Sometimes, it feels like there is a schism in the prose of today: there’s “real” literature, and then there’s erotica.
This is not one of those times.
In Matryoshka, Woodham walks the line between the literary and the erotic so beautifully that she leaves it scuffed and blurred in her wake. Her narrative reads like poetry, words chosen so carefully and cleverly that it would be easy to get lost in her artful phrasing alone– but make no mistake, this is no wine and roses purple prose romance. Woodham’s characters get intimate in all the best ways, leaving the reader (or this reader, anyway) torn between finishing the novel and going out to bag a sexy, brogue-ing Celt of their own. It’s intimate, it’s intellectual, and most importantly, in a genre that so often tends toward the low-budget porno script, it’s classy as all hell. Matryoshka isn’t just another erotic storyline, it’s an experience– one that leaves the reader feeling elegant, sensual, and sexy in their own right from the first letter through the final period.
The cover imagery was aptly chosen– I burned through the bulk of this novel all in one sitting! For smart, upscale literary erotica, there’s no question about it: Woodham is our Queen.