, Maren delivers a profoundly intimate study on alienation and how the catastrophic impact of pain and dependency ripples through communities.
Some books simmer for a while; some boil from the get-go. Mesha Maren’s Shae boils. Her book grabs us instantly… . [Her] portrayal of an addict living in a constant fugue state chasing her next fix is all encompassing and powerful. Compelling.
The book is saturated with glistening prose and residual imagery that flows in the same beautiful vein as the passage above. From beginning to end, the novel captures the rawness of the land, its inherent beauty, its people, the way a place can shadow over who a person becomes ... With all the talent coming out of the region, I think it’s safe to say that Maren has developed her own corner of queer rural literature, adding to the conversation surrounding addiction new perspectives with nuance and grace. The Appalachian literary world is lucky to have Mesha Maren and we’ll gladly claim her as our own.
The novel’s subject matter and framing device, unfortunately, make comparisons to Demon Copperhead unavoidable. Maren’s portrait of Appalachia isn’t quite as evocative or expansive as Barbara Kingsolver’s, but for those seeking a tighter narrative with a queer, female perspective, there is much here to savor.
Emotionally taut if thematically uneven ... Maren beautifully evokes both the natural beauty of Appalachia and Shae’s plaintive longing for Cam, though the characterization of the saintly Cam, who returns to take custody of Eva while still an undergrad, feels a bit flat.
