The umpteenth millennial celestial changeover is forthcoming, once again moving from a male to a female God—from Mr. to Mrs. Snelling, case in hand. Great! One might think this good news—an empathetic woman in charge—but nope. Grunt! For though this change has occurred perennially since First Creation, Mrs. Snelling has recently adopted the notion that Lady Wisdom, a.k.a. Soapy, has meddled too much in both Mr. Snelling’s and her own previous turns at crowing in the celestial roost. So she decides to exile Lady Wisdom. “Bad Form, extremely Bad Form,” her male counterpart warns as he changes signage to indicate that Mrs. Snelling will become the erstwhile proprietor of The House. Mrs. Snelling remains adamant, and she hatches a plot to kidnap Lady Wisdom (Soapy). “Bad Form, extremely Bad Form,” Mr. Snelling repeats, only to receive Mrs. Snelling’s cold glare
Tom C. Powder, Mrs. Snelling’s favorite cat, will head the innovative Department of New Education, which will replace both Soapy and her changeling sister Alexandra, a.k.a. Pluck. Soapy’s uncle, that infamous whiskey-drinking, rhyme-making, belly-crawling snake, hatches a counter-plot to hide Soapy in . . . Tuscaloosa, Alabama, U. S. A., during football season. There, he’s convinced, no one will ever (ever!) dream of searching out Lady Wisdom. He enlists Billy Wise, a computer science geek working at the University in Tuscaloosa, who must travel to “The House” by jumping into a claw foot bathtub on his farm’s pond. There, with good luck and good friends, Billy and Soapy work with their allies Alexandra and Uncle Bogus to outwit Mrs. Snelling. But the cost might be too great for any of them.
I’ve had stories published in over 100 literary magazines. Pineapple, A Comic Novel in Verse, was published by Sagging Meniscus Press, as was Back to the Wine Jug, another novel in verse. NewSouth Books published The Theoretics of Love. Sagging Meniscus also published a story collection of mine, entitled Ghostly Demarcations. A previous novel of mine, Oldcat & Ms. Puss: A Book of Days for You and Me, was published several years ago by the now defunct Black Belt Press, and it was reviewed in Publishers Weekly. I have three story collections published, and I’ve edited several anthologies, notably, Belles’ Letters: Contemporary Fiction by Alabama Women and Tartts One through Five. I recently published a novel with the imposing title, Let There Be Lite, OR, How I Came To Know and Love Godel’s Incompleteness Proof. I’ve been the director of Livingston Press . . . forever.
A truant computer programmer named Billy Wise falls in love with a beautiful Lady Wisdom while getting lost in an infinitely vast and capricious funhouse. Walls, caves, canyons, trap doors, deserts, staircases, forests -- even Geoffrey Chaucer -- magically appear and disappear while Billy tries to thwart the evil schemes of the mysterious Mrs. Snelling, whose henchmen include a horde of vicious, animated coat hangers. Joe Taylor’s Bad Form is strong magic. It is either a roller coaster ride through Wonderland or a daringly whimsical literary acid trip.
This book doesn’t ease you into its strangeness, it drops you straight into it and dares you to keep up. What struck me most was how grief and absurdity coexist without cancelling each other out. Billy Wise is funny in a way that hurts, because his confusion feels earned. The humor is not there to soften pain, it exposes it. I kept laughing and then realizing, a second later, that the laugh was covering something darker. That delay between humor and realization is where this book lives, and it’s unsettling in the best way.
This novel has a strange confidence. It refuses to explain itself fully, and instead assumes the reader will either lean in or walk away. I leaned in. The symbolic logic of the world feels consistent even when it’s absurd, which made me stop trying to interpret everything literally. Once I surrendered to the rhythm of the book, it became less about plot and more about pressure, how much pressure a person can live under before something finally shifts.
I found myself thinking about how humor can be a survival strategy. The jokes in this book aren’t there to entertain the reader alone, they’re there because the characters need them. Without humor, the world of the novel would be unbearable.
There’s a sadness in this book that isn’t sentimental. It doesn’t ask for sympathy. It simply presents a man who has slowly misplaced his agency, and asks the reader to sit with that discomfort.
What stayed with me was not a single scene, but a feeling, the sense of being tested without being told the rules. That feeling feels very modern, and very real.
Bad Form feels like a philosophical argument disguised as a fantasy, then disguised again as a joke. I was surprised by how often the story made me question whether understanding is even the goal. The book seems to suggest that clarity is overrated and that transformation doesn’t come from answers but from movement. Billy’s journey isn’t about fixing his life, it’s about being pushed out of the mental stillness he’s been hiding in. That idea stayed with me long after I finished reading.
What impressed me most is how the book treats cowardice with compassion but never excuses it. Billy isn’t cruel or malicious, he’s passive, and the story is ruthless about the consequences of that passivity. The magical elements don’t save him, they confront him. Every strange encounter feels like a test he didn’t ask for but desperately needs. This isn’t escapist fantasy, it’s confrontational fantasy, and that’s much rarer than it should be.
I didn’t expect a book this funny to also feel this lonely. There’s a quiet ache beneath the surreal dialogue and bizarre imagery, a sense of a man who has outlived his own sense of purpose. The moments with authority figures hit especially hard, because they mirror real-life power in such an exaggerated way that it becomes clearer, not distorted. The book made me uncomfortable in places, which I’ve come to recognize as a sign that an author trusts the reader.
What stayed with me most was the idea of “bad form” as a moral, not social, failure. The book suggests that avoiding responsibility isn’t neutral, it’s an action with weight. I found myself thinking about how often we hide behind routine, politeness, or humor to avoid change. The fantasy elements exaggerate that avoidance until it becomes visible. By the end, I didn’t feel like I’d read a tidy story, I felt like I’d been challenged.
I kept feeling like the book was laughing with me and at me at the same time. The satire cuts close because it isn’t abstract, it’s painfully familiar. Billy’s environment exaggerates the modern workplace, authority, and obedience just enough to expose how absurd they already are. The fantasy elements don’t escape reality, they sharpen it.
There’s a quiet bravery in how this novel allows confusion to exist without resolving it neatly. I found myself frustrated at times, and then realized that frustration was the point. The book mirrors the way life often refuses to clarify itself on demand. That honesty made the reading experience strangely intimate.
The snake is one of the most unsettling guides I’ve encountered in fiction. Not because it’s threatening, but because it’s persuasive. Its logic is slippery, amusing, and occasionally seductive. I caught myself agreeing with it before realizing how dangerous that agreement might be. That tension felt intentional and very well executed.
I was constantly surprised by this book, as one thing changed into another, as one journey kept twisting and turning, as characters became occasionally eternal--if you loved Alice's Adventures in Wonderland as a child, you'll love Bad Form as an adult.
What surprised me was how physical this book feels. Heat, thirst, wounds, exhaustion, discomfort, all of it accumulates. The surreal never floats away from the body. Billy’s experience is not abstract thought, it’s lived sensation, and that made the stakes feel real even when the world felt unreal.
This is one of those books where authority figures are both ridiculous and terrifying. The humor never fully defangs them. Instead, it shows how power often operates through routine cruelty and bureaucratic indifference. The laughter caught in my throat more than once.
Bad Form reads like a warning wrapped in comedy. Not a loud warning, but a quiet one that waits for the reader to notice. It suggests that drifting through life is itself a choice, and not a harmless one. That idea lingered with me in uncomfortable ways.
The house itself feels like a character, and a deeply hostile one. Rooms don’t just exist, they confront. Each space seems designed to test endurance rather than curiosity. I loved how the setting becomes a psychological landscape rather than just a backdrop.
I appreciated how the book resists likability. Billy isn’t designed to be admired, and the world isn’t designed to be charming. That refusal to please made the moments of humor and warmth feel earned rather than manipulative.
This novel understands something important about shame. It doesn’t shout it or dramatize it excessively. It lets shame sit quietly inside decisions, delays, and rationalizations. That subtlety made it far more effective than overt moralizing.
There’s a strong undercurrent of time anxiety in this book, the fear of being early, late, or simply irrelevant. That pressure shapes many of Billy’s reactions, even when he doesn’t articulate it. I found that aspect painfully relatable.
What struck me most is how consequences operate here. They’re not immediate or dramatic, but cumulative. Small decisions echo longer than expected. The novel seems deeply aware of how lives unravel quietly rather than explosively.
I kept thinking about how often Billy is told what to do versus when he chooses. That imbalance becomes increasingly obvious as the story progresses. It made me question how often I confuse compliance with safety in my own life.
The book’s refusal to explain its metaphysics fully is a strength. Instead of building a rigid system, it builds a mood. That mood carries the meaning more effectively than exposition ever could.
This novel doesn’t offer redemption as a reward. If change happens, it comes through endurance, not enlightenment. I respected the author for resisting easy catharsis.
The dialogue walks a fine line between absurd and revealing. Characters often say ridiculous things that nonetheless expose something painfully true. That contrast kept me alert as a reader.