by Jessica Cogan

When you come out at the other end of Elizabeth Merrick’s Girly, “refreshing” may not be the first word that comes to mind. Haunting, certainly. Almost chemically addictive, for sure. Exhausting – oh yeah. But when I finished the novel and set out for a new read, only to be met with stacks of novels about angst-ridden 30-somethings worrying over marital status, crap jobs and Jimmy Choos, Girly strikes me as refreshing in a filthy, gritty way – like eating a bloody steak after months on sprouts and tofu.