How Does 'Carrie Soto Is Back' Compare To Taylor Jenkins Reid'S Other Books?

As someone who's devoured every Taylor Jenkins Reid novel, I can say 'Carrie Soto Is Back' stands out for its raw intensity. Unlike 'The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo' which feels like a glittering Hollywood exposé or 'Daisy Jones & The Six' with its rockstar vibes, Carrie Soto is pure athletic grit. The prose mimics a tennis match—short, sharp sentences that pack a punch. Reid ditches the ensemble casts of her other books to laser-focus on one flawed woman’s comeback. The emotional stakes are higher here; where Evelyn Hugo seduces you, Carrie Soto grabs you by the collar and demands respect. It’s Reid’s most unapologetic character study yet.

Reading 'Carrie Soto Is Back' after Reid’s other works feels like switching from champagne to straight whiskey. The usual glamour is replaced by sweat-stained tennis courts and a protagonist who’s deliberately unlikeable. Carrie isn’t a tragic beauty like Evelyn or a free spirit like Daisy—she’s a bulldozer in sneakers, obsessed with legacy in a way Reid’s other heroines aren’t. What fascinates me is how Reid plays with structure. 'Malibu Rising' used a single party as its backbone, while 'Carrie Soto' unfolds through match timelines and sports commentary. The athletic jargon isn’t just set dressing; it deepens the themes of aging and ambition.

Reid’s signature move—blending fiction with real-world authenticity—shifts here. 'Daisy Jones' mimicked oral history documentaries, but 'Carrie Soto' borrows from sports biographies, complete with 'interview excerpts' that critique her career. The romance subplot is startlingly minimal compared to Reid’s other books, which often center grand love stories. Instead, we get Carrie’s thorny relationship with her father/coach, a dynamic more complex than any marriage in 'Evelyn Hugo.' This book proves Reid can dominate any genre she serves into.

If Reid’s other novels are symphonies, 'Carrie Soto Is Back' is a solo drum performance—relentless and personal. I binged it right after 'Maybe in Another Life,' and the contrast stunned me. Where Hannah Martin’s story explored cosmic what-ifs, Carrie’s path is brutally linear: one goal, one obsession. The prose lacks the lyrical nostalgia of 'Malibu Rising' but gains precision; every sentence feels like a calculated swing. Even the side characters serve different purposes—no Mick Rivas charmers here, just rivals who mirror Carrie’s flaws.

What hooked me was Reid’s gamble on an 'antiheroine.' Most of her protagonists have redeeming quirks, but Carrie’s arrogance isn’t sugarcoated. Yet her vulnerability—like panicking over younger competitors—makes her more human than any perfect rockstar from 'Daisy Jones.' The ending doesn’t tie up neatly like Reid’s other books; it’s messier, truer to competitive spirits who never fully retire. For readers craving Reid’s emotional depth without her usual romantic glitter, this is a grand slam.