(English below)

Castellano La mala costumbre es una novela sincera, emotiva y preciosa. La prosa de la autora es fantástica, y no me sorprendió descubrir que se dedica principalmente a la poesía. Si eres trans, leerla te hará sentir menos sole y te recordará los motivos por los cuales la comunidad trans es tan especial y maravillosa. Si eres cis, esta novela te hará la experiencia trans más cercana y comprensible, en toda su humanidad y complejidad.

En resumen, seas cis o trans, mujer, hombre u otra cosa, te recomiendo encarecidamente esta novela. En mi caso, sé que esta es una historia que querré volver a experimentar, centrándome en matices diferentes en cada relectura. Y, a parte de hablar de la experiencia trans, esta novela también pinta un vívido retrato de la España obrera y cómo ha ido evolucionando a través de las décadas con sinceridad y mucho cariño.

Gracias, Alana, por esta maravillosa novela.

English Bad Habit is a heartfelt, moving and beautiful novel. The author’s prose is fantastic, and I wasn’t surprised to discover that she mainly writes poetry. If you’re trans, reading it will make you feel less alone and remind you of the reasons that make the trans community so special and wonderful. If you’re cis, this novel will make the trans experience closer and easier to understand, in all its humanity and complexity.

In short, whether you’re cis or trans, a woman, a man or something else, I highly recommend this novel. For my part, I know this is a story I’ll want to revisit, focusing on different nuances with each re-read. And, as well as exploring the trans experience, this novel also paints a vivid portrait of working-class Spain and how it has evolved over the decades, with sincerity and great affection.

Thank you, Alana, for this wonderful novel.

Wow, I loved this book. I think it might be one of my favorites I've read this year. Let's be clear - this book is not what it is marketed as. It is not a thriller, nor is it a murder mystery. It is a slow-moving story that takes a deep, critical look at what it means to be a woman in modern Japan by following Rika Machido, a investigative journalist, as she begins to cover a story on Manako Kaiji, a high-profile female serial killer. Fundamentally, this book is more about Machido's musings about her place in society than it is about the murder of Kaiji's victims. Is the right way for her to live as a woman to work herself to death, trying to emulate the men in her office who continually push the glass ceiling down upon her? Or should she be like her best friend Reiko and abandon her career to focus on being a family and a home-maker? Or should she be like Kaiji, who boldly pursues whatever she wants whenever she wants it and doesn't seem to care what anyone else thinks? I can see how those expecting a thriller would be totally disappointed by this. I'm not the biggest fan of thrillers to begin with, so I wasn't particularly let down. I found the main female characters to be so fascinating I couldn't book this book down.

More of my thoughts with some light spoilers below:

Throughout her investigation of Kaiji, Machido wrestles with figuring out the truth about the murders just as much as she wrestles with what the true responsibility and role of women in society is. Trying to determine for herself, "what a good amount is" in her own words. Kaiji rejects so many of the foundational rules for women in Japanese society, which is hilarious considering that Kaiji herself is a huge misogynist and anti-feminist. For example, Japanese women are expected to remain thin and appear delicate. By contrast, Kaiji is a fat woman who relishes in eating delicious food who has high expectations and demands of her potential suitors. The public seems to focus less on her being accused of murder, and more on the audacity of a fat woman to be content with her appearance and expect to be treated well by her partners. Throughout the novel, as Machido begins to learn more about cuisine through her discussions with Kaiji and discovers her own love of food, she too is endlessly harassed by those around her for gaining weight. The fact that Machido and Kaiji were subject to so much vitriol for gaining weight, yet were simultaneously more attractive to male characters after their weight gain was disgustingly fascinating to me.

Another expectation of women Kaiji subverts is the role of woman as caretaker. Kaiji, Machido and her mother, Reiko all wrestle with the expectation of women to take care of the men in their life, almost in a maternal way. For Kaiji, this is the source of her power over the men who support her. For Machido and her mother, this is the guilt that follows them after Machido's mother divorces her father and his life begins to unravel. For Reiko, this is the way in which she loves and attempts to control her husband. Coming from a family where traditional gender roles are the norm, I have seen this dynamic play out over and over again. I couldn't help but cry alongside Machido as she is equal parts angry and sad because of her father's decline in health. While on one hand she feels strongly that her father was responsible for his own health, she still feels guilty for not taking care of him and this guilt is impressed upon her by others in her life By contrast, Kaiji is unapologetic about abandoning the men under her care when she's done with them. She completely withdraws her love, her care, and her food, and these older, somehow helpless men seem to die as a result. Kaiji feels no guilt for this.

I am endlessly fascinated by the dynamics between Reiko, Kaiji, and Machido. They are beautiful, complicated, and a little bit twisted. I definitely want to re-read it. My only issue with this story is that Machido and Reiko don't confess their love for each other and leave their loser boyfriends behind to go enjoy themselves in that nice three-bedroom house.

”The histories and stories of a people are a mirror—they tell how and when and where and why a people lived. No matter the year or the hour, empire will always seek to destroy the mirrors in which it does not see itself. This is why the colonizing culture does not consider our stories passed down through memory to be a valid document; why they are deemed to be more dreams than history, just as our perceived realities are deemed to be fiction. This is the language in power. It has never been able to imagine anything outside itself.”

Enchanting and mesmerizing from the first sentence, Contreras journeys through memory, through language, through the distortions of violence, to the Colombian mountains and curanderismo that form both a site of survival and her ancestral home. The language is poetic, heady, and philosophical. I marvel in astonishment over the imagery—the mirrors, circles, waters transmogrifying in their manifold meanings throughout the narrative. Contreras is nimble enough in her writing, however, to never let this vertiginous poeticism become a hinderance to understanding. She guides us through an honest and straightforward family history, one much more complete than would have been offered by a positivist, colonial account. Sometimes the best way through mountains is by a winding path.