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rainbowbookworm 's review for:
A Botanical Daughter
by Noah Medlock
slow-paced
Noah Medlock’s A Botanical Daughter enters the literary greenhouse with a premise that’s impossible to resist: queer Victorian lovers undertake a Frankenstein-esque experiment in their hidden botanical sanctuary, combining fungus, flora, and human remains to create intelligent life. It promises eerie, intimate horror in the vein of Mexican Gothic, with nods to Wildean wit and Shelleyan science.
Unfortunately, while the premise is striking, the execution struggles under its own ambition. The world-building — an entire home inside a greenhouse — raises more questions than it answers, especially in the absence of practical details that could help suspend disbelief. Moments that could lean into Gothic dread or slow-burning madness fall flat due to an inconsistent tone and awkward narrative pacing. Is this meant to be chilling? Campy? Cozy horror? The book never quite decides.
Characterization is another stumbling block. Simon and Gregor are intriguing in concept but lack the emotional depth or narrative consistency to ground their transformations. Their descent into obsession, guilt, or twisted parental devotion is rushed and often unconvincing. Their relationship, while central to the story, feels more like a plot device than a lived-in partnership. Secondary characters feel similarly underdeveloped, more like set dressing than meaningful players.
On a stylistic level, the prose is overwrought, occasionally bordering on self-parody. Overuse of adjectives, awkward phrasing, and unintentional repetition ("the whys and wherefores") detract from the story's atmosphere rather than enriching it. There are also notable continuity errors — particularly around character deaths — that pull the reader out of the experience.
That said, the botanical knowledge woven throughout is a highlight, and the concept of Chloe, the hybrid creation, holds eerie potential. But rather than digging into the unsettling questions her existence raises, the novel opts for surface-level horror tropes that don’t land as intended.
The Botanical Daughter contains all the raw ingredients for a unique, macabre tale — queerness, science, hubris, grief — but the result is more muddled than monstrous.
Unfortunately, while the premise is striking, the execution struggles under its own ambition. The world-building — an entire home inside a greenhouse — raises more questions than it answers, especially in the absence of practical details that could help suspend disbelief. Moments that could lean into Gothic dread or slow-burning madness fall flat due to an inconsistent tone and awkward narrative pacing. Is this meant to be chilling? Campy? Cozy horror? The book never quite decides.
Characterization is another stumbling block. Simon and Gregor are intriguing in concept but lack the emotional depth or narrative consistency to ground their transformations. Their descent into obsession, guilt, or twisted parental devotion is rushed and often unconvincing. Their relationship, while central to the story, feels more like a plot device than a lived-in partnership. Secondary characters feel similarly underdeveloped, more like set dressing than meaningful players.
On a stylistic level, the prose is overwrought, occasionally bordering on self-parody. Overuse of adjectives, awkward phrasing, and unintentional repetition ("the whys and wherefores") detract from the story's atmosphere rather than enriching it. There are also notable continuity errors — particularly around character deaths — that pull the reader out of the experience.
That said, the botanical knowledge woven throughout is a highlight, and the concept of Chloe, the hybrid creation, holds eerie potential. But rather than digging into the unsettling questions her existence raises, the novel opts for surface-level horror tropes that don’t land as intended.
The Botanical Daughter contains all the raw ingredients for a unique, macabre tale — queerness, science, hubris, grief — but the result is more muddled than monstrous.