By Faith Simpson | CONTRIBUTING WRITER

Ashley Whitaker’s debut novel Bitter Texas Honey tells the story of Joan, a young woman wandering through the uncertainty of her twenties. She’s struggling to make sense of who she is, what she wants, and how to survive the often-unkind world of writing.

While the book didn’t fully capture me in the end — largely due to its abrupt and unsatisfying conclusion — I did find myself connecting with Joan’s internal battles. As a writer myself, although I have never finished a book, I’m launching my writing career, just like Joan. Reading each page of this book hit me where it hurts. Joan’s search for identity and purpose mirrored much of what I experienced in my own early adulthood.

That kind of belief in someone, especially in their first steps, is rare — and it sparked confidence in me I didn’t know I needed. So, it feels almost serendipitous that I ended up choosing a book about a fictional writer, fumbling her way through rejection, hesitancy, and the aching need to feel seen. Joan’s story resembled so much of my own from years ago, when I too was searching for meaning and battling the invisible weight of visionary ambition.

The journey to this review started with a leap of faith — mine, and someone else’s. When I reached out to Tabitha about contributing a book review, she welcomed the idea and gave me a simple. “Pick a book.” No hesitation, no condition — just trust. She even bought the book for me, which was generous on her part.

Before I even opened Bitter Texas Honey, the cover itself caught my attention. Its warm, moody tones and a slightly weathered aesthetic felt both tender and storm worn. It evokes the slow burn of a Texas summer, which is where this story takes place, that heavy stillness before something breaks. The image hints at solitude, maybe even quiet resilience, much like Joan herself. There’s an unpolished beauty to it — something that reflects the raw, sometimes messy truth of the story inside. In a way, the cover sets the tone perfectly: this isn’t a deified version of growth or healing, but a more subtle, often bittersweet reckoning with what it means to be young, lost, and inspired in a world that doesn’t always care.

At its heart, Bitter Texas Honey follows Joan, a restless, sharp-witted, and emotionally worn woman, trying to find her footing in the heat and haze of small-town Texas. She’s a writer, not the glamorous, big-city kind, but the kind who stares at blinking cursors and rejection emails while juggling day jobs, heartbreak, and the haunting question: What am I even doing with my life?

Surrounding Joan is a cast of people who drift in and out of her orbit, each representing a different version of adulthood she’s trying to outrun or live up to. There is Vince and Roberto, her love interests with more complexity than stability; her old friend Claire, who seems to have life “figured out” but wears her own quiet ache beneath a shiny surface; and a handful of family members and acquaintances who, whether they mean to or not, add pressure to Joan’s unraveling sense of self.

Rather than follow a traditional plot arc, the book reads like a slow, sun-drenched disentangling — a series of moments, memories, and missteps that paint a portrait of a woman in limbo. Joan doesn’t chase dreams as much as she circles them, unsure whether she’s running toward purpose or simply away from regret.

What Whitaker gets right is how brutally honest the writing life can be. Joan’s journey captures the exhaustion, self-doubt, and disappointment that come with trying to turn creativity into a career. It’s a reminder that writing, while romanticized, can often feel more draining than fulfilling, especially when you are experiencing writer’s block. As a young woman aspiring to be an author, you can often question yourself yet be hungry for answers that don’t come easy.

Whitaker is a Texas-born writer with an MFA in Prose from the Helen Zell Writer’s Program at the University of Michigan. Before her debut novel, Bitter Texas Honey, she published short fiction in Tin House and StoryQuarterly and was awarded a Ragdale Foundation residency.

Drawing from her own life — including her evangelical upbringing, creative struggles, and experiences with addiction — Whitaker crafts stories that are both sensitive and relatable. Now living in Austin, she’s earned praise for her sharp prose, emotional depth, and honest portrayal of her writing life.

One of the strongest elements of Whitaker’s writing is her character development. She introduces each person in Joan’s world with such clarity and nuance that it felt like I was meeting them in real life. I didn’t have a favorite character — if anything, I found most of them a bit disappointing in their own ways. But that’s part of what made them feel so real. Joan was the one I connected with most deeply, but even characters like her mother, Dolly, and her cousin, Wyatt, who were often hard to like, had moments of vulnerability that revealed how deeply they cared for Joan. Their flaws didn’t push me away. In fact, they made me think, reflect, and at times, even feel conflicted. That emotional rollercoaster is what made the story resonate with me.

Whitaker’s writing style struck me as refreshing and unexpectedly freeing. It made me realize that writing a book doesn’t have to follow a rigid formula. It can simply be your voice, your rhythm, your truth on the page. Her prose isn’t overly polished or trying too hard to impress. Instead, it flows with a sincere, conversational tone that feels profoundly personal. For me, the book was incredibly easy to read, though I can imagine it might not be that way for everyone. I typically finish novels in just a few days, but this one took me a little over a week — not because I was disinterested, but because I was truly sitting with it. I found myself pausing often, letting certain moments marinate in my mind, and jotting down notes as I read. It’s the kind of writing that invites reflection more than escapism, and I appreciated that.

Reading this story brought me face-to-face with my own past, especially the years I spent in my early twenties living in Atlanta, Georgia. Like Joan, I was deeply self-loathing, often selfish, and completely reckless with my choices. I couldn’t take accountability for my actions back then. I was quick to shift blame and slow to recognize my own role in the chaos I kept finding myself in. I didn’t respect myself as a woman, and I see now that Joan was stuck in that same pattern. But that’s what our twenties are for — to stumble, to fall apart, and to learn who we don’t want to be so we can grow into who we’re meant to become. It’s a decade full of hard lessons and emotional exhaustion, but also necessary exploration. What do we love? What hurts us? What lights us up? Joan’s journey reminded me that even our worst mistakes can be part of the blueprint that helps us redesign ourselves into the women we deserve to be.

Because Bitter Texas Honey leans so heavily into emotional honesty, it’s important to note that the book doesn’t shy away from difficult topics. Readers should be aware that the story includes themes of drug and alcohol abuse, suicide, and mental illness. These situations are not written for shock value. They’re handled with a tender, unfiltered lens that feels true to Joan’s experience. Still, they can be weighed down, mainly for anyone who has walked through similar struggles. I appreciated Whitaker’s willingness to explore these darker realities, but I also encourage readers to approach the book with care and self-awareness.

I’d recommend Bitter Texas Honey to readers who enjoy character-driven stories full of vulnerability, emotional grit, and quiet revelations. It’s mostly meaningful for anyone who has ever felt lost in their twenties —or even beyond — and needs the reminder that figuring things out is messy, nonlinear, and totally human. While the book didn’t give me the most satisfying ending, it left me with something even more valuable: a sense of nostalgia and unexpected comfort. It reminded me that it’s okay not to have everything figured out, and that uncertainty doesn’t mean failure. It means growth. I closed the final page feeling a little less afraid of the unknown and a little more grounded in the idea that purpose isn’t always something we find; sometimes, it’s something we grow into.

There’s something beautifully burdensome about being a writer — a gift that feels, at times, more like a curse. Writers are asked to bleed on the page, to give voice to things others are too afraid to say, and to carry inner weight long after the words are written. Bitter Texas Honey reminded me of that delicate balance — the ache of expression and the healing that can come from it. Ashley Whitaker captures that duality with clarity and rawness, and in doing so, offers readers a mirror into their own dirty, evolving selves. This book is not just a story. It’s a reminder that the act of writing, like living, is not about perfection, but about morals, transformation, and daring to keep going. •