Imagine the ramblings of your notes app being honed years later and released into the world. To some, it might be a nightmare, but to the more poetically inclined, it can be a sentimental and beautiful signal of personal growth. Baring the inner workings of your suffering and youth to the world, while also acknowledging the woman you have grown into in the process, takes a certain level of confidence and maturity that can be downright motivational. Such is the concept of Cancer Moon by Jenna Tico, a millennial’s “comedic patchwork of flash-prose, essay, and poetry snapshots,” which leaves the audience with some chuckles, some melancholia, and a sense of the overbearing weight of being a woman in her twenties. There is something bonding about the shared experiences of women growing into themselves and gradually becoming self-individualized adults—women who must deal with the consequences of their mistakes. The millennial generation has a specific tone to them, stemming from growing up alongside the technology that changed humanity, while also dealing with issues as old as femininity itself.  This gives a lovely contrast to the book, highlighting the juxtaposition between old and new struggles colliding to create a scope navigated by a vulnerable young woman speaker, one that serves to represent the millennial youth to some extent.

Jenna speaks of her young self as being driven by the moon and stars, while simultaneously painting a self-portrait of drunken one-night stands and the trademark dry humor of the fourth-wave feminist.  The present suffering of the modern day woman combined with tales as old as time—love, loss, and growing up—prove that it is possible to exist and thrive in the dichotomy required to be a woman in the twenty-first century.  The millennial woman deals with the heartbreak of generations before her, as well as the groundbreaking issues that have been unheard of until now.  Tico regales her audience with stories of misguided New Age men manipulating her in ways as of yet unforeseen even by her foremothers, although the results are ancient and known for centuries. As we read the thoughts of this young woman, it is likely that each reader is able to find at least one relatable moment in the growing pains of Tico’s twenties.  Her twenties are communal, in a way, and laid out in such a vulnerable and detailed fashion that the reader cannot help but latch onto one or two details of the twentysomething’s life and cling to it in solidarity, pity, or nostalgia.

The millennial woman deals with the heartbreak of generations before her, as well as the groundbreaking issues that have been unheard of until now. 

Opening a book with a preface speaking on the growth you have undergone since writing the vignettes to follow is a bold move. It’s vulnerable to release writing that you don’t think reflects your authentic self anymore. Bolder still, is to follow that preface with a passage and a chapter about a woman’s alienating experience as a self-conscious twenty-year-old stranded in the desert with a herd of drunk and seemingly perfect peers. The millennial plight of wanting to be “not like other girls” hangs heavy in the opening scene (She wears high heels, I wear a shameful one piece swimsuit!), and the audience is invited to cringe at the retrospection of a young woman who refuses to have fun and judges her supposed friends for being able to do so.  Do not assume this picture of Jenna Tico to be the real one, though—just as we get this idea of her as an embittered woman who rejects fun and femininity in favor of seriousness and superiority, we are shown another snapshot of Tico in a completely shifted state; one that is slightly pathetic and incredibly romantic; one that is relatable, age-old, and commonly regretted: waiting by the phone for a man to call.

That being said, relatability is not the epitome of literary prowess.  As the book continues on, the self-awareness Tico begins the book with grows to mean less and less, and her prefaced millennial awkwardness becomes less and less novel.  Just because an author is aware of the youthful cringe in their writings and warns the audience of that exact thing, that does not atone for the continued and constant “pick me” aspects throughout the excerpts.  Just as an unfunny comedian does not become hilarious because they sheepishly address their bombings, Tico also does not get a pass just because she has grown since the ramblings of her twenties, which she published for the world to see.  If there has been improvement, if Tico’s youth is really a differentiating factor in terms of her writing abilities, why are we as the audience left reading what she has developed past?  Why don’t we get the new and mature authorial talent?  Tico is an excellent writer, and she paints a relatable, messy picture of being a woman figuring things out.  Unfortunately, that woman is the main speaker in this book. But be honest:  Who is a master at self-reflection during their twenties?  Relatability does not save Cancer Moon from the common millennial pitfalls of self-deprecation, immaturity, and awkwardness, and the audience is teased with the concept that Tico has grown as an author since the writing of these specific vignettes, but we do not get the privilege of reading such growth in these pieces.

The entire novel consists of the visceral details of the coming-of-age push-and-pull and the multiplicity of being a woman growing up in what is supposed to be the best time of your life while still necessitating “survival” (thus the book’s subtitle: How I Survived the Best Years of my Life). Despite the overwhelming millennial nature of the book, there is a relatability in the picture of the girl, sexily unkempt, eating cereal out of a flower pot—scratch that, unsexily unkempt and eating cereal with a fork while watching trash reality TV—learning what it means to be a woman, what it means to be an adult, and what it means to be herself. The book outlines these chronicles of tragic romantic encounters, of falling for the same mistake again and again till the point is exhausted and one has no choice but to grow. The phases of womanhood, reflected in the titular phases of the moon, are plainly and wittily laid out for the audience in a straightforward manner.  Everything is complicated, sure, but here are some rules about spiritual fuckbois to abide by, fellow millennial women! Getting this self-aware commentary on the shared and simultaneously unique experience of becoming a woman is a pleasure, and one not often available.

That phase of womanhood carried you, grew you, till you became the full moon—sorry, woman—that you are today.

Too often, authors curate an image in which to present themselves—the misunderstood creative, the appeasing good girl, the rebellious warrior-poet—but here, Tico gives us the unique vulnerability that only comes from the slightly self-deprecating and incredibly self-loving perspective of a healing thirty-something looking back at her twenties with a mix of pride, sorrow, pity, and admiration. That girl is the one that carried you (woman you) into adulthood, the one that survived the toxic relationships and the workplace failures and the massive, seemingly constant disappointments. That phase of womanhood carried you, grew you, till you became the full moon—sorry, woman—that you are today. That Tico is today. This growth is in us, whatever phase we may be in. Close the book after reading, and immediately open your notes app. See how your writing can grow alongside you.

— Emery Arias, 2024 Assistant Editor