Books I Find Inspiring: Part Two
A fear of bald people, plague doctors, necromancy, and lesbians drowning
If you read Part One of this series (thank you), you will have encountered my reviews on Interesting Facts About Space by Emily Austin and The Salt Grows Heavy by Cassandra Khaw. Today, I turn my attention to Gideon the Ninth by Tamsyn Muir and Our Wives Under the Sea by Julia Armfield—two works that further illuminate my eclectic reading tastes, offering a rich exploration of both the macabre and the intimate yet again. Together, these four books form a captivating tetralogy that gives you a little peek into my strange mind! I loved both these books, although they are incredibly different.
Gideon the Ninth by Tamsyn Muir
genre: scifi, fantasy, paranormal, LGBTQ, horror
Before reading Gideon the Ninth, I had heard of the book by reputation alone. Tamsyn Muir’s name seemed to materialize fully formed within the speculative fiction community, her acclaim and influence impossible to ignore. I can’t lie, based on the cover it wasn’t the first book I was going to pick up, but after such rave reviews and such a gripping plot I had to put in my time.
“While we were developing common sense, she studied the blade.”
― Tamsyn Muir, Gideon the Ninth
Published in 2019 by Tor Books, Gideon the Ninth is far from a recent release, but its impact continues to resonate with readers. Muir, often heralded as a genre-defying author, masterfully intertwines fantasy, science fiction, and horror—a holy trifecta for readers like myself. Her short fiction has earned nominations for prestigious awards, including the Nebula, Shirley Jackson, and World Fantasy Awards, as well as the Eugie Foster Memorial Award. Gideon the Ninth, her debut novel, won the 2020 Locus Award for Best First Novel, establishing its place as an essential work in modern speculative fiction.
As an aspiring author myself, I can’t help but marvel at Muir’s trajectory. Her bold voice, fearless blending of genres, and publication through Tor Books—a powerhouse in the speculative fiction world—are what dreams are made of. What my dreams are made of! While our styles differ vastly, I find myself inspired by her achievements and her ability to carve out a space that feels uniquely her own.
It’s worth mentioning that I didn’t read a physical copy of Gideon the Ninth—I listened to it as an audiobook borrowed through my library. (Quick tip: the Libby app makes checking out audiobooks from your library incredibly easy). Back when I worked a production job and had eight hours of uninterrupted listening time, audiobooks became my go-to indulgence, with The Locked Tomb series being a standout favourite. As an audiobook, it is phenomenal. The wit and distinct voice of Gideon shine brilliantly through the narrator’s performance. Fun fact: although Muir is from New Zealand, the audiobook gives Gideon a London accent not a kiwi one, adding an unexpected but fitting charm to her character. All that said, the story is full of complex necromantic terminology, and without seeing those words written down, I’d struggle to repeat or define them. I do think it’s helpful to read this book instead of listen, but maybe do both as the audiobook is so charming and well done.
“I cannot conceive of a universe without you in it”
― Tamsyn Muir, Gideon the Ninth
summary: “Gideon has a sword, some dirty magazines, and no more time for undead bullshit.” In a galaxy where necromancy is both an art and a deadly weapon, we meet Gideon Nav, a foul-mouthed, sword-wielding orphan raised in the grim and decaying Ninth House. Desperate to escape her miserable existence, Gideon finds herself reluctantly entangled in the schemes of Harrowhark Nonagesimus, her lifelong nemesis and Reverend Daughter of the Ninth House. The two are thrust into a deadly contest on a mysterious, crumbling planet where the Emperor seeks a champion to ascend to immortal power. With their lives and the future of their house on the line, Gideon and Harrow must confront ancient puzzles, terrifying enemies, and their own explosive dynamic. A gothic space opera brimming with dark humour, complex relationships, and razor-sharp prose, Gideon the Ninth is a story of loyalty, betrayal, and what it truly means to wield power in a universe of the dead.
This book leans more into scifi than I usually read, but who can resist sharp wit, necromancy, and lesbian sexual tension? Harrow is a necromancer in need of a cavalier, and Gideon is a sword-fighter with plenty of attitude. It’s a match made in heaven—or whatever passes for necromancy heaven in this universe. The book even adds in a hint of mystery into its genre.
Muir’s prose is mouthwatering—her sentence structures are elegant, her descriptions vivid, and her ability to evoke atmosphere is nothing short of stunning. This is one of those rare books that left a deeply sensory impression on me. I can picture Gideon, Harrow, and their haunting, decaying world with such clarity that it feels like I’ve walked through its shadowy corridors myself, or even resurrected a few bodies. I feel far too familiar with bones and dead things after reading this series.
That said, while many readers find the humour and cheeky tone utterly charming, it occasionally pulled me out of the story. I enjoy wit and sarcasm as much as the next person, but there’s a specific brand of quirky, tongue-in-cheek contemporary dialogue that can veer into cringe territory for me, and Gideon’s quips initially fell into that category.
“Harrow said, with some difficulty: "I cannot conceive of a universe without you in it."
"Yes you can, it's just less great and less hot," said Gideon."
"Fuck you, Nav—”
― Tamsyn Muir, Gideon the Ninth
I don’t love a book that relies heavily on “smart ass” phrasing and uses words like “tits” and douche,” it really irks me. Over time, though, Gideon’s sharp lines and biting humour won me over. Hearing her sarcasm delivered with a crisp London accent through the audiobook added a unique spin, making her banter feel even more alive in my ears and much less annoying. I know some of you might be tempted to roll your eyes like I did, but do yourself a favour: suspend your disbelief and let yourself fall in love with Gideon. Trust me, it’s worth it.
“You couldn’t spell obligation if I shoved the letters up your ass.”
“I gotta say, I don’t think that would help,” said Gideon. “God, I’m glad you didn’t teach me my spelling.”
― Tamsyn Muir, Gideon the Ninth
As far as gore goes, this book doesn’t hold back. Our characters are killing people, reanimating corpses, resurrecting things, and crafting necromantic creatures from bone—there’s no shortage of disturbing imagery. While it’s horrifying and deeply unsettling, much of this is explored through Harrow’s dialogue, which has a scientific, almost clinical approach to the macabre. The book is written in third-person limited perspective, with Gideon as the central point-of-view character, Harrow a close second. Gideon is there to describe the gruesome details of their experiences for the reader, and while she’s no necromancer, her outsider’s view provides a raw, visceral lens. Yet, some of the more grotesque elements feel strangely more palatable thanks to Harrow’s dispassionate, scientific dialogue and her relentless pursuit of knowledge. The pair are stark opposites and provide a combative and fun experience for the reader.
Overall, I found this book oddly beautiful. It was a fun read that delved deep into dark, intriguing territory—just the way I like it. The only caution I’d offer to readers is that as the series progresses (it’s a trilogy!), the Locked Tomb universe can feel a bit overwhelming. Muir’s worldbuilding is both exceptional and vast, but with so many worlds and such an expansive galaxy, it can occasionally be daunting. There were definitely moments when I found myself a little confused and, frankly, a bit lost in space. But push through the series for heart-wrenching moments, exciting shifts in perspective (both stylistically and in terms of character growth), and a plot that constantly surprises in ways I could never have predicted when I first started.
Go support your local bookstore or library and buy a copy (or borrow one)!
Our Wives Under the Sea by Julia Armfield
genre: horror, literary fiction, speculative fiction, LGBTQ
“To know the ocean, I have always felt, is to recognize the teeth it keeps half hidden.”
― Julia Armfield, Our Wives Under the Sea
This book is hard to pin down into a single genre. A quick Google search will tell you it's horror, science fiction, and lesbian literature—none of which are directly wrong, but I’m not sure they fully capture its essence. To me, this book is the perfect example of the divide between literary fiction and genre fiction, a convoluted labeling system in the publishing world that often says more about marketability and roles than it does about the works themselves. My mentor once explained that one of the key differences between literary and genre fiction is that literary tends to be more cerebral, while genre fiction is more sensorial. Literary fiction often focuses on the introspective growth of a character and their internal experiences (think Interesting Facts About Space by Emily Austin or The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath). Genre fiction—whether speculative, sci-fi, fantasy, or horror—relies more on the senses: touch, taste, smell, sound, and sight. It’s driven by what the body experiences and how those experiences shape the story (think Gideon the Ninth by Tamsyn Muir or The Left Hand of Darkness by Ursula K LeGuin). Now, after that discussion, my mentor and I decided that many books often break these silly little labelling rules and that it truly depends on how your publisher wants to market the book and in what style the author wrote it. We aren’t even sure that’s the best way to categorize those genres. It feels like there are unspoken rules and definitions for them that are deep secrets. For some reason, literary fiction also tends to be taken more seriously—perhaps because it’s seen as less "nerdy"? It’s a strange distinction, considering the immense imagination and intellectual effort required to write genre fiction. If anyone has any thoughts on this matter, I’d love to hear them.
After going some what in depth into the genre spiral, I would say Julia Armfield does a stunning job of blurring these literary/genre boundaries, giving us a story that is both cerebral and tangible—a horrific exploration of grief, loss, fear, and the disintegration of a once-beautiful relationship.
Julia Armfield is a British author known for her haunting prose and exploration of themes like loss, longing, and the enigmatic power of the ocean. Her debut novel, Our Wives Under the Sea, delves into the eerie and tender aftermath of a deep-sea expedition gone awry, blending queer horror and literary fiction to examine grief and the collapse of a relationship. Armfield's earlier short story collection, Salt Slow, showcases her talent for weaving mythic and surreal elements into tales that often focus on the body, transformation, and the natural world. Across her work, including her latest book published in 2024, Private Rites—a speculative reimagining of King Lear focusing on three sisters navigating queer love and loss in a drowning world—the ocean recurs as a potent symbol. Both beautiful and terrifying, her work often reflects themes of submersion, drowning, and the unknowable depths of human emotion.
“I used to think there was such a thing as emptiness, that there were places in the world one could go and be alone. This, I think, is still true, but the error in my reasoning was to assume that alone was somewhere you could go, rather than somewhere you had to be left.”
― Julia Armfield, Our Wives Under the Sea
summary: Our Wives Under the Sea by Julia Armfield is an intimate and unsettling exploration of love and loss. When Leah returns from a disastrous deep-sea expedition, she is no longer the woman Miri once knew. As their relationship falters under the weight of Leah's mysterious transformation, Miri navigates the murky waters of grief and the unspoken horrors lurking between them. This poignant tale masterfully blends emotional depth with the creeping dread of the unknown and what it is like to have lost the person you love even though they are standing right in front of you.
This book is about loss. It is raw, it is isolating, it is devastating. Reading this book, it reminded me of that empty pit feeling you get in the bottom of your stomach when you’re scared and alone; not scared because the world is frightening, but scared because you don’t know what to do, where you are, or why you were left behind. This book left me in awe. It’s the kind of queer horror and literary fiction masterpiece I aspire to create. I went in with no expectations, and it utterly captivated me. Told through alternating perspectives of Miri and Leah, the narrative weaves memories and moments that reveal the slow collapse of their relationship—a process that is both isolating and profoundly heartbreaking. What do you do when you know longer know how to speak to your partner? How to care for them? Miri’s chapters offer a poignant look at the weight of caring for someone irrevocably changed, capturing the quiet ache of loving and grieving a partner who feels both present and unreachable. Leah’s chapters capture the haunting aftermath of a life altering experience, as she grapples with alienation and the silent terror of a body and mind forever changed. This is a striking exploration of grief and a haunting reflection on the vast, lonely ocean within us all.
“I want to explain her in a way that would make you love her, but the problem with this is that loving is something we all do alone and through different sets of eyes.”
― Julia Armfield, Our Wives Under the Sea
Armfield’s poetic prose is breathtaking, perfectly suited for capturing both the gentle lull of waves and the torment of the sea’s depths. However, the richness of her writing can make the novel feel dense at times. As someone with a background in poetry, I found her lush imagery and prophetic sentences gorgeous, but they demanded attention and care. It’s not an easy, fast read—you’ll find yourself pausing to absorb the atmosphere and emotions fully. If you’re ready to sink into a deeply reflective and emotionally charged story, this book is an unforgettable experience.
Go support your local bookstore or library and buy a copy (or borrow one)!
Conclusions
Gideon the Ninth and Our Wives Under the Sea may seem vastly different in scope—one a sprawling gothic space opera, the other an intimate tale of grief and love—they share a profound exploration of alienation, loss, and the enduring complexity of human relationships. In Gideon the Ninth, the bond between Gideon and Harrow unfolds against a backdrop of necromantic intrigue and cosmic stakes, while in Our Wives Under the Sea, Miri and Leah’s connection deteriorates within the claustrophobic confines of their home, shadowed by the haunting aftermath of the sea. Here, the alienation is quieter, more internal, yet no less devastating.
Both works grapple with the weight of care: the sacrifices made to support someone profoundly changed by their experiences, and the struggle to maintain connection when the distance feels insurmountable. Through vivid prose and emotionally charged storytelling, Muir and Armfield invite readers to reflect on the ways we tether ourselves to others, even when the world—be it vast and alien or eerily familiar—threatens to pull us apart.
Thanks for reading!
xx,
Ciara