If you liked Me and You and Everyone We Know, or Learning to Love You More, or No One Belongs Here More Than You, Miranda July's previous efforts in film, conceptual art, and short fiction, then you will probably like, or even love, The First Bad Man, her first novel.
Our narrator is unreliable, strange, and strangely lovable (at least to me). She's a middle-aged woman who wears hideous clothes and has a "system" for keeping herself from becoming so depressed that she can't leave her bedroom. (The "system" involves, among other things, using only one spoon and one cup in order to keep dish washing to a minimum.) She has extraordinarily unlikely desires and dreams, and her relationships are so dysfunctional that they come out the other side and function.
Most striking to me, the book contains a passage that gets at what new motherhood feels like almost exactly:
"... I began to understand that the sleeplessness and vigilance and constant feedings were a form of brainwashing, a process by which my old self was being molded, slowly but with a steady force, into a new shape: a mother. It hurt. I tried to be conscious while it happened, like watching my own surgery. I hoped to retain a tiny corner of the old me, just enough to warn other women with. But I knew this was unlikely; when the process was complete I wouldn't have anything left to complain with, it wouldn't hurt anymore, I wouldn't remember."