As a collection, Blueberries is frequently peripatetic and content to wander a number of avenues (often within the same essay).

Composed in a variety of styles, the only similarities the fifteen essays share are the questions they pose: What does it mean to be a writer? And what does it mean to be? This intensely cerebral debut collection operates like a set of mismatched china. The essays are charming, quirky, and at odds with each other. But categorizing the collection as 'essays' feels inaccurate. The combination of memoir, reportage, poetry, and prose lacks a lateral narrative, and reads more like poetic musings than cohesive, fully-fleshed arguments. Some pages are written in a more academic style, while others are like the pages of a diary. Savage navigates as many forms as the places she travels, though no one style is superior to the other. Together, though, they carry equal importance in Blueberries. Savage has a proclivity for placing secondary details at the forefront of her stories.

Memory is not marked on a calendar or in police reports but is instead a constantly re-played series of remembrances, or 're-remembrances.' That the self exists in narrative form lies at the centre of Blueberries, as Savage explores the sites of identity—trauma, gender, class, religion, the body—in clear, rhythmic prose.

Savage is sharp in her critique of the cultures and institutions of ‘aggressive accumulation’ and ‘expansion'.

... [an] electric collection.