‘Astute, puncturing observational storytelling’

There’s Always More to Say 
by Natalie Southworth 

Montreal: Linda Leith Publishing, 2026
$24.95 / 9781773901862

Reviewed by Kenna Clifford

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Do you remember the first time you realized your parents could be wrong? What about the moment when you came to understand that some parents earned more than others? The adolescent characters in There’s Always More to Say, Natalie Southworth’s debut short story collection, do. The collection deals largely in the consequences—in the hearts and minds—of those running blindly towards the American Dream. Southworth makes clear that these ideals directly affect Canadians, too. 

Each story is driven by money and necessity. Southworth, who formerly resided in Vancouver and features the city in her stories, ponders how mental health interacts with the pushing urgency of capitalism, specifically in places with visible wealth gaps. As adults slouch towards Bethlehem their children watch, developing dispirited senses of self. What results is a collection of coming-of-age stories filled with potential, and breaking points. Though the collection’s stand-out pieces succeed in depicting memorable urban settings and lively households, the stories can stumble in developing their characters’ senses of selfhood.

The eldest of two daughters turns to rigid logic, and then to her career in journalism, to distance herself from her mother’s theories of chemtrails and otherwise devolving mental health in the title story. Southworth uses this narrative to tie each piece into a larger idea, that there is “always more to say”; therefore, there are never enough words. Family matters are complicated—I myself have struggled to put into words the complexities of my own family onto the page. In “There’s Always More to Say,” the issue that the narrative’s older sister struggles with is this lack of words, this rigid logic that she so desperately clings to, to assign meaning to her own family life, an issue that plagues many of the characters in Southworth’s stories. 

In “The Realtor,” an exceptional piece, a father abandons his dream of puppeteering to focus on financial security for his young family. His daughter watches, slowly distancing herself from him—and his dreaming spirit: “And later I decided, given the options, that it was probably best to long for him, to try and remain inspired by him, rather than to know him.” Through the narrative we see the young protagonist come to see the humiliation rituals her father must endure, from the other realtors he must work with who see his puppeteer past as garish and corny, and the industry’s “spend money to make money” model. We are privy to their private life, and poignant moments of sad earnestness as their father sells his pride-and-joy puppets to those who do not appreciate them.  

Though Southworth depicts characters of different ages and varying socioeconomic status, what the characters in There’s Always More to Say have in common is their struggle to find meaning in the immediate environment. Each yearns for something just out of reach.

Similar to Mary Gaitskill, Southworth’s stories possess a detached, nostalgic sense of hindsight, and that elevates each story’s vision of personal alienation. Each narrating character operates as a keyhole into the lives, dreams, and imaginations of their counterparts; they observe, sometimes without intervening points of view, the movements of the world around them. This kind of reserved outlook works well in stories like “Shiney” to highlight what humanity a character such as Amandine, with big political ambitions, must strip from herself to meet her goals.

In contrast to Gaitskill, Southworth struggles to fully realize her characters’ interiority, especially as it relates to their circumstance, and age. It is notable in her use of first-person narration. For example, in “Spectacular,” a narrator recollects her relationship with a childhood friend, as she begins to struggle with anorexia. While the narrative is told through the perspective of someone presumably looking back, it is never clear from what vantage point. The character is only ever conveyed through the recollections of her teenage thoughts, her descriptions of Fiona’s declining health, or through allusions to wealth differences of the families. (It is explained that the narrator comes from a lower-class family, as opposed to Fiona, who is cut from wealthy West Vancouver cloth.)

Yet, we never meet the narrator at her present, making the timeframe unclear in this retelling. If Southworth had clarified that the recollections came from the character, say, later in their thirties, who was still struggling with Fiona’s anorexia after all those years, then descriptions—of honey on rice crackers and water for lunch being as enticing as a gin-and-tonic and caviar—would imply a sense of adult perception on the experience. (Conversely, if the author had hoped to write from the perspective of a thirteen-year-old, perhaps blue raspberry vodka would have been a better choice.)

At best, this underdeveloped view by which readers enter the story makes observations from the narrator sound like the disembodied voice of an after school special at best; at worst, it encourages readers to question the author’s intent. 

Moreover, other pieces, like “Spectacular” and “The Bottom Line,” take viscerally descriptive approaches to depicting the violence inflicted on characters in the throes of illness. At points, I wondered whether Southworth was simply aiming to write these stories with a punch of literary verisimilitude, rather than to sit in a world where eating disorders and psychotic breaks have real, dangerous effects on people beyond the page—those whose stories do not end after they put down the book.

In fact, “Spectacular” even goes into detail of the specific tactics that someone with anorexia might adopt to starve themselves; time and time again, that artistic choice has been criticized by those in remission of the illness. Describing a child’s spine as “a pasta tong that was trying to bore through her skin,” or her chest bones as “ripples on a dead lake” not only frames Fiona’s illness as spectacle but implores the reader to look alongside those surrounding her in the narrative. The passages left me curious about what the goal of writing this short story might have been. If Southworth had considered the impact of its telling—what each word could really hold to someone who intimately
knows anorexia’s shape—or if it was simply an attempt at daring, or for literary prestige. Intentional or not, I’m not sure it’s productive to take the stance that anorexia is something worth beholding; it’s the same practice the modelling industry has held for years.

Still, within the collection are beautifully lived-in scenes, and astute, puncturing observational storytelling. Southworth thrives in her propensity for texture—building rugs fibre by fibre, until a child could burn their knees on it. I appreciated subtle moments of class divisions being depicted via material goods—lamps, or dressers full of new clothes that another person might never see. Throughout, Southworth uses minor details to give the reader visual understandings of each character’s class, which play out in a story’s arc. The characters and lives in There’s Always More to Say struck me either in their intricate accuracy or in their narrative oversights. 

I know people whose childhood stories look very similar to those depicted. Many of these narratives mirrored moments of my own childhood, class, and familial turmoil. Perhaps this is why I feel such a stake in their presentation. I hope that in future collections, Southworth uses the well-formed narrative scaffolding that she proves capable of building in this collection and moves forward into the psyche of characters, while keeping in mind what is perhaps most interesting about her writing and always brimming at the edges of her work—livelihood, attention, and love.

Kenna Clifford is a writer and filmmaker based in so-called “Vancouver, B.C.” They are the founder and editor-in-chief of Semipermeable Press. Kenna’s creative nonfiction and reviews are published by RANGE, The Dry River (Crybaby Press), Inkyard Press and SAD Online, as well as on the blog Speculative Fiction. Kenna likes to write about desire, culture, art, and memory—and especially the places where all those things touch. [Editor’s note: Kenna has reviewed recent books by Brian Wilford and Mirielle Gagńe for BCR.]

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The British Columbia Review

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Publisher: Richard Mackie

Formerly The Ormsby Review, The British Columbia Review is an on-line book review and journal service for BC writers and readers. The Advisory Board now consists of Jean Barman, Wade Davis, Robin Fisher, Barry Gough, Hugh Johnston, Kathy Mezei, Patricia Roy, and Graeme Wynn. Provincial Government Patron (since September 2018): Creative BC. Honorary Patron: Yosef Wosk. Scholarly Patron: SFU Graduate Liberal Studies. The British Columbia Review was founded in 2016 by Richard Mackie and Alan Twigg.

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