Queer, Revelatory Joy in The Deep Dark by Molly Knox Ostertag 

Already a fan of Molly Knox Ostertag’s The Girl from the Sea, I had a good feeling about the weighty tome that is The Deep Dark. Friends, this poignant graphic novel delivered and then some. It’s like someone translated the sensation of waiting for the other shoe to drop and described the steps someone would take to ensure they’re never happy enough for it to really hurt when it all goes wrong. Except, of course, it hurts anyway, no matter how much they try to protect themselves. 

The Deep Dark is about so many different things: secrets (hidden pain, old wounds) and the ways we conceal and perpetuate them; the strength found in trusting our community, in vulnerability, and in accepting responsibility for the darkest parts of ourselves; complicated, painful family dynamics and the ways our loved ones can hurt us even if they don’t mean to—especially if they don’t mean to. It’s a story rife with texture, with weather and emotions I could feel viscerally.

That’s the familiar magic of The Deep Dark. Our Latina protagonist, Magdalena (Mags), is in her last year of high school. Mags is a stoic butch with a martyr complex and more than one heavy secret, and she’s burning the candle at both ends and in the middle. She’s also sabotaging her love life via clandestine make out sessions with Ava, who already has a boyfriend. Enter Nessa, Mags’ childhood friend, a trans woman who’s come home to reckon with her past and escape her present. Nessa and Mags collide against this charged backdrop. 

Mags is relatable: very eldest daughter energy, very Sisyphean in her determination to bear the weight of her whole family and her unique curse. Nessa is relatable, too: a gentle dreamer (deliberate on her part: “I made a choice to thrive. But I know about fighting back.”) with a dash of disaster bisexual energy. We’ve all known a Mags or a Nessa—the runner or the one who roots their feet firmly into the ground. I’ve been them both at different times in my life. 

With its black and white art and its sparing, strategic use of color, the graphic novel feels like a relic in the best way. Like tillie walden’s On A Sunbeam (another favorite), full color pages are reserved to differentiate timelines. There are photos included, which cultivate found object mysticism. The book feels half dream and half memory, like a story about someone I once knew. It manages to perfectly capture those wistful, high school cusp vibes, where every moment feels so significant, like it’ll matter for the rest of your life. In Nessa’s words: “It’s more about capturing the feeling. Hoping that by making a record as imperfect as the memories themselves, I’ll find a kind of truth.” She’s speaking about her photography, but it applies to the graphic novel as well. 

Not to spoil anything, but The Deep Dark does offer a tender ending, despite addressing some very heavy, traumatic topics. It queers the traditional monster story genre and the ending you might expect, and I love that so much. I’m proud to keep it on my bookshelf and will return to it often. It’s a work of art, of queer, revelatory joy.

Content warnings: death, intimate partner violence, gun violence, stalking, transphobia, homophobia, blood

Susanne Salehi (she/they) is a queer Iranian writer happiest when reading, cross stitching, gardening, or accumulating silly tattoos. They write queer heroes. More @susannesalehi or susannesalehi.com.