What do you get when you pair a children’s librarian—whose father may be connected to the Russian mafia—with a curious 10-year-old boy whose dubious sexuality has caused his evangelical parents to enroll him in an anti-gay class and strictly monitor his library material? What sounds like the setup to a joke of questionable humor transforms into a charming debut novel in Rebecca Makkai’s hands.

Lucy Hull is a children’s librarian working in a small town in Missouri, struggling against the clichés of her job, determined to become something more than a spinster surrounded by cats. Although she had always dreamed of a slightly more glamorous life, Lucy can’t deny the thrill she gets in helping youngsters discover a love of reading. In particular, she is charmed by Ian Drake, a young boy with an appetite for books that nearly matches her own. It’s clear to Lucy that Ian is a special child in need of nurturing, so the two work together to circumvent his overbearing mother’s overly restrictive list of “acceptable materials.”

While reading everything from Roald Dahl to Greek mythology, the two forge a firm friendship, but everything is turned on its head when Lucy discovers that Ian has run away from home. Before she knows it, the two are out on the open road, and Lucy can now add “child abductor” to her resumé. With every mile, it becomes harder to justify turning back, so Lucy hits the gas and sees where the road ahead will take them.

It may seem inappropriate to call a novel involving a kidnapping heartwarming, but that’s exactly what The Borrower manages to be. Even as Lucy and Ian make ostensibly poor choices, you can’t help but root for this unlikely duo. Makkai tackles difficult subject matter like sexuality and identity with warmth and humor, and deftly avoids veering into overly saccharine territory. 

The Borrower is a wonderful celebration of books and friendship, brimming with literary references and plenty of laughs. Bump it up your own library queue, because this is one book you won’t want to miss.

Countless children of the 1960s rebelled against their straitlaced parents by turning to rock music, sexual freedom and, perhaps most importantly, drugs. But would such an uninhibited cohort curb the rebellion in their own children, a generation later? In her vibrant debut, a sweeping coming-of-age novel set against the pulsing New York City punk scene of the late 1980s, Eleanor Henderson asks this and much more, bringing to life both a set of achingly real characters and the unique time in which they lived in Ten Thousand Saints.

For Jude Keffy-Horn, adopted at birth by Vermont hippies who later divorced, boredom and drugs are the mainstays of his small-town life. But things take a drastic turn on his 16th birthday, when his best friend, Teddy, dies of an accidental overdose. In desperation, his mother sends Jude to live with his pot-dealing father in the East Village, taking a gamble that it might straighten him out. Oddly, the plot works, as Jude eschews his father’s alternative lifestyle for one of his own—the hardcore, straight-edge punk scene. As Jude weans himself off the vices of his childhood (not just drugs, but also alcohol and even meat), he builds an unconventional but tight-knit family around two friends—Teddy’s older brother, Johnny, a tattoo artist in a hardcore band, and Eliza, a scared prep-school dropout likely carrying Teddy’s baby.

Henderson’s debut is ambitious, and though she has clearly researched extensively, the prose sometimes struggles under the weight of so much detail. But the novel shines when she focus on the characters, whom she writes about with care and affection, digging below rough exteriors to find the source of their anger, frustration, boredom and indifference. From this gritty, often under-the-radar subculture, Henderson culls warmth and humanity, and proves herself at the same time a deft and promising storyteller.

Haley Tanner’s debut novel is a wistful, honest story of friendship and first love as they blossom in the lives of two Russian immigrant children trying to make their way in the confusing new world of modern-day Brooklyn.

Spurred by the accomplishments of his idols Houdini and David Copperfield, 10-year-old “Vaclav the Magnificent” spends hours after school in his bedroom with his assistant, “the Lovely Lena,” practicing illusions from The Magician’s Almanac. Vaclav’s Holy Grail isn’t television or Broadway; it’s the Coney Island sideshow, his certainty he’ll succeed there fueled by a conviction that “sometimes a young magician must remind himself that his dreams are written in the stars.” He’s voluble and enthusiastic; Lena is quiet, her behavior displaying all the signs of a troubled soul.

Vaclav’s and Lena’s lives are moving in opposite directions, and the reasons for that quickly become evident. Raised by striving parents, it’s easy to see Vaclav someday making the long climb from his working-class roots to the professional class. Lena has been relegated to what loosely might be called the “care” of a woman Vaclav’s mother derisively refers to as “the Aunt,” who leaves the girl to fend for herself while she works in a strip club. Eventually, Lena is removed to a safe new home, wrenching her out of Vaclav’s life, and the scars of her early years haunt her.

Seven years after their forced separation Vaclav and Lena reconnect, and as teenagers their relationship is complicated more by their physical and emotional attraction than by whether Vaclav will be able to master the Ancient Egyptian Sarcophagus of Mystery. As the novel’s affecting climax reveals, his most amazing trick has nothing to do with sleight of hand. Instead, it’s one that reminds us vividly of the enduring power of a great story and of the way fiction sometimes lights the way to truth.

In Vaclav & Lena, Tanner has created two appealing protagonists whose troubles may not be the stuff of high drama, but whose triumph over them is what real magic is all about.

Don’t be surprised if Steve Earle emerges as a juggler in his next artistic reincarnation. And there’s sure to be one. In this, his first published novel, the singer/songwriter/playwright/actor/radio host (and who knows what else) expertly juggles some of most sharply defined characters since John Steinbeck trotted out his procession of hard-luck cases and societal throwaways.

The setting is a grimy stretch of South Presa Street in San Antonio in 1963/64. The neighborhood is populated by dope dealers, prostitutes, cops on the take and a particularly intriguing abortionist and heroin addict named Doc Ebersole. Once a legitimate physician, Ebersole has spiraled downward to a life of daily desperation. But addiction isn’t the sum of Doc’s woes. He’s also afflicted by the persistent ghost of Hank Williams. It appears, at least as this story goes, that Doc was one of Hank’s drug suppliers and may even have been with him on that night 10 years ago when the tormented singer died in the back seat of his Cadillac. Hank doesn’t so much haunt Doc as annoy him with his post-mortem neediness.

At first, these losers seem repellent. But gradually and without authorial sleight-of-hand or sentimentality, Earle reveals the gold inside each of them. That revelation begins when Doc performs an abortion on an 18-year-old illegal Mexican immigrant named Graciela. Like the other denizens of that predominately Catholic community, Graciela is fascinated by the grace and beauty of First Lady Jackie Kennedy, whom she calls “Yah-kee.” When it’s announced that the Kennedys will be stopping in San Antonio on their way to Dallas, Graciela, Doc, Manny the drug dealer, Teresa the bartender and a handful of others pile into a car and race to the airport to get a glimpse of their beloved Yah-kee and America’s first Catholic president. Kennedy is killed the next day, Yak-kee majestic even in her grief, and gloom envelops the South Presa strip.

Tapping into both her Catholic and aboriginal reservoirs of wisdom, the mystical Graciela becomes the story’s transformative figure, even as Doc and Hank continue to blur the boundaries between life and death. The story grows more complex when a local priest hears of Graciela’s seemingly supernatural healing powers and takes it upon himself to investigate.

Earle’s own bouts with addiction, his Texas heritage and his grounding in country music enable him to make this cast of wildly disparate characters not just believable but important. It’s hard to imagine a more impressive debut novel than this one.

Bruno Littlemore is a chimpanzee. A thinking, speaking chimpanzee engaged in an epic diatribe regarding what it means to be human. Bruno plays with language the way lesser animals would with a stick, a ball or some other oddity that intrigues them. His capacity for innovative and unexpected turns of phrase (standing on the very capable shoulders of author Benjamin Hale, naturally), his frank and sometimes vulgar language and his daunting vocabulary all come together in a very cogent, sometimes rambling, treatise on all things human. Make no mistake, this is a work of fiction, however, Bruno’s unflinching look at his journey towards humanity and lessons learned from the humans around him hold a very real mirror up to the reader and force a more than superficial reflection into what it means to be human.

Born in Lincoln Park Zoo to two unremarkable chimp parents, Bruno did not always have the capabilities he so fluently displays in this memoir. Taken from the zoo by Dr. Lydia Littlemore, Bruno travels a path that takes him across the country, from research subject to, graphically, love interest of Dr. Littlemore, to escapee and murderer, and finally detainee once more at Lincoln Park Zoo. More than anything, Bruno’s explorations into his burgeoning humanity are what make this novel sparkle, the plot seems almost secondary to the world we are presented through Bruno’s eyes.

Driven by playful, daring and wholly unexpected language, Benjamin Hale has created in The Evolution of Bruno Littlemore a book that challenges its readers in a way that few contemporary novels have before. In every sense, Bruno is human but for his origins, yet he views our society and the human condition through the lens of an outsider. This unique viewpoint is enough to ask the questions that many people will be uncomfortable asking, let alone attempting to answer. What is it to be human? Is our knowledge of our own mortality the true source of religion and superstition? What is the true form of romantic love, and is this a question that is possible to, or even worth answering?

This may not be a book for everyone, but for the brave and willing soul, it will provide a challenging, engaging and often high-spirited look at the lives we make for ourselves and this tribe we call humanity.

Hannah Pittard has big shoes to fill: Her first novel, a dark story of adolescence gone awry, echoes Pulitzer Prize winner Jeffrey Eugenides and his own haunting debut, The Virgin Suicides. Like Eugenides, Pittard narrates from the omniscient, plural voice of a group of small-town boys hurt and confused by the mysterious unraveling of girls they thought were, in some ways, their own. The gothic tone, nascent sexuality and profound feeling of collective helplessness all harken sharply backward. It could be called derivative, but Pittard adds an important twist that makes her take on this very specific genre feel like her own.

In The Fates Will Find Their Way, the disaster that binds the boys together is not suicide but disappearance—one Halloween night, when the teenagers are all out celebrating, 16-year-old Nora Lindell goes missing. When everyone is notified, via a particularly terrible phone tree, and time presses onward, details are muddled and the boys begin to postulate theories. One remembers seeing her near the bus stop, and another thinks he saw her get into a strange car, while others suddenly remember encountering her in a distant airport, where she claimed to be on her way to visiting relatives. What results is a sort of morbid “choose your own adventure” story, as each possibility of Nora’s fate is offered and then rescinded as a possible truth.

It is this particular narrative trick and the care with which she executes it that saves Pittard, casting her as not only a talented mimic, but as an innovator in her own right. In playing out each of the theories about Nora’s disappearance, Pittard perfectly illustrates the hysteria surrounding any such disaster, and the ways in which every detail can be twisted and elevated to create endings to a story that fundamentally has none.

In Deborah Harkness’ debut novel, A Discovery of Witches, Diana Bishop learns firsthand just how important a single book can be. When Diana, a reserved historian, calls up a bewitched manuscript from the archives of the Bodleian Library at Oxford University, she has no idea how this simple act will change her life. Although she herself is a witch, Diana denies her power and shuns the society of fellow witches and wizards, so she has no notion of the importance of the alchemical tome she has summoned. Diana is the first person in centuries to have successfully retrieved Ashmole 782, long sought by witches, demons and vampires alike, and her unwitting accomplishment soon earns her plenty of unwanted notice, including that of Matthew Clairmont, a fellow researcher with an interest in Ashmole 782, who just happens to be a 1,500-year-old vampire. The two enter into an uneasy alliance in order to prevent the text from falling into the wrong hands, but before long, their entire world is thrown into upheaval as loyalties and lives are risked. In order for them to prevail, Diana must come to terms with her true self and harness the power she has long kept locked inside. The question is, will she have the courage and strength to do so?

With books about fictional witches, it’s all too easy to fall back on tongue-in-cheek descriptors like “enchanting” or “spellbinding,” but both adjectives aptly describe the superbly entertaining saga Harkness has crafted. This is a riveting tale full of romance and danger that will have you on the edge of your seat, yet its chief strength lies in the wonderfully rich and ingenious mythology underlying the story. Entwining strands of science and history, Harkness creates a fresh explanation for how such creatures could arise that is so credible, you’ll have to keep reminding yourself this is fiction.

A Discovery of Witches is a captivating tale that will ensnare the heart and imagination of even the most skeptical reader. This fantastic first novel will leave you anxious for the next installment, and sad to leave the remarkable world Harkness has created. Simply put, A Discovery of Witches is literary magic at its most potent.

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Read our web exclusive interview with Deborah Harkness for A Discovery of Witches.

In literature, particularly prominent settings are often described as functioning as an additional character in a book. But Susan Froderberg takes it a step further—in her unusual but promising debut novel, the rural Arizona landscape echoes in every word of the sparse, beautiful prose.

In Old Border Road, Froderberg follows Katherine, a 17-year-old essentially left to fend for herself by her indifferent, divorced parents, each of whom has moved on to a new life. She’s still in high school when she marries Son, a local boy of Native American heritage, and goes to live with him and his parents in their old adobe ranch house, which seems to hold infinite stories in its walls. Son’s parents—whom Katherine calls Rose and Rose’s Daddy—pick up where her own never had, teaching her the basics of homemaking and the daily struggles of marriage. Katherine finds peace in the land, and in the horses that she tends. But the land soon betrays her too, when the region suffers a drought, and Son and Katherine’s relationship is too young and feeble to weather the hardship it brings to the family. Son turns to alcohol and infidelity, and an unplanned pregnancy eventually forces Katherine to make a difficult decision.

Froderberg makes narrative sacrifices to her atmospheric prose, particularly in the pacing, which, like the tumbleweed that swirls through her desert landscapes, seems to meander and quicken at a whim. But she renders the bleak borderlands so completely and with such finesse that the glitches feel inconsequential, even purposeful, cementing her as an exciting new writer to watch.

Charles Elton’s funny, strange and often surprisingly insightful debut, Mr. Toppit, is a book about a series of best-selling children’s books, the details of which are kept conspicuously vague. We know that The Hayseed Chronicles follow the adventures of Luke Hayseed in a magical land called “Darkwood,” and that they combine fantasy with allegory and philosophy—à la The Chronicles of Narnia or even the Harry Potter books. But beyond that, we are at a loss, most notably concerning Mr. Toppit, Darkwood’s fickle Godot-like overlord, who appears only briefly at the end of the final Hayseed installment and for whom all the characters in Elton’s “real” world seem to be searching.

Indeed, Mr. Toppit’s true stars are these “real” characters. And its true focus is the story of the Chronicles’ rise to cult fame—a story marked by events both absurd and tragic, the first of which is when Arthur Hayman, the books’ relatively unsuccessful author, is hit by a cement truck in the middle of London and spends his dying moments with Laurie Clow, an overweight and equally misunderstood American tourist.

Laurie is so moved by the encounter that she goes on to (almost serendipitously) bring the series to renown, and in the process fundamentally alters the lives of Arthur’s children: Luke, who is reluctantly immortalized as the oeuvre’s famous hero, and Rachel, who markedly makes no appearance at all. As Hayseed mania grows, the siblings confront the mess their father—the true Mr. Toppit, some might say—has left for them, and in turn confront larger issues of family and obligation, celebrity and privacy, and the vast gulf between British and American sensibilities.

From the comically bland sitting rooms of middle-class England to the boozy shenanigans of modern-day Los Angeles, Mr. Toppit shows the effects of legacy on its inheritors, while at the same time exploring the way in which we use fantasy worlds to better understand our own.

Benjamin Percy’s first novel, The Wilding, exhibits the broad range of ambition expected of the debut writer: a keen and almost preening attention to language, a careful consideration of character, a nod towards the political and worldly and an attempt to tackle issues of the greatest moral importance. And yet, for all this, it is also a good, fun read and a book that suggests its author has only begun to flex his writerly muscle.

At the novel’s start, readers meet Justin and Karen and their 12-year-old son, Graham, an Oregon family so bored by that specific breed of West Coast yuppyish malaise (organic food, expensive running gear) that they seem predestined for a shakeup. That shakeup comes courtesy of Justin’s bad-seed father, Paul, who takes Justin and Graham on a weekend hunting trip in Echo Canyon, which will soon be turned into a golf resort. The excursion is doomed almost from the get-go by Paul’s hardheaded masculinity and Justin’s crippling cowardice, not to mention an angry redneck and a hungry grizzly bear who both seem to have it out for them. Meanwhile, Karen has problems of her own, as she considers an affair with the canyon’s developer and becomes the object of creepy obsession for a troubled Iraq War veteran—a man who wears a body suit he has fashioned from bear hide, it’s worth noting.

In short, each character must confront the age-old problem of negotiating civility and desire, conformity and savagery. There is very little veiling our basest instincts, Percy seems to say (at one point the hunting party gruesomely and joyously plays with the innards of their kill), and often it’s easier than one might think to give up decorum.

Such messages do, at times, come across as heavy-handed, and it’s certainly clear that Percy wrote with his themes in mind. Still,The Wilding emerges as creative, unique and deeply thought-provoking. More so, it speaks of an author with many more tricks up his sleeve.

Michelle Hoover’s debut novel is a haunting, beautifully told story that explores the hardships of the Great Depression by focusing on two families—neighbors who are in many ways complete opposites of one another. The Quickening unfolds gradually, beginning in 1913, and is told in alternating chapters by the family matriarchs, Enidina (Eddie) Current and Mary Morrow.

Eddie is a large, down-to-earth woman who throws herself into even the dirtiest farm jobs and is devoted to her hard-working husband Frank, with whom she moved to a farm “a day’s wagon ride” away from the family farm where she grew up. The Morrow family, she says, were “a worry to ours from day one.” Mary Morrow, raised in a city, distances herself from the rigors of farm work, preferring to play the piano and attend services at the nearby chapel. Different as they are, the two women bond, if only to have another voice to help stave off their isolation.

Eddie suffers two miscarriages, and when she next feels a quickening, she doesn’t want to admit it, afraid she will lose another baby. But she gives birth to twins, Donny and Adaline, whose lives become inextricably tied to Mary’s youngest boy, Kyle. As the twins grow, the farms suffer their worst years, with alternating drought and floods, a drop in crop prices and the raising of mortgages caused by the Depression. Misfortune drives a wedge between the families, culminating in a tragedy that severs the neighborly ties for good.

Hoover writes with such emotional clarity about these two women, their fierce maternal instincts and their determination to survive in spite of impossible hardships that the reader can almost feel their presence. Hoover is the granddaughter of four generations-old farming families, so perhaps this empathy is in her genes, resulting in a captivating and heartfelt first novel.