Brittany Luebbert

What is the actual fuck is wrong with you? Seriously?? Get a better therapist not publishing contracts. The constant use of graphic child abuse and sexual violence-especially toward children and queer men is beyond revolting. You keep going back to it like it's some kind of literary signature. It's not deep. It's not brave. It's not saying anything that justifies how exploitative and obsessive it feels. It's grotesque; if it reads like child p*rn, writes like child p*rn, maybe we should stop trying to call your works literature. It's trauma porn masquerading as art. And I'm sick of people defending it like it's groundbreaking. And then the way you write these children in The People in the Trees like they somehow want it? Like they "like" it or are complicit in their own abuse? I do not care how fictitious the culture that's not just sick it's unforgivable. I can not imagine you sitting down and typing this word by word and thinking, 'Oh yeah, that's the good content right there!' How dare you make me read pages and pages describing the backs of sweaty men as they run a train on a ten year old 'compliant' boy. The parents thank each one once they bust a nut inside their baby. I tried to skip past it I was really enjoying the book until then...but then you make the literal next chapter go into how all the kids there are, babies-teens, love the sexualization given to them by you. That's not ambiguity, it's not moral complexity- it's your obsession leaking through the page. Does someone need to check your browsing history? Are you the kind of woman who can only get off to gay p*rn? You also have an odd obsession with pubic hair, is that why you love to write about babies and children? Less hair to describe? You do this over and over again. You put this disturbing lens on the most horrific acts, soooo frequently it feels like you like you're really really into it. This isn't one book, This is a pattern. A 'theme' you bring with you, in meticulous detail every. Single. Book. I'm tired...tired of seeing queer suffering recycled, aestheticized, and violated again and again for the sake of your so-called "literary weight." I'm tired of authors like you sexualizing children in such horribly graphic ways. If you were as popular as you wish you were, that scene in It by Stephen King that everyone has talked about for years would be nothing compared to the thousands of pages of child p*rn you've written. You are such a weak writer that it is like you can't write horror or emotional stakes without sexually brutalizing children and men, It's not bold. It's not meaningful. It's violence for entertainment. It's cruelty packaged as complexity, and I'm absolutely done with this, you need serious serious help. This isn't just you having a bad childhood. You need a diary, not a publisher. Whatever meds you are on, it isn't enough. You are so fucking disgusting This isn't some case of 'Well, next time, look up what you're reading' No shit. I did that. Want to know what wasn't told to me? That the literal toddlers love the way they get kissed. The way that boy lay there and got fucked from behind by a literal train of men. You're not pushing boundaries. You're exploiting pain. You're not misunderstood. You're doing exactly what it looks like you're doing, And the public should want nothing more to do with you.

2⭐️ – This book feels like it was written without awareness that a thousand other novels already exist about a burnt-out mother left alone with her child while her emotionally absent husband drifts into selfishness. It’s not a new story, and Liars brings nothing fresh to the table. The narrative centers on a woman, once full of potential, who becomes a shell of herself, narrating her slow unraveling in clipped sentences while her husband and child drain her emotionally. With so many “domestic unraveling” and “postpartum betrayal” tropes, if the story isn’t done well, it sticks out like a sore thumb. Unfortunately, Liars falls into this category. You’ve read this idea before, often done better, such as in Nightbitch, which tackled similar themes with wit and depth, even calling the child “the child.” Liars mimics the structure but lacks the necessary spirit. Three years later, it feels like a stale imitation. While the book captures the staggering impact of verbal and emotional abuse, the husband's transformation into an almost cartoonish bad guy undermines its credibility. It seems designed to provoke outrage, but it lacks the balance and nuance needed to stand out amid more thoughtful work in this genre. Though it leans into anger and frustration, it never moves beyond surface-level bitterness. Unlike The Forbidden Notebook, which channels raw anger and delves deep into the character's emotional landscape, Liars remains stuck in repetitive complaints. What should be a raw exploration of emotional abuse ends up feeling tired and lacking development. And of course, she used to be a writer. Because in these stories, the woman is always a painter, or a writer, or something vaguely creative before she became a mother and lost herself. It’s become such a tired trope that it actively flattens the character. At this point it doesn’t even attempt to feel personal. This year alone, I’ve read at least four other books that explore similar themes Nightbitch – Rachel Yoder (Yes, I've watched the movie) The Days of Abandonment – Elena Ferrante The Forbidden Notebook – Alba de Céspedes A Good Home for Children – Kate Collins all of which feel alive in their portrayal of women unraveling under the weight of motherhood. Liars just checks boxes in a crowded genre already filled with sharper, more original work. It aspires to be The Yellow Wallpaper but ends up a stale echo. If an author is going to join this chorus of motherhood meltdowns, they need to offer something worth hearing, and this book sadly does not.

I hated The Women by Kristin Hannah, and I stand by that. I expected an empowering historical fiction about women in the Vietnam War. Instead, I got a melodramatic romance that cheapens their experiences. Beneath the overwrought drama is a story begging to be told—one about women like Barb and Ethel, who embodied resilience and camaraderie. But the book fixates on fleeting romantic entanglements, turning crumbs of male attention into grand declarations of love. Frankie’s “good girl” reflections and whirlwind romances—often with men in power—felt clumsy, immature, and unconvincing. At least three different men murmur sweet nothings to her, and each time, she thinks it’s everything. Hannah’s raw portrayal of Vietnam and Frankie’s PTSD pulled me in, and her relationship with her father felt genuine. But the writing—repetitive and uninspired—flattened the narrative. If I had to read the word jowls one more time, I might’ve thrown the book. War doesn’t excuse selfishness, and hardship doesn’t justify wrecking marriages. Every time I almost sympathized with Frankie, she made choices that hurt others for her own gratification. The men? No better. If the novel wants me to find them tragic—no. They’re just as disgraceful. And the ending? Laughable. An unearned “coming to terms” moment followed by a man she barely knows naming his child after her. If my partner tried that with someone he wanted to slide inside of, I’d be sharpening a knife. As for Rye? He deserves nothing more than a lonely apartment reeking of stale takeout and regret. And Frankie? I respect her time served—when she wasn’t busy serving looks to taken men.

My Review Contains Spoilers (and it’s long, but this book impacted me) The Days of Abandonment by Elena Ferrante follows Olga, a woman whose life unravels when her husband suddenly leaves her, plunging her into grief, rage, and a profound emotional collapse. I expected a short read but was unprepared for its weight. The rawness of Olga’s pain made it impossible to detach—I felt her grief so deeply it became physically painful. It stirred fears I hadn’t expected, making me reflect on my own relationships. Her self-destructive reactions, her furious, vulgar outbursts—I recognized them, feeling as though I could have written them myself through tears. Ferrante’s writing doesn’t just tell Olga’s story; it immerses you in it. You don’t observe her breakdown—you experience it. She forces you to confront your own emotions, vulnerabilities, and uncomfortable truths. One of the most gut-wrenching aspects was how her husband wounded her with so few words. His cruelty, his dismissal of her and their children for a younger woman, filled me with palpable rage. The way Olga spirals—throwing her phone, wandering in anguish—felt painfully familiar, like moments when I’ve been consumed by my own pain. Olga is deeply flawed, especially in her neglect of her children. As a mother, it hurt to watch. My own kids ground me when I drift into worry, yet Olga fails to see her children reaching for her. It’s a stark reminder of how our struggles can blind us to the needs of those who depend on us. This book lingered with me long after I finished. It made me question how I handle my own emotions, whether I, too, get lost in them. That’s its power—it forces reflection. Olga is messy, raw, and unlikable, but in her, I saw my own vulnerabilities. The Days of Abandonment is painful, but it stays with you, making you reckon with how emotional wounds shape us and how our pain can leave others adrift.