The Jellyfish Problem by Tessa Yang is a haunting debut about grief, isolation, and the strange pull of belonging

Some novels hook readers with plot. Others cast a quieter spell, slowly wrapping themselves around your imagination until you realize you’ve been completely pulled under. The Jellyfish Problem blends magical realism, sea monster folklore, grief narrative, and literary mystery into an ambitious debut that will strongly appeal to readers who enjoy atmospheric, character-driven speculative fiction.

Dr. Jo Ness is a marine biologist who has spent the last seven months barely existing after the death of her closest friend and collaborator, Aldo. Hidden away at a struggling aquarium, she immerses herself in jellyfish research and the unfinished field guide the two of them had been writing together. Aldo still exists in the margins of those pages through handwritten notes and observations, and Jo clings to them because she doesn’t know how to move forward without him. When Nadia—a woman Jo once loved during college—contacts her with stories about a giant glowing jellyfish off the coast of Maine, Jo seizes on the opportunity. Officially, she goes because of the creature. Emotionally, she goes because Nadia gives her a reason to leave her grief-stricken isolation behind, even if only temporarily.

What follows is part sea monster story, part magical realist meditation on mourning and human connection. When Jo arrives at Shattering Point, Nadia has vanished, leaving behind only frightened island residents, conflicting stories, and rumors surrounding the massive jellyfish the locals call Clementine. The deeper Jo investigates, the stranger everything becomes. Clementine is not simply a monster lurking offshore. The creature changes people. Those who see it become trapped within the strange emotional gravity of the island itself.

One of the novel’s greatest strengths is how seamlessly Yang blends mythology and storytelling traditions into the narrative. The book draws inspiration from Japanese mythology connected to the author’s ancestry, and that influence gives the story an almost dreamlike texture. Interwoven bedtime stories from Jo’s childhood create an oral storytelling atmosphere that makes the novel feel ancient and intimate at the same time. The structure itself mirrors the tides, carrying readers between memory, folklore, scientific observation, and present danger.

The chapter-opening vignettes are especially effective. These excerpts from Jo and Aldo’s unfinished jellyfish guide provide fascinating insights into jellyfish biology while also deepening the emotional weight of Jo’s loss. The scientific material never feels dry or overly technical. Instead, it reinforces the novel’s larger themes about fragility, transformation, survival, and adaptation. Yang finds compelling parallels between jellyfish behavior and human emotional states, making the marine biology feel deeply tied to the story’s emotional core rather than existing as decorative detail.

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Grief sits at the center of everything here. Jo is consumed by guilt over Aldo’s death, and Yang captures the exhausting repetitiveness of grief with painful accuracy. Jo sees Aldo everywhere she goes, replaying conversations and imagining his reactions long after he’s gone. Even as the plot shifts into increasingly surreal territory, the emotional reality remains grounded. Jo keeps trying to outrun her grief by focusing on the mystery of Clementine and the search for Nadia, but the novel understands that grief follows you wherever you go.

The novel’s atmosphere is easily its strongest asset. Clementine feels awe-inspiring rather than purely horrifying, evoking the kind of massive unknowable presence found in classic sea monster fiction while still remaining emotionally symbolic. The glowing jellyfish drifting beneath dark coastal waters becomes an unforgettable image, both beautiful and unsettling.

That said, the novel’s literary approach will not work equally well for every reader. The pacing can feel overly drawn out at times, particularly in the middle sections, and the story occasionally becomes denser than necessary. The constant introduction of new island residents and side characters also weakens some of the narrative momentum, especially when readers are already emotionally invested in Jo, Nadia, and Aldo. While the growing community of Shattering Point ties into the novel’s themes about connection and shared isolation, the sheer number of characters sometimes makes the story feel unfocused.

Readers who enjoy the layered magical realism of Shark Heart or the eerie emotional atmosphere of Our Wives Under the Sea will likely find a great deal to appreciate here. The novel succeeds most when it leans fully into its haunting atmosphere, emotional vulnerability, and mythic strangeness.

The Jellyfish Problem releases June 2, 2026.

What are your favorite novels that blend grief, mythology, or sea monster folklore with literary fiction? Let me know in the comments.

An advance reader copy of this book (ARC) was provided to me by the publisher via Netgalley in exchange for an honest review.

Related Content

• A conversation between Jen Michalski and Tessa Yang (Barrelhouse)
• How to introduce late arrivals in a story (Writers Write)
• The forever dying and the always dad; or, literary fiction and the novel (Counter Craft)
• Eight books about intelligent sea creatures (Literary Hub)

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