Genre Fiction
![Rachel Yoder - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_a_rachel_yoder.jpg)
Nightbitch: A Novel
In this blazingly smart and voracious debut novel, an artist turned stay-at-home mom becomes convinced she's turning into a dog. • "A must-read for anyone who can't get enough of the ever-blurring line between the psychological and supernatural that Yellowjackets exemplifies." -Vulture
One day, the mother was a mother, but then one night, she was quite suddenly something else...
An ambitious mother puts her art career on hold to stay at home with her newborn son, but the experience does not match her imagination. Two years later, she steps into the bathroom for a break from her toddler's demands, only to discover a dense patch of hair on the back of her neck. In the mirror, her canines suddenly look sharper than she remembers. Her husband, who travels for work five days a week, casually dismisses her fears from faraway hotel rooms.
As the mother's symptoms intensify, and her temptation to give in to her new dog impulses peak, she struggles to keep her alter-canine-identity secret. Seeking a cure at the library, she discovers the mysterious academic tome which becomes her bible, A Field Guide to Magical Women: A Mythical Ethnography, and meets a group of mommies involved in a multilevel-marketing scheme who may also be more than what they seem.
An outrageously original novel of ideas about art, power, and womanhood wrapped in a satirical fairy tale, Nightbitch will make you want to howl in laughter and recognition. And you should. You should howl as much as you want.
One day, the mother was a mother, but then one night, she was quite suddenly something else...
An ambitious mother puts her art career on hold to stay at home with her newborn son, but the experience does not match her imagination. Two years later, she steps into the bathroom for a break from her toddler's demands, only to discover a dense patch of hair on the back of her neck. In the mirror, her canines suddenly look sharper than she remembers. Her husband, who travels for work five days a week, casually dismisses her fears from faraway hotel rooms.
As the mother's symptoms intensify, and her temptation to give in to her new dog impulses peak, she struggles to keep her alter-canine-identity secret. Seeking a cure at the library, she discovers the mysterious academic tome which becomes her bible, A Field Guide to Magical Women: A Mythical Ethnography, and meets a group of mommies involved in a multilevel-marketing scheme who may also be more than what they seem.
An outrageously original novel of ideas about art, power, and womanhood wrapped in a satirical fairy tale, Nightbitch will make you want to howl in laughter and recognition. And you should. You should howl as much as you want.
Editorial Reviews
One
When she had referred to herself as Nightbitch, she meant it as a good-natured self-deprecating joke--because that's the sort of lady she was, a good sport, able to poke fun at herself, definitely not uptight, not wound really tight, not so freakishly tight that she couldn't see the humor in a lighthearted not-meant-as-an-insult situation--but in the days following this new naming, she found the patch of coarse black hair sprouting from the base of her neck, and was, like, What the fuck.
I think I'm turning into a dog, she said to her husband when he arrived home after a week away for work. He laughed and she didn't.
She had hoped he wouldn't laugh. She had hoped, that week as she lay in bed, wondering if she was turning into a dog, that when she said those words to her husband, he would tip his head to one side and ask for clarification. She had hoped he would take her concerns seriously. But as soon as she said the words, she saw this was impossible.
Seriously, she insisted. I have this weird hair on my neck.
She lifted her normal hair to show him the black patch. He rubbed it with his fingers and said, Yeah, you're definitely a dog.
To her credit, she did appear more hirsute than usual. Her unruly hair moved about her head and shoulders like a cloud of wasps. Her brows caterpillared across her forehead with unplucked growth. She had even witnessed two black hairs curling from her chin and, in the right light--in any light at all, to be honest--you could see the five o'clock shadow of her mustache as it grew back in after her laser treatments. Had she always had so much hair on her arms? Descending the edge of her jaw from her hairline? And was it normal to have patches of hair on the tops of your feet?
And look at my teeth, she said, baring her teeth and pointing to her canines. She was convinced they had grown, and the tips had narrowed to ferocious points that could cut a finger with a mere prick. Why, she had nearly cut hers during her nightly examination in the bathroom. Every night, when her husband was gone and their son was happily playing with trains in his pajamas, she stood at the mirror and pulled her lips back from her teeth, turned her head from side to side, then tilted her head back and looked at her teeth from that bottom-up angle, searched the Internet on her phone for pictures of canines to which she might compare her own, tapped her teeth with her fingernails, told herself she was being silly, then searched humans with dog teeth on her phone, searched do humans and dogs share a common ancestor, searched human animal hybrid and recessive animal genes in humans and research human animal genes legacy, searched werewolves, searched real werewolves in history, searched (somewhat inexplicably) witches,...
When she had referred to herself as Nightbitch, she meant it as a good-natured self-deprecating joke--because that's the sort of lady she was, a good sport, able to poke fun at herself, definitely not uptight, not wound really tight, not so freakishly tight that she couldn't see the humor in a lighthearted not-meant-as-an-insult situation--but in the days following this new naming, she found the patch of coarse black hair sprouting from the base of her neck, and was, like, What the fuck.
I think I'm turning into a dog, she said to her husband when he arrived home after a week away for work. He laughed and she didn't.
She had hoped he wouldn't laugh. She had hoped, that week as she lay in bed, wondering if she was turning into a dog, that when she said those words to her husband, he would tip his head to one side and ask for clarification. She had hoped he would take her concerns seriously. But as soon as she said the words, she saw this was impossible.
Seriously, she insisted. I have this weird hair on my neck.
She lifted her normal hair to show him the black patch. He rubbed it with his fingers and said, Yeah, you're definitely a dog.
To her credit, she did appear more hirsute than usual. Her unruly hair moved about her head and shoulders like a cloud of wasps. Her brows caterpillared across her forehead with unplucked growth. She had even witnessed two black hairs curling from her chin and, in the right light--in any light at all, to be honest--you could see the five o'clock shadow of her mustache as it grew back in after her laser treatments. Had she always had so much hair on her arms? Descending the edge of her jaw from her hairline? And was it normal to have patches of hair on the tops of your feet?
And look at my teeth, she said, baring her teeth and pointing to her canines. She was convinced they had grown, and the tips had narrowed to ferocious points that could cut a finger with a mere prick. Why, she had nearly cut hers during her nightly examination in the bathroom. Every night, when her husband was gone and their son was happily playing with trains in his pajamas, she stood at the mirror and pulled her lips back from her teeth, turned her head from side to side, then tilted her head back and looked at her teeth from that bottom-up angle, searched the Internet on her phone for pictures of canines to which she might compare her own, tapped her teeth with her fingernails, told herself she was being silly, then searched humans with dog teeth on her phone, searched do humans and dogs share a common ancestor, searched human animal hybrid and recessive animal genes in humans and research human animal genes legacy, searched werewolves, searched real werewolves in history, searched (somewhat inexplicably) witches,...
Readers Top Reviews
ClaydrmomKindle
I'm still processing what I've experienced reading this novel. It's dark and angry but also funny and relatable. Yoder walks the tightrope of reeling readers in with accessible, contemporary prose and wowing with her literary allusions and tightly structured tale. I stopped reading numerous times to read passages to friends and family or to stop and think about a scene. Moms should read this book. It's filled with poignant insights and biting realities about what women are expected to give up and what's assumed that they'll sit down and take. Women should read this book. Yoder weaves in the mother's ancestral history of women who sacrifice for their families, which helps frame the novel in a larger context (It's not just a book for new moms!). Artists should read this book. It's just as much about creation in the artist sense. The mother's evolution toward rawness and impulse is the story of being an artist, whether you're a parent or not. I will say that as a stay-at-home dad I also related to the book immensely. I felt like the mother was reading my inner thoughts, my conflicting emotions about what it means to be a parent, to sacrifice for one's family. So I hope Nightbitch gets the larger audience that it deserves. It's real. It's angry, raw, funny, touching, and revealing. I can see Nightbitch sparking another women's movement, one where we finally start making strides toward gender equity at home. Yoder knows what the hell she's doing, and I hope everyone picks this book up and lets it spark a long overdue conversation about what it means to be a woman, mom, dad, parent, husband, wife, artist, human. I've bought 6 copies already and recommended it to at least 10 other people, and I hope this review convinces you that it's a must-read.
BabybunsShannon C
I mean....that was a weird book. I'm not a mother so I'm sure I'm missing some perspective, but more than anything the book just felt like it wanted to be made into a Netflix movie. Its hard to portray performance art into words, so nod to that but mostly eh
monique holtkampB
At first this book was tough for me to read. I know what it’s like to have so much time on my hands yet not be able to do anything to satisfy me. Yoder is so good at describing this, it was a little painful. But hold on what’s next is really cool. The story is told from the context of a man, woman, child as these people could be anyone and everyone. Being along with Nightbitch as she finds her voice, and honors her darker side is a freedom. Enjoy!
R. Manersmonique
This was a heckuva read. It deserves all of those five stars, but it's also dark, primal, gory and not for everyone.
RileyR. Manersmon
i bought this as a horror book but it was just one of the most insightful and interesting perspectives on motherhood ive read. very engaging
Short Excerpt Teaser
One
When she had referred to herself as Nightbitch, she meant it as a good-natured self-deprecating joke--because that's the sort of lady she was, a good sport, able to poke fun at herself, definitely not uptight, not wound really tight, not so freakishly tight that she couldn't see the humor in a lighthearted not-meant-as-an-insult situation--but in the days following this new naming, she found the patch of coarse black hair sprouting from the base of her neck, and was, like, What the fuck.
I think I'm turning into a dog, she said to her husband when he arrived home after a week away for work. He laughed and she didn't.
She had hoped he wouldn't laugh. She had hoped, that week as she lay in bed, wondering if she was turning into a dog, that when she said those words to her husband, he would tip his head to one side and ask for clarification. She had hoped he would take her concerns seriously. But as soon as she said the words, she saw this was impossible.
Seriously, she insisted. I have this weird hair on my neck.
She lifted her normal hair to show him the black patch. He rubbed it with his fingers and said, Yeah, you're definitely a dog.
To her credit, she did appear more hirsute than usual. Her unruly hair moved about her head and shoulders like a cloud of wasps. Her brows caterpillared across her forehead with unplucked growth. She had even witnessed two black hairs curling from her chin and, in the right light--in any light at all, to be honest--you could see the five o'clock shadow of her mustache as it grew back in after her laser treatments. Had she always had so much hair on her arms? Descending the edge of her jaw from her hairline? And was it normal to have patches of hair on the tops of your feet?
And look at my teeth, she said, baring her teeth and pointing to her canines. She was convinced they had grown, and the tips had narrowed to ferocious points that could cut a finger with a mere prick. Why, she had nearly cut hers during her nightly examination in the bathroom. Every night, when her husband was gone and their son was happily playing with trains in his pajamas, she stood at the mirror and pulled her lips back from her teeth, turned her head from side to side, then tilted her head back and looked at her teeth from that bottom-up angle, searched the Internet on her phone for pictures of canines to which she might compare her own, tapped her teeth with her fingernails, told herself she was being silly, then searched humans with dog teeth on her phone, searched do humans and dogs share a common ancestor, searched human animal hybrid and recessive animal genes in humans and research human animal genes legacy, searched werewolves, searched real werewolves in history, searched (somewhat inexplicably) witches, searched (somewhat relatedly) hysteria 19th century, and then, since she wanted to, searched rest cures and The Yellow Wallpaper, and she reread The Yellow Wallpaper, which she had once read in college, then stared blankly for a while at nothing in particular while sitting on the toilet, then stopped searching altogether.
Touch it, she insisted, pointing to her tooth. Her husband reached out and prodded the tip of her canine with his pointer finger.
Ow! he said, pulling his hand back and cradling it close to his body. Just kidding, he said as he held up an unscathed finger and waggled it at her face.
Your tooth looks the same to me. You always think something's wrong with you, he said pleasantly.
Her husband was an engineer. He specialized in "quality control." What precisely this meant, the mother was not entirely sure. So he went around and looked at machines to make sure they were maximizing efficiency? Adjusted systems to keep them humming along at higher frequencies? Read output reports and made suggestions toward improvement? Sure. Whatever.
What she did know was that he had little time for feelings, a condescending patience for intuition, and scoffed openly at talk unsupported by peer-reviewed scientific studies or statistics. Still, he was a good man, a caring man, an affable man, whom she appreciated very much, despite everything. She was, after all, prone to indecision, doubling back on things she had once felt but had since come to feel differently about. She was prone to anxiety, to worry, to a sensation in her chest that her heart might explode. She ran hot. She buzzed. Either she needed to keep busy or else she needed to lie down and sleep. Her husband, on the other hand, needed nothing whatsoever.
No wonder, then, that they deferred to his judgment, his good levelheaded judgment, his engineer's evenness. Of course there was nothing wrong with her. This she told herself as t...
When she had referred to herself as Nightbitch, she meant it as a good-natured self-deprecating joke--because that's the sort of lady she was, a good sport, able to poke fun at herself, definitely not uptight, not wound really tight, not so freakishly tight that she couldn't see the humor in a lighthearted not-meant-as-an-insult situation--but in the days following this new naming, she found the patch of coarse black hair sprouting from the base of her neck, and was, like, What the fuck.
I think I'm turning into a dog, she said to her husband when he arrived home after a week away for work. He laughed and she didn't.
She had hoped he wouldn't laugh. She had hoped, that week as she lay in bed, wondering if she was turning into a dog, that when she said those words to her husband, he would tip his head to one side and ask for clarification. She had hoped he would take her concerns seriously. But as soon as she said the words, she saw this was impossible.
Seriously, she insisted. I have this weird hair on my neck.
She lifted her normal hair to show him the black patch. He rubbed it with his fingers and said, Yeah, you're definitely a dog.
To her credit, she did appear more hirsute than usual. Her unruly hair moved about her head and shoulders like a cloud of wasps. Her brows caterpillared across her forehead with unplucked growth. She had even witnessed two black hairs curling from her chin and, in the right light--in any light at all, to be honest--you could see the five o'clock shadow of her mustache as it grew back in after her laser treatments. Had she always had so much hair on her arms? Descending the edge of her jaw from her hairline? And was it normal to have patches of hair on the tops of your feet?
And look at my teeth, she said, baring her teeth and pointing to her canines. She was convinced they had grown, and the tips had narrowed to ferocious points that could cut a finger with a mere prick. Why, she had nearly cut hers during her nightly examination in the bathroom. Every night, when her husband was gone and their son was happily playing with trains in his pajamas, she stood at the mirror and pulled her lips back from her teeth, turned her head from side to side, then tilted her head back and looked at her teeth from that bottom-up angle, searched the Internet on her phone for pictures of canines to which she might compare her own, tapped her teeth with her fingernails, told herself she was being silly, then searched humans with dog teeth on her phone, searched do humans and dogs share a common ancestor, searched human animal hybrid and recessive animal genes in humans and research human animal genes legacy, searched werewolves, searched real werewolves in history, searched (somewhat inexplicably) witches, searched (somewhat relatedly) hysteria 19th century, and then, since she wanted to, searched rest cures and The Yellow Wallpaper, and she reread The Yellow Wallpaper, which she had once read in college, then stared blankly for a while at nothing in particular while sitting on the toilet, then stopped searching altogether.
Touch it, she insisted, pointing to her tooth. Her husband reached out and prodded the tip of her canine with his pointer finger.
Ow! he said, pulling his hand back and cradling it close to his body. Just kidding, he said as he held up an unscathed finger and waggled it at her face.
Your tooth looks the same to me. You always think something's wrong with you, he said pleasantly.
Her husband was an engineer. He specialized in "quality control." What precisely this meant, the mother was not entirely sure. So he went around and looked at machines to make sure they were maximizing efficiency? Adjusted systems to keep them humming along at higher frequencies? Read output reports and made suggestions toward improvement? Sure. Whatever.
What she did know was that he had little time for feelings, a condescending patience for intuition, and scoffed openly at talk unsupported by peer-reviewed scientific studies or statistics. Still, he was a good man, a caring man, an affable man, whom she appreciated very much, despite everything. She was, after all, prone to indecision, doubling back on things she had once felt but had since come to feel differently about. She was prone to anxiety, to worry, to a sensation in her chest that her heart might explode. She ran hot. She buzzed. Either she needed to keep busy or else she needed to lie down and sleep. Her husband, on the other hand, needed nothing whatsoever.
No wonder, then, that they deferred to his judgment, his good levelheaded judgment, his engineer's evenness. Of course there was nothing wrong with her. This she told herself as t...
