I recently read Olga Ravn’s “My Work," and...

…it proves novels don’t have to be subtle or neat and tightly wound to work, that they can be repetitive, messy, seemingly — though I’m sure deliberately — unfocused at times, structurally varied, and very overtly experimenting within the experiment, and that as long as they fit the subject matter, which “My Work” does, as all of the above descriptors also apply to the chaos that is becoming a mother and realizing the violent ways in which your life and your livelihood (especially if you are a writer!!!!) suddenly shift and become at once sublimely intertwined and at odds with each other, you’re golden, and I will read them and love them very much.