I had to write another book review, because oh my gosh, Strange Animals by Jarod K. Anderson turned out to be the story I’ve been looking for since I watched and fell in love with my favorite show, Mushishi. I already knew I’d found similarity in The Cryptonaturalist, Anderson‘s scripted podcast, but the narrative of Strange Animals expands on that established universe, highlighting the pacifist and coexistent attitude toward nature and difference I’ve long sought, especially in my own fiction.

Which is to say, if you’ve enjoyed The Hopeful Wanderer, you will love Strange Animals.

Green’s reality diverges when he both dies and doesn’t. With a surprise acorn dragging down his pocket with the hefty weight of unrealized potential, he gives up the city life, finding himself driven to the Catskill Mountains. But Appalachia doesn’t accept just anyone, even someone as categorically unusual as Green has become. Not only must he learn everyday woodcraft just to survive, he’s thrown headlong into the unsettling world of cryptonaturalism, in which people capable of perceiving creatures invisible to most study, document, and share their findings. If they don’t get killed in the process.

Imagine reading a book filled to the brim with your own soul. That’s the experience I had with Strange Animals. I found my appreciation for the deep and dark and unfriendly and indifferent aspects of nature. I found the artful linguistic expressions of my favorite writer, Maggie Stiefvater, whose style has impacted mine so much. I found the ending to the third Hopeful Wanderer story I ever wrote in the final lines of the climactic chapter. I found my delight in twisting tropes sideways to make the mundane beautiful and the beautiful terrifying.

I also found Jarod K. Anderson in this book. I’ve followed his social media since the peak of the COVID-19 pandemic—when I discovered in The Cryptonaturalist a simpler place of marvel and joy at strangeness—and have perhaps absorbed some of what drives him. What occupies him, really.

While reading Strange Animals, I recognized moments he must have experienced himself—from the hateful battle with an inescapable condition that wants you to die living inside your head to slipping on autumn leaves while traversing a mountain trail. He touched on his fascination with the transformation of energy almost at the top. He meandered through a journey of knowledge only gained by much time spent experiencing, contemplating, and taking deep breaths. And he expressed, I think, who he hopes to become, or possibly what he looks like on the inside, in Green’s final transformation into a person at peace with the terrors of existence.

Has Anderson ever read or watched Mushishi? I have no idea. I just know he and Yuki Urushibara share similar worldviews. Which I love for me, specifically, as I get to experience them through their art.

Because, yeah, there was Urushibara‘s Mushishi in there, too, in natural creatures perceivable and appreciable only by some. In motivation by curiosity to study and quantify, not to harm or allow harm to come to others from strange animals simply following their instincts. In recognition of the creepiness of nature at times too alien to truly understand, only respect. And in responsibility for one’s actions, burdens, and charges.

With that in mind, my favorite part about Strange Animals, beyond everything I’ve already described, was the way Dancer and Valentina, two of the main characters who were women, expected Green to learn and pull his own weight, outside of civilization, outside of the typical role of women as caretakers. That expectation allowed him room to grow and demanded that he do exactly that. While they took the time to impart some training—primarily Valentina, who elected to apprentice Green—they never coddled him. In setting and sticking to their boundaries, they gave him the opportunity to become one of them, once he’d spread his limbs enough to flourish where he’d planted himself.

Thanks for reading!

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Summer’s Latest

Beneath the Bluebonnets: Tales of Terror by Texas Women

Read my eco-horror short “Well Being” in this fabulous new anthology, in which a mother follows strange impulses from tainted water to find her daughter.

From Mary Shelley to Tananarive Due and Mariana Enríquez, women have long shaped horror—often without equal recognition. Living closest to the genre’s edge, women know these fears firsthand: lost autonomy, violence, childbirth, survival.

Set in Texas, a land of haunted histories and increasingly restrictive laws, Beneath the Bluebonnets emerges from the raw intersection of terror and endurance. Written by twelve Texas women writers: R. J. Joseph, Lauren Oertel, L.H. Phillips, Kathleen Kent, Madison Estes, Jess Hagemann, Emma E. Murray, Jae Mazer, Iphigenia Strangeworth, Jacklyn Baker, S.G. Baker and edited by Carmen Gray, this collection is urgent, unflinching, and deeply haunting—stories that refuse to look away.

Writing the Mother Road: Texas High Plains Writers Celebrates Route 66

Route 66 isn’t just a highway—it’s a legend.

In Writing the Mother Road, the Texas High Plains Writers invite you to travel America’s most iconic stretch of pavement through a rich collection of short works inspired by the sights, stories, and spirit of Route 66. Inside these pages, you’ll find essays, memoirs, historical reflections, whimsical adventures, and imaginative tales ranging from science fiction to fantasy—all tied together by the culture and charm of the Mother Road.

For generations, Route 66 has fueled livelihoods, sparked creativity, and shaped the towns and travelers who crossed its path. Now, as the road approaches its centennial, this anthology celebrates the enduring heartbeat of the Texas Panhandle and the unforgettable road that helped define it.