Katie Yee’s "Maggie; or, A Man and a Woman Walk Into a Bar"

Katie Yee’s Maggie; or, A Man and a Woman Walk Into a Bar is a lyrical, punchy, heart-aching triumph. The language alone is a reason to read it—sharp, funny, and painfully beautiful. Yee’s metaphors are dazzling without being showy. She compares losing Sam to losing her favorite room in the house—the one you go to for comfort—and there’s a broken mirror in her purse that says more than a therapy session ever could. I loved how she weaves in Chinese folktales, children’s stories, and myth in a way that feels organic, not ornamental. The mashup is storytelling at its finest—emotional archeology dressed in fairy-tale lace. Her writing on motherhood is some of the best I’ve read. She describes having two heartbeats inside her—her own and her child’s—and how, once they grow, it’s like your heart is walking around outside your body. It floored me. Yee also normalizes life’s messes: divorce, cancer, complicated friendships. But instead of drowning in it, the narrator treads water with wit and grit. Her friendship with Darlene is especially fierce and affirming—female friendship at its rawest and realest. The disjointed narrative? It works. The short, sometimes fragmentary paragraphs mimic what it feels like to be cracked open by life. There’s no false polish here. Just real, jagged emotion. The class divide between her and Sam (hello, trust fund castles across continents) adds weight. When he offers her the house and alimony, she doesn’t collapse—she gets smart. She doesn’t even tell him about her diagnosis. Instead, she names the cancer after his new girlfriend. Petty? Maybe. Satisfying? Deeply. Yee’s debut is smart, funny, tender, and quietly devastating. A perfect pick for anyone who's been heartbroken, reborn, or both. I can't wait to see what she writes next.