My only regret after reading this book is not having read it sooner. This tense and engrossing story, about a pregnant woman and her husband who live for a period of time with renowned author Shirley Jackson and her husband, was magnetic. Whenever I set the book down, I felt a creeping pull towards its pages. I was so captivated by the heroine’s fight to seize power in her marriage—and her life—and how she wielded that force, finally understanding what control feels like. It’s about desiring a legacy and craving to not only be present in the world, but to move through it. It's about the impossible molds we attempt to fit our idols into, and the subsequent disillusionment we face when we realize they’re not who we thought they would be, when they’re made real. In life, and in this book, the people we love hurt us in ways we don’t think possible. We then inflict pain on them, in retaliation, and hope to find the will to forgive and be forgiven. After, though, when we're digging through the remains of a deceased life, what happens when we discover our absence from that person’s life? Do we cease to exist? How seductive is it, to be acknowledged by a writer, even if our life has been reshaped and altered to properly fit into the confines of the story they’re telling? What happens, then, when our entire existence hinges on whether or not we’re included in somebody else's reproduced experience? Ultimately, the book is an ode to reading, interpreting, and how writing can simultaneously preserve a life and resuscitate our own.