Exploring the glitter and grit of a first-time lesbian relationship in 2010s America, this novella is raw, sexy, and soul-stirringly haunting.
Though a cult classic in some sapphic literary circles, “Women” by Chloé Caldwell is not as mainstream-ly successful as other celebrated queer works that reign in our Western zeitgeist: “Brokeback Mountain,” “The Color Purple,” “Call Me By Your Name,” etc. When “Women” was released in 2014, I was but 10 years old, and my personal library was still dominated by R.L. Stine and Mary Pope Osborne. Through middle and high school, and my bachelor’s degree program in English, I never heard of “Women” or Caldwell. When I finally did come across the book, I was scouring the damages shelf at Porter Square Books: My eyes fell on a simple little cream-colored volume, just bent sideways enough at its left corner that we couldn’t sell it. Emily Ratajkowski was on the cover declaring its storytelling “beautiful, touching, and brave.” I like Ratajkowski, I like beautiful writing, and I like women – so, thankfully, I at last picked up the book. Only then, reading the newly issued foreword by Katie Heaney (alongside Googling opinions on the book out of curiosity, most of the results personal blog or Substack posts), did I discover the book’s feverish adoration among so many fans of sapphic literature. Upon beginning to read, I quickly understood why it was so loved among those who had the pleasure of knowing about it, and felt shocked – almost offended – that I hadn’t heard of Caldwell sooner.
Written in a series of first-person vignettes spanning just over 100 pages, “Women” tells the story of a young writer who, soon after moving to a new city, falls in love with a woman for the first time. Our 20-something year-old unnamed protagonist, still reeling in recovery from drug addiction, is jobless, lost and teetering on the edge of manic depression when she meets Finn, intriguingly butch, always perfectly dressed, a vigorous reader and undeniably charming. Finn is a fan of our protagonist’s writing: She attends a small reading our protagonist is invited to, and the two’s first exchange is Finn declaring, “Your book was amazing.” Friendly, supportive – inviting. Soon enough, Finn is not only saying that our protagonist is a good writer, but that she’s lovely; the two are going out for drinks, and our protagonist is staring at Finn’s knuckle tattoos and deciding her hands are “the most beautiful [she’d] ever seen.”
It begins to feel unimportant that Finn is 19 years our protagonist’s senior, and also solidified in a long-term relationship (so that their time together must remain secretive, casual, closeted): It doesn’t matter when Finn is saying things such as “Can I kiss you?” or “Is this okay?” Because of course she can, and it must be okay – a blooming compulsive and lustful brand of addiction, our protagonist muses, cannot be worse than one to drugs. And can their affair really be exploitative, or “grooming,” if she’s consenting to it? Instead, perhaps, our protagonist considers that maybe this dynamic is just how lesbianism – still mostly foreign to her – is: rough, magical, destructive, obsessive.
“Does your therapist think I’m bad for you?” Finn asks. “I don’t want to be bad for you.”
Inspired by Caldwell’s own first romantic experiences with women, this powerful and passionate novella reckons with the insecurity of young queer identity, the throes of addiction, the appeal of feeling attractive or “loved” and the nuance of power dynamics in relationships: what differences in age, experience (life and sexual), career authority and boundaries on fidelity really mean. “Sometimes,” our protagonist reflects, “I fantasize about more. I imagine traveling with Finn. I imagine road trips. I imagine her meeting my family. I imagine her coming with me to one of my readings, walking offstage with her. Nothing secret about it.” Boundaries, the therapist then reminds: Emotional regulating. Gaslighting. Manipulation. Abuse.
If you’re looking for a book that depicts lesbian romance simply and adoringly, “Women” is not the book for you. “Women” is a book that looks honestly at the politics, the trials and tribulations of relationships and these interactions with queerness. Women is a confessional, not a fairy tale. And that, to me, is what makes it work – not just “work,” actually, but sear me inside out, and what makes me think, makes me sit in it. I haven’t had a reaction to a book like this in a long while. “Women” made me look out my window, at my world, to consider new questions and perspectives, and it also made me look into my mirror. Who was I, in the framework of identity and intimacy? What would I accept, or do, in the name of love? What would be worth it?
As Heaney writes in her foreword: “There is no sense unexplored between our narrator and Finn; their relationship is as much playful gum-chewing as it is pain. [I’m] looking forward to reading it again – for the fifth or sixth time.” This little book, simple cream-colored and bent at its left corner (more so now, actually, from my grip) is one I will never let off my bookshelf, and this review is my small attempt at getting others who, like me, had previously never heard of it – too bombarded by the “canon” classics or today’s NYT bestsellers – to pick it up and read. You may experience it differently than I did, but I promise that it will do something to you. It will affect you, in the way only great books can.
Isabel Miranda Kidwell is an events and marketing assistant at Porter Square Books.
A version of this story appeared originally on the Porter Square Review of Books. Buy “Women” from Porter Square Books.
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