What do you think?
Rate this book
The Orange Notebooks
The Orange Notebooks is a novel about love and hope. Told through a woman's journals written while interned in a French psychiatric ward after the death of her son, Anna explores grief through the power of nature and mourning rituals where myth and reality collide allowing her to begin her journey of radical hope to love and acceptance.
222 pages, Paperback
Published September 2, 2025
3 people are currently reading
90 people want to read
Ratings & Reviews
Friends & Following
Create a free account to discover what your friends think of this book!
Community Reviews
Displaying 1 - 5 of 5 reviews
October 16, 2025
There are stories that can be contained inside pages and bindings; within these covers the words lie dormant, waiting to be released, to be liberated from the chains that bind them. And then, there are stories that live outside of themselves; they become bigger than that which contains them, larger than you or me, spreading out across time and space, encompassing a universe. These words defy the audacity of confinement, soaring as the birds in the sky. The ceaseless abundance of time finds them ascending, spreading their wings, free. This is one such story, and these are those words: breaking free.
Right out of the gate, in the very first pages, the writing is urgent and feverish. It requires immediate attention from the reader—breathless and heady. "Follow this closely," it whispers. It demands that we absorb the beauty of word after word, tripping over and under each other, struggling to make sense of—to give form to, to breathe substance into—this delicate life that has been lost.
Our story is set within the borders of two countries: France and England. Our narrator, Anna, is a grieving mother. We learn immediately that her child—Louis, Lou, Buba—is deceased, but we do not know why or how. Anna, unable to process and contain her grief, embarks on a journey of discovery. She takes up residence at a psychiatric hospital, wherein she manically scribbles in orange notebooks—hoping upon all hope to determine a path that reunites her with Lou. She details her youth, how she met Lou's father, Antton, and how a strange man that she meets in the hospital, Yann, may be her only hope of returning to a place where she can recover Lou. Along the way, the exquisite prose and the remarkable connections that the author imbues are so captivating, so life-affirming, that I was frankly shaken to my core. The words written here feel like they were extracted from my very soul and brought to life. Life here for Anna is colors (beige, orange, and blue), trench coats, Princess Diana, bees, and the ocean. Worry not, the connections will present themselves accordingly when you commence reading.
We can't forget, though, that this is a book on grief. If this subject matter is too delicate for you, please be kind to yourself when reading this book and stop if you need to. Your own mental health is of the utmost importance; not everyone can deal with such sensitive topics. Anna's grief is singular and all-consuming; as the death of a loved one is individualized, each individual manages their pain in their own way. Grief tears us down, pulls us thin, and leaves us cold, alone, hurting—longing for someone or something to take away the pain. Minds are lost over grief—worlds are destroyed, people become husks—shallow misrepresentations of their previous selves.
I have experienced a grief so profound that it tore me apart from the inside out. I was tempted to share it with you, but it is too deep, the pain is too real, and I still feel it too much; its history is still too present, too fresh, even though it has been nearly 6 years. It is not the grief of death, but it is the grief of loss. Are they so different from each other? One day I will give voice to my loss, but today it is still residing in the blues that Susanna explored in this book.
Grief doesn't have to be about the loss of another soul who once resided in this world or about the accompanying unbearable pain—the despondency felt of their diminishing absence. It can be about the loss of the many versions of oneself—of who we used to be, who we were meant to become, and who we may never be. Anna not only grieves for her son but also for these many versions of herself. It is in this type of grief where my own dislocated self takes up residence.
Notes on mental illness: it can take the sense of self away from everyone who suffers from it. Concomitantly, it can also give beauty, depth, and an understanding so deep and astonishingly beautiful it will leave you breathless, trembling—inspired by everything you see, feel, taste, and touch. To endure, to be alive while shrouded by this indeterminable grief over a self that is lost—but never ripened to full maturity—is to come to terms with your sense of being. Relinquishing the control the grief wields is the most liberating feeling, permitting air to permeate cells long since forgotten. How do we put a value on that which gives and simultaneously takes away from who we are?
I stated the following in my initial story post after finishing the book, and I will reiterate. This is one of the most deeply profound and moving books that I have had the pleasure of reading. If this isn't on your radar, I suggest putting it there. Shove all of those other books aside, and pick this lovely orange book up instead. Doesn't that feel right in your hands? Susanna draws connections between life, death, mental health, grief, colors, nature—a world that retains a delicate synchronicity. The prose is unlike anything I've ever experienced. I will praise this book until the end of time. It is one that will spread its roots deep within your soul, latch on, and never let go. You will be transformed.
Many thanks to Susanna and Assembly Press for providing me with this copy in exchange for an honest review.
10/16/25
10/11/25 - This is one of the most deeply profound and moving books I have ever read. If this isn't on your radar, it needs to be. Susanna draws connections between life, death, mental health, grief, colors, nature - the entire universe. The prose is unlike anything I've ever experienced. I will praise this book until the end of time. It is one that will delve into your soul, latch on, and never let go. You will be transformed.
So many more thoughts to come. Seriously this is one of the best books I have ever read, I'm really not just saying that. 🙌❤️
Right out of the gate, in the very first pages, the writing is urgent and feverish. It requires immediate attention from the reader—breathless and heady. "Follow this closely," it whispers. It demands that we absorb the beauty of word after word, tripping over and under each other, struggling to make sense of—to give form to, to breathe substance into—this delicate life that has been lost.
Our story is set within the borders of two countries: France and England. Our narrator, Anna, is a grieving mother. We learn immediately that her child—Louis, Lou, Buba—is deceased, but we do not know why or how. Anna, unable to process and contain her grief, embarks on a journey of discovery. She takes up residence at a psychiatric hospital, wherein she manically scribbles in orange notebooks—hoping upon all hope to determine a path that reunites her with Lou. She details her youth, how she met Lou's father, Antton, and how a strange man that she meets in the hospital, Yann, may be her only hope of returning to a place where she can recover Lou. Along the way, the exquisite prose and the remarkable connections that the author imbues are so captivating, so life-affirming, that I was frankly shaken to my core. The words written here feel like they were extracted from my very soul and brought to life. Life here for Anna is colors (beige, orange, and blue), trench coats, Princess Diana, bees, and the ocean. Worry not, the connections will present themselves accordingly when you commence reading.
We can't forget, though, that this is a book on grief. If this subject matter is too delicate for you, please be kind to yourself when reading this book and stop if you need to. Your own mental health is of the utmost importance; not everyone can deal with such sensitive topics. Anna's grief is singular and all-consuming; as the death of a loved one is individualized, each individual manages their pain in their own way. Grief tears us down, pulls us thin, and leaves us cold, alone, hurting—longing for someone or something to take away the pain. Minds are lost over grief—worlds are destroyed, people become husks—shallow misrepresentations of their previous selves.
I have experienced a grief so profound that it tore me apart from the inside out. I was tempted to share it with you, but it is too deep, the pain is too real, and I still feel it too much; its history is still too present, too fresh, even though it has been nearly 6 years. It is not the grief of death, but it is the grief of loss. Are they so different from each other? One day I will give voice to my loss, but today it is still residing in the blues that Susanna explored in this book.
Grief doesn't have to be about the loss of another soul who once resided in this world or about the accompanying unbearable pain—the despondency felt of their diminishing absence. It can be about the loss of the many versions of oneself—of who we used to be, who we were meant to become, and who we may never be. Anna not only grieves for her son but also for these many versions of herself. It is in this type of grief where my own dislocated self takes up residence.
Notes on mental illness: it can take the sense of self away from everyone who suffers from it. Concomitantly, it can also give beauty, depth, and an understanding so deep and astonishingly beautiful it will leave you breathless, trembling—inspired by everything you see, feel, taste, and touch. To endure, to be alive while shrouded by this indeterminable grief over a self that is lost—but never ripened to full maturity—is to come to terms with your sense of being. Relinquishing the control the grief wields is the most liberating feeling, permitting air to permeate cells long since forgotten. How do we put a value on that which gives and simultaneously takes away from who we are?
I stated the following in my initial story post after finishing the book, and I will reiterate. This is one of the most deeply profound and moving books that I have had the pleasure of reading. If this isn't on your radar, I suggest putting it there. Shove all of those other books aside, and pick this lovely orange book up instead. Doesn't that feel right in your hands? Susanna draws connections between life, death, mental health, grief, colors, nature—a world that retains a delicate synchronicity. The prose is unlike anything I've ever experienced. I will praise this book until the end of time. It is one that will spread its roots deep within your soul, latch on, and never let go. You will be transformed.
Many thanks to Susanna and Assembly Press for providing me with this copy in exchange for an honest review.
10/16/25
10/11/25 - This is one of the most deeply profound and moving books I have ever read. If this isn't on your radar, it needs to be. Susanna draws connections between life, death, mental health, grief, colors, nature - the entire universe. The prose is unlike anything I've ever experienced. I will praise this book until the end of time. It is one that will delve into your soul, latch on, and never let go. You will be transformed.
So many more thoughts to come. Seriously this is one of the best books I have ever read, I'm really not just saying that. 🙌❤️
October 26, 2025
Without a doubt the best book I’ve read in a very very long time
September 1, 2025
"Grief drives through us with churning blades. It forces its way through our bodies as though we are the earth and grief is the plough."
This visceral passage from Susanna Crossman's "The Orange Notebooks" captures the essential nature of a work that resists the conventional shape of grief narratives. Rather than offering a linear journey from devastation to healing, Crossman presents something far more complex: an unflinching exploration of loss that refuses easy consolation.
At its center is Anna, whose son Louis has died, leaving her to navigate what she calls an "upside-down world" where time itself has fractured. "Lou's death was time," she writes, "there was a before and an after." The novel unfolds through Anna's orange notebooks—part memoir, part philosophical inquiry, part desperate attempt to "assemble the parts" of her shattered reality.
What distinguishes this work from other explorations of parental grief is Crossman's commitment to psychological authenticity. Anna's breakdown, clinically diagnosed as depression and PTSD, manifests not as a literary metaphor but as a lived experience. Her obsessive repetition of the word "beige" becomes both symptom and symbol, representing what she identifies as "the cancer of the soul. A simmered death." Her rage against this color becomes a fierce defense of feeling itself. "Life is a battle against beige," she declares, and the novel honors that battle without offering false reassurance.
The novel's symbolic framework is carefully constructed. Other colors also carry emotional weight: orange as fierce vitality, blue as both sorrow and infinite possibility. Bees swarm through the text as messengers between worlds, their endangerment paralleling human fragility. The ancient practice of "telling the bees" about death becomes a missed ritual that haunts Anna's journey toward acceptance.
Crossman weaves the Orpheus myth throughout, but not in its traditional arc. Anna's descent into what she calls "the underworld" is not a quest to retrieve the dead but a reckoning with the impossibility of such retrieval. When myth meets reality, the result is neither tragic nor triumphant but something more difficult: the slow work of integration.
The narrative structure mirrors Anna's fractured state of mind. Time isn’t linear—it moves in spirals, memory intrudes without warning, and the boundaries between internal and external experience blur deliberately. This formal innovation serves the story's deeper purpose—to make grief's disorientation palpable rather than merely described. "How do you keep alive and loving when your world falls apart?" Anna asks. The question reverberates through every fragmented entry.
Crossman's prose moves between clinical precision and lyrical intensity. She can write with scientific accuracy about bee navigation and color theory, then shift to passages of raw intimacy: "Twenty-two bones in my head miss him and the rough grain of my senses remembers his skin." This range reflects Anna's own complexity—a language teacher seeking new vocabularies for experiences that resist articulation.
The supporting characters aren't easily categorized. Dr. Vidonne, Anna's psychiatrist, embodies compassionate professionalism without falling into the role of savior or villain. Yann, Anna's fellow patient and unlikely companion, represents both the allure and danger of shared delusion. Each relationship illuminates different facets of Anna's struggle without reducing that struggle to simple cause and effect.
"The Orange Notebooks" inhabits grief, lingering in this emotion without rushing to resolution, asking readers to abandon expectations of narrative comfort. This is not a book about "getting better" in any conventional sense, but about finding ways to live with permanent alteration. Crossman has created a work that honors both the brutality of loss and the persistence of love. In Anna's words, "We needed to keep death in life. We couldn't banish it underground. But we had to connect with each other, make our own new stories, mix the living and the dead."
The result is a novel that functions as both literature and testimony—a map of terrain most hope never to traverse, drawn with remarkable clarity and emotional truth.
This review is of an advance reader's edition provided by Assembly Press. The novel's publication date is set for September 2, 2025.
This visceral passage from Susanna Crossman's "The Orange Notebooks" captures the essential nature of a work that resists the conventional shape of grief narratives. Rather than offering a linear journey from devastation to healing, Crossman presents something far more complex: an unflinching exploration of loss that refuses easy consolation.
At its center is Anna, whose son Louis has died, leaving her to navigate what she calls an "upside-down world" where time itself has fractured. "Lou's death was time," she writes, "there was a before and an after." The novel unfolds through Anna's orange notebooks—part memoir, part philosophical inquiry, part desperate attempt to "assemble the parts" of her shattered reality.
What distinguishes this work from other explorations of parental grief is Crossman's commitment to psychological authenticity. Anna's breakdown, clinically diagnosed as depression and PTSD, manifests not as a literary metaphor but as a lived experience. Her obsessive repetition of the word "beige" becomes both symptom and symbol, representing what she identifies as "the cancer of the soul. A simmered death." Her rage against this color becomes a fierce defense of feeling itself. "Life is a battle against beige," she declares, and the novel honors that battle without offering false reassurance.
The novel's symbolic framework is carefully constructed. Other colors also carry emotional weight: orange as fierce vitality, blue as both sorrow and infinite possibility. Bees swarm through the text as messengers between worlds, their endangerment paralleling human fragility. The ancient practice of "telling the bees" about death becomes a missed ritual that haunts Anna's journey toward acceptance.
Crossman weaves the Orpheus myth throughout, but not in its traditional arc. Anna's descent into what she calls "the underworld" is not a quest to retrieve the dead but a reckoning with the impossibility of such retrieval. When myth meets reality, the result is neither tragic nor triumphant but something more difficult: the slow work of integration.
The narrative structure mirrors Anna's fractured state of mind. Time isn’t linear—it moves in spirals, memory intrudes without warning, and the boundaries between internal and external experience blur deliberately. This formal innovation serves the story's deeper purpose—to make grief's disorientation palpable rather than merely described. "How do you keep alive and loving when your world falls apart?" Anna asks. The question reverberates through every fragmented entry.
Crossman's prose moves between clinical precision and lyrical intensity. She can write with scientific accuracy about bee navigation and color theory, then shift to passages of raw intimacy: "Twenty-two bones in my head miss him and the rough grain of my senses remembers his skin." This range reflects Anna's own complexity—a language teacher seeking new vocabularies for experiences that resist articulation.
The supporting characters aren't easily categorized. Dr. Vidonne, Anna's psychiatrist, embodies compassionate professionalism without falling into the role of savior or villain. Yann, Anna's fellow patient and unlikely companion, represents both the allure and danger of shared delusion. Each relationship illuminates different facets of Anna's struggle without reducing that struggle to simple cause and effect.
"The Orange Notebooks" inhabits grief, lingering in this emotion without rushing to resolution, asking readers to abandon expectations of narrative comfort. This is not a book about "getting better" in any conventional sense, but about finding ways to live with permanent alteration. Crossman has created a work that honors both the brutality of loss and the persistence of love. In Anna's words, "We needed to keep death in life. We couldn't banish it underground. But we had to connect with each other, make our own new stories, mix the living and the dead."
The result is a novel that functions as both literature and testimony—a map of terrain most hope never to traverse, drawn with remarkable clarity and emotional truth.
This review is of an advance reader's edition provided by Assembly Press. The novel's publication date is set for September 2, 2025.
October 12, 2025
Anna is in severe grief after the death of her 6-year-old son, Louis. She is trying to heal by writing in her orange notebooks and staying at an asylum. Beautifully written, touching, sad, gorgeous.
December 14, 2025
|| THE ORANGE NOTEBOOKS ||
#gifted @assemblypress
Genre: Fiction/Womens Fiction
One of my favorite reads of 2025!
This is a stunning piece of writing. It reads like memoir which always amazes me when Fiction can do that and come off so raw and poignant. What blew me away the most was Crossman's use of language, its absolutely masteful! This was an easy 5⭐️'s!
#gifted @assemblypress
Genre: Fiction/Womens Fiction
One of my favorite reads of 2025!
This is a stunning piece of writing. It reads like memoir which always amazes me when Fiction can do that and come off so raw and poignant. What blew me away the most was Crossman's use of language, its absolutely masteful! This was an easy 5⭐️'s!
Displaying 1 - 5 of 5 reviews