"Sad Girl Literature" is a relatively new term coined to categorise literature where trauma, vulnerability and a female main character take the stage. They may be thoroughly average yet feel like their life is falling apart. They may self-sabotage. They may experience depression. They may desire the wrong people. Do the wrong thing. Shocking, isn’t it? That they may leap out of the page as humans.

We can’t talk about “sad girl novels” without a big nod to Pip Finkemeyer’s book Sad Girl Novel. Despite the title, Finkemeyer commented that she did not have a plan to write a sad girl book but after years of reading sad girl literature, she felt the need to “speak back” about these types of books. “I think the protagonists of this genre represent a smorgasbord of unlikability that’s really interesting. Usually they’re quite privileged millennial women who don’t have a lot to lose. It’s quite relatable to see them come undone over relatively low-stakes things. I wanted to engage with the tropes of the genre. Some tropes are tropes because they’re hugely effective.”

But none of this is new. Yes, Fleabag, My Year of Rest and Relaxation, writing by Sally Rooney and countless other books and authors have been overwhelmingly popular in recent years during the period that the term “Sad Girl Literature” has been bandied about. But I read the work of Sylvia Plath over a decade ago in college, and countless others have read her work before and since. The literary “sad girl” has been around since at least her time in the '50s and most likely long before that. So why this label? And why does it feel so dismissive? Can you picture anyone calling Ernest Hemingway or Philip K. Dick a “sad boy”?

When I studied Plath, her work was presented as groundbreaking. Her skill at creating and depicting emotion - vulnerability, rage, loss, depression - were an accolade given an extra credit because she was a female poet that managed to break through a male-dominated book world in the 1960s. Just because time has moved on and there are, thankfully, more opportunities available to female writers doesn’t mean that we (as women for the context of this piece, but I think it is an argument that can be extrapolated to humans as a whole) no longer want or require stories that depict us. A hyper-realistic portrayal of modern womanhood with all its mundane complications, pain and messiness. Yes, it may be us at our worst, but isn’t that us at our most human? 

I feel this type of story is a victim of our need to label. To bundle something up in a snappily named package to ride the wave of a trend while it lasts. I counter that we should just instead celebrate these books for what they are - character-driven stories that are a celebration of us. Women are multifaceted. We’re not always the paragon of virtue and good morals. We have bad days. We sleep with the wrong people. We sometimes have the urge to completely blow our lives apart. In short, we are human. And the more stories like this out there, the more stories like this we read, the more we might realise that we are not alone. We don’t have to be a romance heroine that gets her life together by the last chapter (as lovely as they are). We don’t need to be a kick-ass detective (as awesome as that would be). We don't have to be a hero; saviour of a cause, world or an entire people (even though we can work to make a difference). We could be those things, or something adjacent to it if we want. But we also get to be a mess. We get to be more than one thing. In short, we get to be human.

If you’ve got this far I’m going to guess that you’ve read about a modern woman’s ennui and want more book recommendations in the same vein. As “sad girl” as it might be to leave you disappointed, we won’t. 

You can get Phoebe Waller Bridge’s fringe theatre hit, turned TV and cultural phenomenon Fleabag in book form, with filming scripts and bonus content galore depending on which edition you select. This hilarious, honest account of “some sort of female living her sort of life” was successful for a reason. It was entertaining. It was messy. It was relatable.

Described as “blackly funny, merciless and compassionate” My Year of Rest and Relaxation by Otessa Moshfegh, is a razor sharp satire of a woman looking out from the abyss. 

Sorrow and Bliss was Meg Mason’s debut and made the shortlist of the Women’s Prize for Fiction in 2022. Our MD loved this book, saying “never has a book title more perfectly summed up the highs and lows of life … It’s a masterclass in acerbic narration and perfectly pitches the dark and the light.”

Another debut novel that received much critical fanfare, Sheena Patel’s I’m A Fan tells the story of an unnamed narrator’s involvement in a toxic affair. Using the realm power struggles in human relationships to critique the struggles of social media, access and the patriarchy.

Jessica Moor’s Young Women “explores coercion, abuse and the boundaries of sisterhood and betrayal through the experiences of, and relationship between, two young women."

Adelaide by Genevieve Wheeler is an emotional, relatable debut that follows 26 year-old American expat Adelaide Williams, capturing what it’s like to be young and in love. Our Editorial Expert Joanne Owen commented: “heartachingly honest, this emotionally raw debut delves deep into the nuances, naïveté and brutal pain of young love, unrequited love, and toxic relationships."

If you’ve read and enjoyed any of the books in this list, then do check out the others and keep reading for even more recommendations that contain but are not limited to: heartache, humour, hurdles, emotional rollercoasters and mess. Essentially, humanity.