But a new emotion has been building up inside me these past few years, coating my insides with acid and leading me to isolate myself from others: rage. The source? Manifold. There’s the growing resentment that comes with being a woman who engages in a huge amount of emotional labor, who makes sure things are running smoothly before she attends to her own career and mental health. There’s the fear and frustration that come from seeing entire communities controlled and silenced and erased via fascism, the fall of Roe v. Wade, the varied legislation attempts that seem born out of cruelty more than anything else. There’s the growing impatience that comes with seeing seemingly rational people radicalized, seeing them embrace individualism over collectivism. Just put me out to pasture already. Let me retire to my bedroom indefinitely, curled up in the fetal position, clutching my child’s largest Squishmallow to my chest. Part of me wants to embrace this anger, let it burst out of my chest in a beam of cleansing fire à la the Care Bear Stare. But the cultural conditioning is strong in me. After all, haven’t women been raised to be meek and accommodating and quiet? (Spoiler alert: Yes.) This is why I love books about enraged women. Books about women who don’t give a shit anymore. Books about women who decide to light the match and let it all burn. One of the most fun manifestations of this genre is the book about women gone feral. They’re just cathartic as hell. Allow me to take you on a journey through my reading list. And that’s all she wrote. If you crave more smooches with your savagery, allow me to point you toward this list of 50 must-read werewolf romances.
