Which Underappreciated Books Are Perfect For Film Adaptation?

Okay, toss me a cup of tea and let's dream a little: there are so many quietly brilliant novels that would sing on screen if someone dared to adapt them right. First up, 'The Forgotten Beasts of Eld' by Patricia A. McKillip — it's lyrical, mythic, and intimate all at once. I picture a limited series that leans into mood and atmosphere rather than blockbuster spectacle, something like a grown-up fairy tale with hand-held camera moments and a haunting score. Think family drama meets elemental magic, slow-burned over six to eight episodes. Then there’s 'Engine Summer' by John Crowley, which is gentle, melancholic science fiction. Its contemplative pace and fragmented storytelling would thrive as an anthology-style show or a single-season adaptation that uses visual memory sequences and a soft, analogue color palette. It’s perfect for viewers who like slow, thoughtful sci-fi rather than nonstop action. Finally, give me 'The Vorrh' by B. Catling or 'The Drowned World' by J. G. Ballard. Both are surreal and challenging, but in an era when streaming platforms embrace weirdness, a bold director could turn them into sensory, unsettling experiences — equal parts weird art-house and genre TV. I’d love to see filmmakers treat these books as invitations to experiment with sound design, practical effects, and non-linear editing rather than forcing them into standard genre beats.

Okay, I’ll gush for a second: I love finding books that feel like secret doorways into lives I didn’t know existed. A couple that have stuck with me are 'So Long a Letter' by Mariama Bâ, which is quietly devastating in how it channels Senegalese women's friendship and the small rebellions inside marriage, and 'The Buddha in the Attic' by Julie Otsuka, which uses a chorus of voices to map Japanese picture-brides in early 20th-century America. Both books are deceptively short but lift entire communities into sharp focus. Then there's 'Under the Udala Trees' by Chinelo Okparanta—a Nigerian coming-of-age queer story that does what many mainstream novels shy away from: it tells love and persecution without sentimentality. If you want something that reads like a palimpsest of war and daily life, try 'The Corpse Washer' by Sinan Antoon, an Iraqi novel that shifts perspective between grief, ritual, and diaspora. For Black feminist healing and communal memory, Toni Cade Bambara’s 'The Salt Eaters' is a slow-burning, underread masterpiece. Small presses and translated fiction sections are goldmines for these, and I always follow translators and indie reviewers to find more. Honestly, pick one and let it rearrange what you think you know—it’s the best feeling.

I still get giddy when I stumble on a tiny stack of forgotten books at a thrift shop, which is why I tend to recommend starting with physical places that smell like paper and possibility. Local library sales, church charity shops, and college campus bookstores quietly unload odd but wonderful titles — I once found a worn paperback of 'Stoner' hidden between textbooks for a couple of dollars. I love the thrill of rifling through boxes and asking the volunteer behind the table for more obscure authors. If you prefer online treasure hunts, AbeBooks, Alibris, and Bookfinder are great for tracking down affordable editions; they aggregate independent sellers so you can compare prices. For modern or small-press work, check Bookshop.org to support indie stores and Better World Books or ThriftBooks for discounted used copies. Don’t ignore Facebook Marketplace, eBay, and local Buy Nothing groups — people often list single titles for cheap or free. Finally, swap and social options are gold: local book clubs, Little Free Libraries, zine fests, and Reddit’s trade communities (like r/bookexchange) will let you trade duplicates for underappreciated gems. It’s about patience and a few clever searches, and honestly, half the fun is the chase — you’ll find something that feels like it chose you.

Sometimes the best writing hides in small presses, quiet reprints, or the back corner of a secondhand shop. I got hooked on that idea the week I crawled through used shelves and found 'Stoner' by John Williams — it reads like a chamber piece of grief and dignity, sentences that do more with silence than many bestselling novels do with spectacle. The control and clarity in that book make me want to nominate it for every prize that honors subtlety. Another book I’ve pushed on friends like a secret handshake is 'The Man Who Loved Children' by Christina Stead. Its voice crackles and misfires in delicious, dangerous ways; the family portrait is unbearable and precise, written with a novelist’s ferocious ear. Then there’s 'The Mezzanine' by Nicholson Baker, where micro-observations turn banal things into tiny epiphanies — the prose craftsmanship is playful and surgical. Finally, 'The Last Samurai' by Helen DeWitt sits in my head like a mathematically elegant poem: brilliant sentences that demand to be re-read. These aren’t flashy prize magnet texts, but their sentences vibrate the way award-winning prose should, and they reward patience and rereading. If you like quiet propulsion and language that insists on being savored, try one tonight.

When our little group got bored of rereading the same contemporary bestsellers, I pushed for some stranger, quieter books—and honestly, those sessions became my favorites. Try 'St. Lucy's Home for Girls Raised by Wolves' by Karen Russell: it's a short-story collection that reads like a fever dream, perfect for a two-hour meeting because you can assign one or two pieces and still have heaps to unpack about identity, myth, and voice. Pair it with a sketching exercise where people draw a scene they couldn't shake; art loosens up literal interpretations and invites personal metaphors. Another pick I'd fight for is 'Engine Summer' by John Crowley. It's slow and tender, and folks who like worldbuilding without blockbuster pacing will find it a revelation. For discussion, create a map activity—have members place emotional beats on a timeline and justify why certain scenes felt like worldbuilding rather than exposition. I also love pairing it with ambient music or games like 'Journey' during the meetup to set the tone. If you want something punchy that still flies under radar, 'The Intuitionist' by Colson Whitehead blends noir and speculative thought and sparks great debates about institutions, technology, and who decides what’s ‘progressive.’ Ask members to defend or oppose the protagonist's methods; that usually gets the room talking. Honestly, the best clubs are the ones that try a risky, underrated title once a quarter—those are the nights I go home grinning.

I get a little giddy talking about this — there are so many corners where fantastic, under-the-radar queer books hide. Start with small presses and literary journals: they take risks that big houses shy away from. Look through catalogs from independent publishers and distributors like Small Press Distribution, and follow indie lists from Poets & Writers or Electric Literature. Those places often carry novels, novellas, and collections that center queer lives without getting mainstream buzz. If you want physical treasure-hunting, hit local queer bookstores, zine fairs, and LGBT community centers. I’ve found some absolute gems at events and tucked-away shops — plus the Queer Zine Archive Project (QZAP) is an absolute goldmine for short works and chapbooks. Online, follow hashtags like #queerreads, #ownvoices, and indie-bookstagram folks; they surface stuff algorithmic feeds miss. Also peek at Lambda Literary’s longlists and past nominees — a lot of great titles don’t become household names but are deeply rewarding. Personally, my favorite finds came from combining these routes: a recommendation from a small-press newsletter, a quick requester through interlibrary loan, and a cozy read that I then passed to friends. Try a few of these avenues and see which rabbit hole hooks you first — there’s so much waiting to be discovered.

Funny how some tiny, dusty books leave fingerprints on whole literary careers — I love digging those out like easter eggs. I once devoured 'Phantastes' by George MacDonald on a sleepless night and felt its ripples everywhere afterwards. C.S. Lewis openly called MacDonald a formative influence, and if you've read 'The Chronicles of Narnia' you can trace that moral-fantasy sensibility back to MacDonald's fairytale logic. That same old-school fairycraft seeped into other mid-century fantasists I adore, and even certain indie games that toy with mythic morality feel like distant cousins. Then there's 'The King in Yellow' by Robert W. Chambers: eerie, fragmentary, and not a household favorite, but its influence on weird fiction is massive. H.P. Lovecraft borrowed the sense of an insinuating, cursed text and climate of existential dread; later, you can spot those vibes in horror comics and games that build dread through suggestion rather than gore. Finding these underappreciated books is like mapping secret tributaries feeding the big rivers of modern genres — and I keep a growing shelf of them, always ready to recommend my next hidden treasure.

I love whispering about books that sneak up on you, and a few underrated choices with unreliable narrators keep popping into my head. If you like sly, shifting perspectives, start with 'The Third Policeman' by Flann O'Brien. The narrator's logic slides under you like a trick floorboard—it’s comic and eerie at once, and it rewards re-reads because you catch new slippages each time. Another favorite is 'The Magus' by John Fowles. People either adore its manipulative narrator and layered illusions or shrug it off, but reading it feels like being in a house of mirrors where the storyteller keeps rearranging the room. For quieter, more devastating unreliability, try 'The Good Soldier' by Ford Madox Ford: the narrator frames events with such partial knowledge and self-justification that you realize the real story lives between the lines. If you want something modern and weird, 'The End of Mr. Y' by Scarlett Thomas blends unreliable memory, philosophy, and metafiction in a way that’s oddly comforting and thoroughly uncanny. Beyond picking books, I like reading with a little notebook next to me—jot down contradictions, suspiciously missing details, emotional outbursts that feel performative. It turns the book into a puzzle and heightens the pleasure of being misled on purpose.