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She started out writing a novel, but after pages and pages she discovers she has written more of a memoir. Perhaps it would be easiest just to change course, but first she must contact some classmates she’s lost touch with to verify the accuracy of her memories. Then it turns out that many of her old classmates aren’t so certain about the past, either, and the ones that claim to be certain seem rather suspect. As the protagonist of Lee Chia-Ying’s A Perfect Day to Put Your Head in the Oven vacillates between memory, self-examination, and ruminations on the act of creation, the outrageous and cunningly constructed leaps between reality and fiction will have readers howling. When the facts about the past are no longer reliable, could it be that fiction is the one link to reality that remains?

Every nation, region, and era has that novelist who captures (or perhaps falsifies a meaningful likeness of) the historical period in which they live in the form of a multi-generational family epic, depicting the détente and rapprochement of familial relationships against the shifting political and economic circumstances of the times. The historical slings and arrows suffered by Taiwan over the past century are exceptionally fertile ground for gestating such a work, as we see in Gold Moon Lotus. Living through the period of Japanese rule, the White Terror, and the post-authoritarian transition to democracy, the three principal characters of the novel illustrate the misfortunes of one family and the difficult position of women during these times, their individual lives re-enacting the fractures, reunifications, effacements, and restorations of the modern history of Taiwan.

Most people suppose there is a large gap between reality and fiction. For example, we feel fairly certain that the police officers we pass on the street aren’t anything like the ones we see on movie screens, or in the pages of a crime novel. But what if an actual police officer were to write a crime novel focused on the lives of cops? What kind of story would it be? Yen Yu is a graduate of Taiwan’s police academy, and his novel Cop Catcher has no shortage of realistic detail about police work. Caught between the forces of justice and corruption, between the victims and the perpetrators, and faced with the realities of an unfair class society, the main characters are appealing, interesting, and well-matched. What can a police officer do in this situation? What should they do? The answers are all contained within the pages of this novel.

In and of itself there’s nothing innovative about time travel in fiction, but depending on how it is approached, this familiar plot device can help authors open up new lines of inquiry into various issues. Parhelion makes an excellent example. When the protagonist of the novel encounters a police officer who seems displaced in time, she discovers that she may have the opportunity to stop the tragic crime that took her sister’s life. But is it the right thing to do? Putting aside the usual discussions of the dangers of altering the past – the protagonist isn’t anyone significant enough to change the course of history – the novel instead explores the ways in which we are shaped by past experience. If you were to alter your past, would you still be the same person you are today?

Four lost soldiers venture deep into the mountains in a desperate attempt to rejoin their battalion… a construction site is plagued by strange and frightening events… five young vloggers explore an abandoned vacation village, their viewership virally increasing as they put themselves into greater danger… These three seemingly unrelated stories are revealed to be connected by a soldier’s diary. In addition to sinister storytelling and dramatic tension, Gala incorporates historical elements from the close of the Chinese civil war. The despair of the lost ROC soldiers wandering on the Burmese borderlands casts the events of the novel in a tragically introspective light, layering this tale of horror and suspense with historical resonances and reflections on human nature.

These ten stories begin from Taiwan at the crossroads of the 19th and 20th centuries, and then unfold in a sequential journey towards the present. A few make use of historical incidents like the Capture of the Tuapse, which even most Taiwanese are unaware of. Others construct an alternate history, such as a post-war concession of Taiwan to Japan, raising the question of retrocession, as was faced historically in Hong Kong. By excavating Taiwan’s forgotten past and envisioning its problematic future, Drifting Formosa poses analogies to Taiwan’s present circumstances, delivering a fresh reading experience with layered meanings to ponder.

This book is an essential read if you struggle with imposter syndrome.

 — Dr. Jessamy Hibberd, clinical psychologist & author of The Imposter Cure

No matter how often you come across a feeling of “I don’t deserve it” or “I will fail”, you can always come back to this book and find your solution.

 — Dr. Michaela Muthig, author of Und Morgen Fliege Ich Auf

In addition to being a strategically important hub of conventional trade in the East Asian island chain, Taiwan is also a significant relay station for illegal drugs. Case in point, one of Taiwan’s most prolific drug chemists is currently serving a prison sentence in Indonesia. Despite the exhortations of Taiwan’s police agencies, drugs of every kind permeate Taiwanese society at every level, especially Taiwan’s schools. Can’t Quit reports on the drug phenomenon from every angle, tracking the places where drugs are part of the fabric of daily life, the people who are using them, and their reasons for doing so (spoiler: almost no one is doing drugs because they want to be an addict), revealing the true face of substance abuse and capturing a snapshot of the drug market in contemporary Taiwan.

In the 1980s, thirty years after the end of the Second World War, the generation born in the wake of the war became parents themselves. Taiwan was increasingly prosperous, but unrest was on the rise as numerous social movements shook the foundations of an authoritarian regime. Many in a generation on the threshold of adolescence were coming to accept a new understanding of their country. Fang Hui-Chen’s memoir of this era contains accurate social observation and objective self-reflection. Before Dawn is both a retrospective of one girl’s adolescence and a front-row view on Taiwanese society in the period just before and after the end of martial law.