Hungry Hungry Wyrm's Book Club: January's Discussion and February's Theme

Witch of Wild Things by Raquel Vasquez Gilliland

Spoiler warning: This post contains full spoilers for Witch of Wild Things. If you haven’t read it yet and plan to, I recommend bookmarking this and coming back later. What follows gives quite a bit away.

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I picked up Witch of Wild Things during a slightly chaotic, post-Christmas Barnes & Noble trip. I had gift cards burning a hole in my pocket, a basket I absolutely did not need, and a habit of judging books by their covers. The title and artwork caught my eye immediately, and the description promised something cozy: family, sisterhood, a little magic, and a hint of romance. Into the basket it went, joining a growing stack of good intentions.

The book is… technically those things. But cozy is not the word I’d use for much of the experience.

...cozy is not the word I'd use for much of the experience.

The writing leans heavily into emotion and intensity, with far more sharp edges than I expected. There is a lot of strong language, which stood out to me. I don’t personally curse, so it always catches my attention in writing. I tend to feel there are often other words that can carry the same emotional weight. That said, it wasn’t enough to degrade the story—it was simply very present.

What surprised me more was how long it took to fully understand the emotional landscape. Relationships and conflicts are introduced before they’re explained, and the story asks you to gather fragments across time jumps and half-revealed memories. I usually enjoy piecing things together, but at times this felt disjointed, like the narrative remembered we didn’t quite know enough and tossed out a breadcrumb to compensate.

One of the threads that kept tugging at my patience was the familiar just tell him/her tension woven throughout the story. You know the feeling. The moments where a single honest conversation could dissolve pages of conflict, and instead the story stretches on while you find yourself internally (or externally) yelling at the book.

These storylines are probably so common because they mirror real life so closely. We avoid hard conversations. We assume. We carry things quietly and hope they resolve themselves. Still, I can’t help but wonder if we told each other the truth a little more often, would this stop being such a dependable creative tool? Or at least make it less maddening to experience?

Still, once I shifted my expectations away from cozy comfort and toward emotional depth and family complexity, I found a lot to appreciate. The language is rich and evocative, and the descriptions do a beautiful job of pulling you into the world.

Not the book I expected—but one worth reading once I let it be what it was.

With that in mind, here are my thoughts on our book club questions.

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What drew you to this book, or what made you curious enough to begin?

Honestly, I loved the title and the cover. That initial spark, paired with a gift card and the description on the back, was all it took. It joined a stack of books I probably didn’t need but very much wanted.

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Was there a moment, image, or line that lingered with you after you closed the book?

The line “What haven’t you noticed today?” really stayed with me. I’ve found myself returning to it throughout my days. It slows me down and gently insists that I look around.

Since finishing the book, I’ve noticed small things more often: my cat Lucifer’s dramatic little sighs (yes, he earned his name), the way sunlight crystallized fresh snow this morning, the faint peppermint note drifting up from my coffee as it brewed.

A quiet question—but a powerful one.

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How does the story handle themes of place, memory, or identity?

This book is steeped in those themes, almost overflowing with them. The descriptions of home are deeply emotional, showing how places become vessels for memory and the importance of stories tied to both. Chapters often open with old IM conversations, and memories are woven throughout the narrative like roots beneath the surface.

What stood out to me, though, is how one-sided memory can be. We experience events entirely through the protagonist’s lens. These memories shape relationships and identities, but we only ever see her version of them, which adds a subtle tension to how we understand the past.

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Did any character feel especially familiar—or surprisingly distant?

There were a few characters I expected to feel closer to than I did. Nadia stood out the most. While she’s framed as a parental figure, we’re given surprisingly little insight into who she is or why she made the choices she did.

For example, I saw the “she’s not actually dead” reveal coming from a mile away, but Nadia’s explanation (and Teal's now that I'm thinking about it) —that she left the children largely alone because she was depressed—fell short for me. It isn’t a bad explanation, and it doesn’t excuse the harm caused. Child neglect is still neglect. But it felt like a missed opportunity.

This could have been a powerful moment to explore how depression, trauma, and unaddressed emotional pain can shape relationships and ripple outward over time. Instead, it felt almost like an afterthought—an “oh right, explain Nadia” moment—rather than a fully examined theme. In that way, it seemed to downplay the very real, lasting impact that untreated mental health struggles can have on both the person experiencing them and the people around them.

I wanted more space there. More understanding. More reckoning.

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How did the pacing feel to you? Did the story invite lingering, or did it ask to be read quickly?

I found myself reading more slowly than usual. The language is lush and often metaphor-heavy, and I needed to pause to fully absorb the imagery and comparisons (and look up the rocks and plants I didn't recognize to understand those comparisons). It wasn’t a book I could skim—it asked for attention.

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If you could read this book in a specific setting—a season, a room, a place—where would it be?

I read most of this in bed before sleep, with winter pressing hard against the windows. In hindsight, I think this book wanted spring or summer—something green and alive, maybe outdoors, where the magic could breathe a little more easily.

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Did this book offer comfort, challenge you, or provide a quiet escape?

This wasn’t the comforting escape I expected. It was more challenging and stirred up some emotional reflection of my own. That isn’t a bad thing—but it was different from what I thought I was signing up for.

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What kind of reader did this book seem to ask you to be?

It asked for patience, focus, and vulnerability. It goes deeper emotionally than I anticipated, and it rewards readers willing to sit with that depth.

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January's Closing Thoughts

I’m really curious how this book landed for you—especially if your expectations were different from mine, or if you connected with parts of the story that I struggled with. One of the things I love most about reading together is how a book changes depending on who’s holding it.

I’d love to hear your thoughts, reactions, agreements, disagreements, or favorite moments. Let’s talk about it—quietly, passionately, or somewhere in between.

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February's Theme: Love, In All Its Forms

For February's read, I've decided to do a theme instead of an individual book. For these "reader's choice" months, I'll provide a theme and you simply choose a read that fits within that theme in some way. Then part of the discussion will be why you chose what you chose and how it fits. This provides months with a more gentle structure, plenty of freedom, and room to wander.

Choose any book where love is a meaningful thread—not necessarily the plot, and not necessarily romantic. You may explore love here in many ways: as friendship, family, grief, self-acceptance, found family, devotion, loyalty, longing, or even love for place or craft.

I can't wait to see what everyone chooses!

Until next time,

The Wyrm