Books, Bards & Baselines

I love Greek mythology, but I really love when modern writers take those stories, dust them off, and give them new life—especially when they do it with lyrical prose, deep empathy, and a healthy suspicion of male heroes.

So here are some of my absolute favourite Greek myth retellings—and why I keep coming back to them like Odysseus to Ithaca (minus the decade-long detour and monster troubles, ideally).

🌿 Circe by Madeline Miller

Circe gets to be more than a witch who turns men into pigs (although… respect). Miller writes her with such grace and fury and introspection—she’s a goddess, yes, but also a woman searching for her place in a world that fears her power. Also, there's a very good lion.

⚔️ The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller

Look, if you’ve cried over this one, we’re in a support group together. Miller gives Achilles and Patroclus the tender, epic love story they deserve—and it absolutely ruins you in the best, most cathartic way.

🏺 A Thousand Ships by Natalie Haynes

Women of the Trojan War, assemble! This is like an ancient ensemble drama where everyone finally gets to tell their side. From Cassandra to Penelope to the goddesses themselves, Haynes reminds us that war stories are never just about warriors.

🧵 Ariadne by Jennifer Saint

A dreamy, lyrical dive into the Minotaur myth and its aftermath. Ariadne and her sister Phaedra get to shine (and suffer and rage and hope). Also: Theseus? Still the worst.

🔥 Elektra by Jennifer Saint

Ah yes, the House of Atreus: the original messy reality show. This one zooms in on Clytemnestra, Elektra, and Cassandra, and the cycle of revenge and trauma they’re tangled in. Lots of drama, no easy answers.

🏹 Atalanta by Jennifer Saint

We love a heroine who outruns the boys and keeps her bow steady. This one leans more into the adventure side, following Atalanta with the Argonauts. It’s fun, fierce, and makes room for her to be more than a sidekick.

🧠 Pandora’s Jar by Natalie Haynes

Not a retelling, but a sharp, funny, deeply satisfying feminist look at how mythology (and later writers) twisted women’s stories. Pandora, Medusa, Helen, and others get their dignity back—or at least, their complexity.

If you’ve read any of these, come yell about them with me. If you haven’t—consider this your official invitation to dive in. Just maybe don’t accept gifts from the gods or make eye contact with a gorgon.

Which myth retellings do you love? Which ones do you want to read? I’m always ready to add to the TBR pile (it’s basically a ziggurat at this point).

You had me at “We were both young when I first saw you.”
I mean… come on. A single sentence and I was swept into a glittery school dance I’d never attended, heart pounding for a boy I’d never met. I didn’t even like country music at the time—but Taylor made it feel like a fairy tale written in the margins just for me.
That was the day I realized that music could tell stories, that four minutes could hold a novel’s worth of longing. “Love Story” wasn’t just a song—it was a soft opening of the door to something I’ve never stopped running toward. (Also, shoutout to 2008 me and that clunky little MP3 player I thought was the height of sophistication.)

You had me at “It is a truth universally acknowledged…”
The sheer elegance. The boldness. The wink. Jane Austen doesn’t ask for your attention—she simply begins. And the line is so good, you surrender immediately. That’s when I started noticing the power of first sentences. The confidence. The voice.
“Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again.”
“Call me Ishmael.”
“I write this sitting in the kitchen sink.”
These aren’t just openings—they’re handshakes, dare-you-to-read-ons, love letters to curiosity. A good first line doesn't just pull you in. It invites you to stay.

You had me at the library.
Technically, you had me at the returns desk. You, with that slightly crooked smile, that perfect eyeliner, and a stack of overdue philosophy books like it was a personality trait. I think I said something wildly flirtatious like, “You’ve got a lot of fines.” (Smooth, right?) And you, without missing a beat, said, “I’m worth it.”
Reader, I married her.
We were both pretending to be casual, but let’s be real—we were orbiting. Me shelving books I’d already read just to loiter nearby. You checking out yet another existential tome with a grin that said, what if I’m the plot twist?
I still remember dropping a stack of poetry books and muttering, “Well, that’s a metaphor,” and your laugh? Immediate main-character energy.
We’ve been writing our story ever since—side by side, spine to spine, chapter by chapter. And it all started with a late return and a perfectly timed quip.

You had me at love on a hard court.
The thwack of racket against ball, the squeak of sneakers on sun-warmed clay, the impossible beauty of a down-the-line winner hit on the run. Tennis is ballet in motion, chess in real time, and pure emotional theater.
You had me at Sabalenka’s fierce roar, at Alcaraz’s sunshine grin, at Sinner’s elegant calm. At the hush before a serve, the sudden intake of breath in a tie-break, the final ace that seals a miracle comeback.
Tennis isn’t just a sport—it’s a language of effort and instinct, of heartbreak and joy. And somewhere in the middle of a third-set rally that lasts twelve shots, something inside you says: this is love.

So yes—you had me at…
At every lyric that knew my heart before I did.
At every sentence that opened the door to a new world.
At every borrowed book, every shared glance over the top of a hardcover.
At every match point, every midnight rewatch, every athlete who made me feel something.

"You had me at hello" is cute.
But honestly?
You had me at yellow. ☀️