I thought my biggest problem with this book would be waiting months to read it. Then St. Martin’s Press offered me an ARC in February — I downloaded it and started it in minutes — and I discovered the actual problem: I’d been not-so-patiently waiting to get my hands on the book only to absolutely demolish it in a matter of hours.
The premise alone was catnip for me. Parker Navarro’s once-promising literary career took a nosedive after critic Selina Chan eviscerated his much-hyped debut novel. (You have to suspend a bit of belief that one bad review could derail a book that got a $1.2 million advance; then again, I still struggle to read Ottessa Moshfegh after Andrea Long Chu’s “Lapvona” review). Four years later, Selina pans his second book, too, in her literary magazine that’s bleeding money and readers. The two have a dramatic interaction, their ensuing confrontation goes viral, and readers start taking sides. But as the novel develops, their very public feud starts to look quite different from the private relationship that develops between them via messages.
This book is smart without trying to be in your face about how smart it is, sharp without being showy, emotional without forcing every feeling into some Big Moment, literary without becoming self-indulgent, and thoughtful without becoming a treatise. “Bad Words” talks about publishing, media, criticism, art, money, the internet, AI (boooo), mental health, ambition, immigrant-family expectations, the increasingly bleak business of trying to create something for a living — and it never feels like Rioghnach Robinson is standing over your shoulder saying, DID YOU SEE WHAT I DID THERE? DID YOU GET THAT? DO YOU SEE HOW SMART I AM?
This book feels as close as you can get to a true enemies-to-lovers romance outside a fantasy novel (swords! stabbing! truly murderous intentions!) because Parker and Selina have very real reasons to hate each other. Their relationship isn’t just a misunderstanding that could have been fixed with a 30-second conversation. They disagree on whether a critic owes anything to the person whose work they’re either championing or tearing apart — or whether pulling punches is some kind of betrayal. Selina thinks honest criticism matters, no matter the cost. Parker thinks that critics can’t forget there’s a person on the other side of the screen. The book never really decides one of them is right — the two don’t stop magically disagreeing; they just start to understand each other’s thinking a little bit better. Because at its core, criticism is intimate: You have to know someone deeply to know where to stick the knife.
Both Parker and Selina feel like people. They’re petty and stubborn and brilliant and frustrating and vulnerable — but they have such clear internal logic that you understand how they arrive at their worst decisions and their best selves. Parker desperately wants people to like him and has shaped himself into who he thinks everyone around him wants him to be. Selina is almost aggressively sure of what she thinks, and she doesn’t care about sanding herself down for other people. Robinson lets you learn all this about them; she doesn’t paint them with wide swaths of characterization. She lets the myriad ways they communicate — reviews, books, social media, private sparring, public sparring, personal messages — show the reader who Parker and Selina are in between the personas they perform and the people they are. The messages get deeper, the barbs get softer. A question gets more personal. Replies come more quickly. They argue. They prod. They recommend things. Their intellectual chemistry is remarkable, and they keep wanting access to the other’s brain, which gives their relationship more than just “these two people are mean to each other; how sexy.” There’s attraction between the two — duh, this is a romance novel! — but there’s also anger and the realization that the person who understands you best might just be the person who can use that to infuriate you most. They come to know each other via their words before they do anything else, which feels exactly right for this book.
Their families feel real, too. Parker’s big, loving Filipino family and Selina’s more restrained Chinese immigrant parents shape them. And that specificity extends into the other corners of the book. The things Parker and Selina care about, the things they worry about and spiral over, matter. Their careers aren’t accessories they try on for style. Their ambitions have consequences. Their insecurities affect their decisions. Their families love them — and misunderstand them. Parker and Selina worry about success and disappointing people and whether they even want to keep doing the thing they’ve devoted their whole lives to doing.
Robinson’s prose is succulent, and she writes dialogue that feels alive. There were whole chapters I reread (and then reread again) just because they were so good. “Bad Words” felt, to me, a bit litfic-y in the best way possible. The book has all that interiority and interest in art and identity, but it still has the romance underneath that had me squealing JUST KISS ALREADY because of some mildly flirty emails. I got to think about the economy of criticism and creative work while watching those questions become painfully personal. For a book I’d built up so high in my mind before even reading a word, the actual thing was better than what I was anticipating. (How rare is that!?)
So to answer St. Martin Press’ original question: Yes, I would very much like to read this ARC. I would very much like to go reread it, too.
Thanks to NetGalley and St. Martin’s Press for providing me with an e-ARC of this book in exchange for an honest review.
