If you've never listened to audiobooks, start here 🎧
   Audiobooks Are — And I Can't Stress This Enough — Saving My Sanity During COVID-19
More for your TBR list From the community Longer reads For your reading list  Credit: Riverhead, Scottie O Gross's debut novel is a clever, neurotic, slightly bonkers story about a woman in her mid-20s who becomes convinced a local bartender is Sigmund Freud, and swiftly falls into a psychosexual obsession with him. She was already a bit obsessed with Freud — her parents are both highly successful, emotionally withholding psychiatrists, and the unnamed protagonist's introduction to Freud (pulling her parents' book off the bookshelf and seeing his stern face) is entangled with her introduction to arousal, and her own sexuality.
Her sexuality is a driving force through the story. The book begins with her waking up hungover, recalling two hook-ups that now fill her with a nagging shame: the night before, her roommate's brother; the week before, her parents' colleague. She's obsessed with sex — with the thrill of seeking it out, sublimating herself in the anonymity of it — but she's also addicted to the cycle of pleasure and punishment. She wants to be better, but mostly she wants to be acknowledged as despicable. She looks to this mysterious bartender for both condemnation and absolution.
If you are, like me, someone who has spent the better part of your life in some combination of psychotherapy and psychoanalysis, Hysteria will feel like a personal, hilarious attack. Gross's protagonist is narcissistic and maddening, but also extraordinarily fun to watch, as long as you don't take her too seriously. It's a quick read and well worth picking up. Get your copy. —Arianna Rebolini
*20% discount valid through 9/8/2020, while supplies last. Please see www.penguinrandomhouse.com for full details.
"If You Read These Stories Deeply, They're Yours, Too" An Interview With Shruti Swamy  Shruti Swamy's debut short story collection, A House Is a Body, is a nuanced and powerful collection about our most urgent and deeply felt experiences — grief, love, and desire. In "Blindness," a newlywed's depression causes a rift between herself and her suddenly cruel husband, leaving her to escape into alternate dream lives. In "My Brother at the Station," a pregnant woman catches sight of (and then trails) her brother, long estranged because of his ability to see the dead.
It was one of our favorite books of the summer, and we wanted to dive a little deeper into the book with Shruti herself. Via email, we talked about motherhood, textual ambiguity, and how the external world influences her interior explorations
BuzzFeed Books: The title story of your collection, "A House Is a Body," is about a mother who's been told to evacuate her home in the midst of a California wildfire — especially salient in this moment, while California fires continue to rage. What is the relationship between the external world, current events especially, and your fiction?
Shruti Swamy: I really appreciate you drawing this connection. My stories are very focused on my characters: their interior and even dream lives, and their relationships with each other. Even with that focus though, I wanted to be responding to the world I was writing them in, the issues that keep me up at night. A couple stories, like the title story and "The Siege," were explicitly written in response to this feeling of instability and dread — environmental and political — but many more take place in a kind of personal apocalypse, a place in which a character has lost something crucial from their old life and must figure out how to go on, to be a person, to live. This too is a response to current events.
Something I love about these stories is their ability to play with the border between dream and reality. Can you tell me a bit about how you tap into the psyches of your characters, bringing their imaginations (often their anxieties, fears) to life? How do you navigate the balance between specificity and ambiguity — telling the readers what's happening versus, for lack of a better word on my part, suggesting it?
As a reader, I find a lot of pleasure in connecting the dots of a story, running beside it or sometimes even a little behind it, trying to follow and understand its movement. It asks more of me as a reader, but the payoff is a deeper intimacy with the story. Your own experience of your life contains almost no exposition at all: You don't think, "I am eating dosa, the fermented rice and lentil crepe from South India," or "ah, my husband of four years, who is a different race than me, and who twice was mugged in his childhood." You think: breakfast, you think: Abe. So rather than find the ambiguity of my stories alienating, I would like the reader to find them inviting. I want them to feel like there is no separation between my consciousness and theirs, that they are accepted wholly into these stories if they choose to enter them. With a story like "Blindness," where there is a lot of ambiguity, I love the idea that a reader could have an experience and understanding of it that has something in common with mine, but is also different. As the writer, I am not the definitive authority on the text anymore: other interpretations are valid. If you read these stories deeply, they're yours too.
You've become a mother yourself since writing these stories — something you explore in this essay. Has motherhood changed your writing?
I wonder if in some years I'll be able to look at my writing and see it changed, if there will be the dividing line, like the scar on my body, that separates the old thinking from the new. Or if it will be more slow, more gradual, more subtle. Or if there won't be any change at all. Being a mother has offered me so many new experiences, which is always invaluable for a writer, but I am still waiting to feel, especially on the language level, that something has fundamentally changed in my writing.  Swamy recommends: Apsara Engine by Bishakh Som, Disappear Doppelganger Disappear by Matthew Salesses What draws you to short fiction?
There is an inherent tension in a short story from the tightness of the frame that can be exhilarating to write into, what you say and what puts pressure on the story though silence. In that way it is sort of an unforgiving medium unlike a novel where you get a lot of room to explain; you can't really be messy in a story in the same way. But there's also a lot of leeway you can have because it's short — you're only asking the reader to stick with you for a little while, so you can take big risks you might not be able to carry off in a novel. Many of these stories — maybe all — are quite risky in some way: formally, conceptually, or emotionally.
Any new projects you can tell us about?
Yes! I'm currently at work on my novel, The Archer, which centers on a young kathak dancer coming of age in 60s- and 70s-era Bombay. She's grappling with the legacy of a difficult and unknowable mother and a fractured family, and trying to find her way as an artist. It's about some of the same things my stories are: the body, pleasure, sex, art, grief, motherhood — and about some other things too. It's coming out with Algonquin in late 2021 or early 2022.
Anything you've read recently you'd like to recommend?
So many! I will try to limit myself:
I read Alexandra Chang's Days of Distraction a little while ago but have been thinking of it a lot recently: There are so many things her protagonist so subtly articulates about being a Chinese American woman that resonate with my experience as an Indian American, and the writing is quite beautiful.
Matthew Salesses's Disappear Doppelganger Disappear is insane, and somewhat terrifying, in the best way.
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