Marjorie Celona’s Y and Leah Stewart’s The History of Us are more than just novels by writers who happen to be female; they’re sensitive, psychologically complex works that deal the nature of identity in ways both singular and incisive.   

 It’s a frigid weekday afternoon in early February, less than three weeks after the publication of Leah Stewart’s fourth novel, The History of Us, a Cincinnati-set coming-of-age tale marked by psychological insight, a sneakily addictive narrative thrust and a deft use of dialogue.