I had the ARC in my hands for weeks, but something told me to wait. And I’m glad I did. On the night before Emely’s pub day, I stayed up late and read the entire thing in one sitting. Something about her voice, her honesty, and the way she wove books into every thread of her life’s work made this feel like more than just another piece of literature.
Bibliotherapy, in technical terms, is the use of literature as a therapeutic tool. It’s a clinical practice, a healing modality, a method. But in layman’s terms? It’s the soul work of finding yourself, processing pain, and reclaiming power through the pages of a book. It’s crying because a sentence sees you. It’s feeling less alone because a character broke the same way you did—and lived.
It’s likely that you’ve been doing this kind of work your whole life without even knowing it. If you’ve turned to books when you didn’t have the words for what you were feeling—that’s it. If a character could survive something hard, I believed I could too. Literature became a lifeline, the place I tucked my questions, my hurt, my hope.
The first moment I realized just how intentional this book was came when Emely shared her experience processing her legal emancipation through the lens of Finding Fish by Antwone Fisher. That moment gutted me. Watching her reflect on her own trauma through a book that mirrored it was powerful. Not because it was clean or neat, but because it was honest. That’s what bibliotherapy is—not fixing, but understanding.
This book doesn’t just tell you that literature can heal. It shows you how. It gives you the tools to explore what you’ve always felt deeply but never had the language for.
Take me, for example. I’m a notorious fan of Candice Carty-Williams and her brilliant ability to craft complicated characters, namely Queenie. I had never encountered a character who made so many self-destructive, counterintuitive decisions that still made so much sense to me. Reading Queenie cracked something open. She gave me permission to recognize that unhealed trauma doesn’t always show up in palatable ways. She was chaotic, hurting, human—and I saw myself in her.
Over the years, I’ve heard so many people describe Queenie as “unlikeable,” “too messy,” “hard to root for.” And while I always felt something tighten in my chest hearing those takes, I never had the words to explain why. Until now. Bibliotherapy in the Bronx gave me the language. It showed me that when someone is actively surviving trauma, they deserve curiosity and compassion, not critique. Characters like Queenie aren’t broken. They’re trying.
Books are so much more than entertainment. They’re mirrors.
As a lifelong reader, I’m deeply grateful that Emely gifted us a masterclass in bibliotherapy. This book is a heart offering—not just for those of us who love literature, but for anyone trying to make sense of their own story.
Thank you to Emely and Rowhouse Publishers for this ARC.