Found in Translation: Mapping Budi Darma’s ‘People from Bloomington’


The Tulip Tree apartment building in Bloomington, Indiana, sits on the edge of the Indiana University campus, 11 stories high with over 200 units. I recently drove past the structure, which curves inward around a wide expanse of grass. I had just been tent-camping in the nearby forest beside Lake Monroe with my son and his Boy Scout troop, where we orienteered, hiked, and spotted turtles, frogs, and deer in the woods. After days and nights spent beneath towering pines and the stars for a roof, the concrete-and-glass Tulip Tree Apartments looked otherworldly.

These apartments make an appearance in the Indonesian writer Budi Darma’s 1980 story collection People from Bloomington. The first English edition of the collection, translated by Tiffany Tsao, was published by Penguin Classics in April. The book’s version of the Tulip Tree reaches 50 stories high, “capable of swallowing five hundred large families whole,” as the story “Charles Lebourne” begins. The characters in People from Bloomington are isolated by their living situations, whether it be an apartment with many units or a rental house with a disagreeable landlord, or neighbors who confront a man who indiscriminately brandishes a gun (“The Old Man with No Name.”) The universal problems of the stories’ titular “people”—loneliness, longing for connection—could be set anywhere. Yet they are distinctly and precisely here, in this southern Indiana town. 

People from Bloomington was largely written during Darma’s time as a PhD student in English literature at IU, with far-ranging influences that include Jane Austen, Franz Kafka, and William Faulkner, among others. Austen was the subject of Darma’s dissertation, and as he waited for his advisor’s feedback on drafts of each section, he took walks around Bloomington. Most of the stories in the collection were inspired by his observations of the “old timers,” students, and others he encountered while walking around town. This is also when he wrote his novel, Olenka, which likewise features a Bloomington setting. (IU’s Wells Library lists one copy in its catalog, in Indonesian.) He wrote that novel in only three weeks, and the short stories arrived very quickly, too. “There were times when, to my surprise, I ended up writing an entire story without realizing it,” he describes in People from Bloomington’s preface, where he congratulates Tsao for a successful translation. The realist mode of the Bloomington-based work is a departure from his mostly absurdist fiction. 

“After finishing the stories I wrote in Bloomington, I realized that even though my method, style, and subject matter differed, I was still writing about the cruelty of life, as I had done in my previous stories,” Darma continues in the preface. “The difficulties that people face in relating to each other while negotiating their own identities—it is this that has always colored my fiction.” 

Bloomington, an hour-and-a-half south of my home in Indianapolis, is a college town where students, alumni, and fans flock to Memorial Stadium for football games, and Assembly Hall for Hoosier basketball games. IU is an R1 Research institution, drawing students and scholars from around the world. The city and campus are surrounded by beautiful hills, lakes, and the nearby Hoosier National Forest, over 200,000 acres of densely packed woods that bordered my son’s Scout camp. Every day I studied the map. I was a stranger to these woods, a parent volunteer responsible for guiding children. I needed to know where I was.

15 minutes away was the campus where I visited friends at IU more than two decades ago. Back then, I often felt lost, disoriented, dependent upon them to lead me to the restaurant or bar, to point me back to the highway, to home. I am a good navigator with a sound sense of direction, but in Bloomington and its surrounding areas, I could never get my bearings. Maybe it was because I didn’t have to. I could count on someone else to take care of the details and be responsible for me. I had chosen another school twelve hours away; I was welcome to visit Bloomington, but I did not belong there. I was a temporary visitor with in-group privileges.

Darma’s narrators know no such luxury. They are often isolated, longing to know others, and their embedded and necessary knowledge of Bloomington’s map permeates each story: Tulip Tree, Fess Avenue, the now-defunct Marsh Supermarkets chain, the Union, Dunn Meadow. At times the map is used fictitiously, though the details remain precise. In translating Darma, Tsao referenced online archives and maps of Bloomington to be certain of the place, and she also consulted with Darma. (He died in 2021, prior to the English edition’s publication.)

The characters who populate People from Bloomington may not know others as they would like, but they know the place. Darma’s Bloomington renders people strange, sad, or harmful. His characters have little awareness of how they affect one another, particularly how they impact the unnamed first-person narrators in each of the collection’s seven stories. Darma maintains a cool, distanced control over his narratives; he easily veers from realism into absurdism, with a nod and a wink to the reader.

The story “Yorrick” begins with a short guided tour, wending along Grant Street, South Tenth, the Union, the bookstore, and College Mall. It is on Grant Street that the narrator catches a glimpse of a woman named Catherine, and sets his sights on winning her affection. She finally notices him when he offers to patch her flat bicycle tire, but it’s clear that she doesn’t reciprocate the narrator’s intense interest: “She answered all my questions thoroughly. Yet she never showed any desire to learn more about me. After I told her my name, she didn’t inquire where I lived, or about my job, or my background or family.”  

Later, the narrator is invited to a party by Catherine and her friend Yorrick (who, in an allusion to Hamlet, is described as looking skeletal). He accepts and, once there, the jealous narrator realizes he is odd man out; moved to action, he deflates the partygoers’ car tires. Soon after, an elderly woman, who had been dancing that evening “like a bucking bronco,” needs medical attention; the flat tires create delay and confusion as people try to get her to the hospital. No one suspects the narrator as perpetrator, nor does he admit what he’s done. But he knew exactly where to find a pump to let the air out of the tires, a tool he’d observed earlier at the corner of South Tenth and Fess. 

If only we could pinpoint human motivations with such map-like precision. The characters in People from Bloomington overlook and underestimate the first-person narrators, who respond with secretive and vindictive behavior. Even if the characters’ self-perceptions are muddled, Darma sees them clearly. In “The Family M” the adult narrator feuds with children over a scratch on his car, then hides in the bushes and throws a large rock at a child, sending him to the hospital; “Orez” is a strange child (zero spelled backwards) who invites others’ scorn, confounds his parents, and pushes them to the brink of a horrific action; “Joshua Karabish” features an unloved and ill roommate who dies, and the narrator passes off Joshua’s poetry as his own; in “Mrs. Elberhart,” the narrator changes his walking route to further observe this unusual older woman and her unkempt yard, and then he becomes wrapped up in her health woes after she wrongly accuses him of giving her an illness.

Darma draws these characters in sharp relief, as if looking down from the roof of a multi-story apartment building with a birds-eye view. As I drove by the Tulip Tree four decades after Darma wrote these stories, the building reminded me of a giant spaceship. I wondered about all the lives housed inside.

I Hope My Grandchildren Will Know Me by This Book: The Millions Interviews Patricia Henley


Twenty years ago, Patricia Henley’s novel Hummingbird House was a finalist for the National Book Award and The New Yorker Fiction Prize. Henley, a longtime professor in Purdue University’s MFA program, enjoyed the acclaim that her years of research and writing produced.

Then the novel went out of print for a decade. Henley, now 72, felt erased, as if she had to start her career anew. That’s about to change: This powerful, deeply affecting novel will come back into print in November, thanks to upstart publisher Haywire Books, which will release a 20th-anniversary edition of Hummingbird House.

Given the current crisis of immigration and detainment at the southern U.S. border, the story is as timely as ever. The novel closely follows Kate Banner, an American midwife in Central America who is caught between two worlds and rendered nearly powerless by the civil war in Guatemala. Steve Yarbrough, an author and professor at Emerson College, wrote the introduction for the new edition, calling Hummingbird House ambitious and wide reaching. Most impressive, he writes, is the novel’s depiction of the depth of human suffering, “with all the accompanying acts of malice, veniality, cowardice, courage, and humanity that one finds in places where people’s backs are constantly pressed to the wall, their character on trial every single second of every single day.”

Henley renders this suffering in poetic prose. She is also the author of four story collections and another novel, In the River Sweet. She retired from teaching in Purdue University’s MFA program after 26 years there and recently spoke with The Millions about obsessive research, finding your subjects, and the winding, unpredictable trajectory of a literary life.

The Millions: It’s said that books have long lives, and that seems true of this 20th-anniversary rerelease of your novel Hummingbird House, a National Book Award finalist. What has this book’s life looked like, from conception to now?

Patricia Henley: The idea came to me in 1988 when I first traveled to Guatemala. I’d had a romantic breakup and needed to prove my independence and thought that traveling to a war-torn country would give me some perspective, which it did. Standing on a street corner in Antigua, a British doctor told me the story of an American priest who had lived and worked in the Mayan highlands until he was murdered, a victim of la violencia, the civil war. The Mayan people asked his family if they could cut out his heart and bury it behind their church because they felt his heart belonged in the Guatemalan highlands. From that moment, my path was set. It took 10 years from the original idea to holding the book in my hand. I went through two agents. Neither liked the story or thought it had a chance. I made five trips to Central America. I was obsessed. It was a heady time. I was still young and had so much energy. I felt I could do it all. I was completely obsessed with the novel, the travel, the research. I dreamed about it.

When it came out in 1999 that was validation. When it became a finalist for The National Book Award that seemed almost secondary, after all I’d been through. Then it went out of print. It’s been out of print for a decade at least. Jon Sealy bringing a new edition into the world feels like recovering from a long illness, a generalized malaise. I’m not exaggerating.

TM: That’s fascinating. Could you describe what that time was like?

PH: I have been writing for decades. When I was young there was always the longing to keep me going, longing to be heard, to be published, to be accepted as part of the grand conversation writers are having. As time went by, and some of my dreams came true, I was fueled by that. And Hummingbird House and its accolades were validating, inspiring to me. When the book was sold to a different house than the one that originally published it, and that new house cared nothing for it, allowing it to go out of print, I felt as if I’d been erased. That happens to writers, I know. I am not saying my case is unusual. Just that the book being out of print left me feeling like an outsider, as if I had to build my career all over again.

TM: Hummingbird House covers difficult terrain in terms of the personal and political, as does your novel In the River Sweet. I recall you once saying that the most fulfilling part of the entire process of making a book was the writing itself. Not publishing, not winning awards: being alone and writing. Is this still true for you? How do you hold that pleasure in writing alongside such deeply felt and seemingly difficult subject matter?

PH: So glad you remembered that. It’s true for me now more than ever. Isak Denisen said that she wrote a little every day, without hope, without despair. Writing a little every day feels like a gift in my life, especially now that I’m 72 years old. I haven’t lost my mind. Or my health. As for the second part of your question, sometimes writing about difficult subjects requires a dispassionate approach to the job, a little like a surgeon, I imagine, engaged in life-and-death matters, but cool.

TM: Because you’re passionate about these subjects, how are you able to get the necessary distance to be dispassionate?

PH: A switch gets flipped in my brain when I start to write. My psyche becomes all about the sentence-by-sentence, image-by-image work. The process of writing supports a coolheadedness, I think.

TM: What has it been like to return to this material for the rerelease, and what have you noticed this time around? Did you make any changes for this edition?

PH: I did not make any changes to the text. Jon Sealy at Haywire Books felt that it holds up. And the tragedy of the Guatemalan people goes on. I hope the book will enlighten some readers about the history of the Guatemalan people and all that they have suffered and what drives them to the border between Mexico and the United States. I did, however, change the dedication. I decided to dedicate this edition to my grandchildren. I have six. Most of them are old enough now to read this book. Perhaps they will someday. I am always excited by my communiques with them. We communicate primarily by text message. And it has gradually dawned on me that they are beginning to see me outside my role as Nana. This book took 10 years of my life to complete. Writing it clarified my own identity. I hope my grandchildren will know me by this book, as well as by all the memories we share.

TM: In some ways, the 20 years since Hummingbird House came out are a blip in time, especially given the current situation on the Mexico/United States border. Along with that history, has the latest news been on your mind as you prepare for the rerelease?

PH: Yes. I have not returned to Guatemala since I finished the book. Of course, I naively thought that once the civil war ended life would improve for all Guatemalans. But from what I read, that has not been the case. Gangs are a problem, the climate crisis is a problem, on top of the issues that have always been there, primarily the severe inequities monetarily. An oligarchy runs the country and takes in most of any profits and those people pay little or no taxes. That’s my understanding. So for the average Mayan family, nothing trickles down. Who can blame them for wanting to send someone to the U.S. to make a decent wage?

TM: Do you have a favorite part of the craft of fiction? What do you gravitate toward as a writer and a reader?

PH: Hmm. I started out as a poet, so I suppose lyricism is fun, always fun. What Robert Olen Butler calls “sensual selectivity” is an enjoyable part of writing, being observant then figuring out details to include to create what John Gardner called “the vivid and continuous dream.” As a reader my tastes vary. I spent last winter reading all of Jean Thompson’s books. I love how messed up her women characters are. But they are also resilient, a trait I admire, a trait I imagine many readers admire. I’m in a period of enjoying family stories. Stories of women becoming more who they are always appeal to me.

TM: Does your subject matter choose you, or do you choose your subject matter?

PH: There has to be an urge in the writer toward certain subjects. Then, you open yourself to exploring those subjects. Once you open yourself, the universe sends news of that subject matter to you. Does that sound too New Age? I hope not. When I went to Guatemala for the first time I was interested in the civil war and the fate of the Mayan people, particularly the women and children. I was also interested in the ex-pat life, how people make that work. So many people walked right up to me and gave me gifts that allowed me to write the book. They told me stories. They took me places.

TM: Your first book of stories, Friday Night at Silver Star, was published by Graywolf in 1986, and your most recent collection, Other Heartbreaks, came out from Engine Books in 2011. Now you’re working with a new press, Haywire Books, for Hummingbird House. What have you gleaned about publishing over that time?

PH: When I was young, without any books to my name, I thought naively that publishing would go on as it had before and that I would connect with a publishing house and an editor and be with that house and editor my entire life. [Laughs.] I’ve been published by Three Rivers Press, Carnegie-Mellon Press, Graywolf Press, MacMurray & Beck, Pantheon, Engine Books, and now Haywire Books. You go through the doors that open is one way of looking at that.

TM: So you’ve encountered some closed doors?

PH: Are you kidding? I get rejected on a regular basis.

TM: You describe writing as a gift, but it also seems like something you’ve chosen, a life you’ve made. Where did that come from, for you?

PH: I started reading before I went to elementary school. The life in books was endlessly fascinating to me. I wanted to be a writer from an early age and I was fortunate enough to have been encouraged by my mother and my teachers.

TM: What’s next for you?

PH: I have about 65 pages of micro-memoirs, inspired by Abby Thomas and Beth Ann Fennelly. Some have been published in journals. Brevity and Atticus Review most recently. I kept thinking these short essays would leave me alone but they keep coming. Now I’m on my way to a full-length manuscript entitled You Could Live Here: Migrating to Cronehood. Dictionaries describe a crone as an older woman with magical power. These micro-memoirs, as a whole, are about embracing aging and living alone. I think some people still pity women who live alone, but there are, I dare say, millions of us who celebrate our solitude and freedom.

TM: We met when you were a professor and I was a student in Purdue’s MFA program. How has your writing life operated around teaching, and now in retirement?

PH: I taught at Purdue for 26 years. Before that I taught high school and at a technical college, and before that I taught in the Poets-in-the-Schools program. Around 40 years total. It’s very easy to give up writing for teaching. Teaching has immediate rewards, even something so small as a stack of papers graded can feel more satisfying than sitting down to a blank computer screen. So I had to pay myself first, as financial advisors tell us we should do. To pay myself first required getting up early, around five or six in the morning, and writing for as long as possible before going in to my day job. Sometimes that might have meant only a page or 250 words. But I did it. Now I’m so lucky to have the freedom to create the shape of my days. I still teach—and love short-term teaching stints. But not being tangled up with an institution and its meetings is the greatest freedom.

TM: What do you advise fledgling writers?

PH: Don’t take on too many domestic and financial responsibilities until you have established the writing habit. Decide what you’re willing to give up in order to be a writer. Are you willing to leave social gatherings early so that you can get up and write the next morning? Are you willing to give up being in control of how your home is cared for, to hire a cleaner, to train your 10-year-old to do his own laundry? When asked how she raised so many children and still wrote books, Ursula Le Guin said, “Benign neglect.” Will you learn to say no when volunteers are called for? Certain habits and sacrifices are necessary. And it’s likely no one else will enthusiastically support you in these decisions. It’s all up to you.

Cut the Sentimentality: The Millions Interviews Polly Rosenwaike


The characters in Polly Rosenwaike’s debut story collection, Look How Happy I’m Making You, have children or choose not to, experience infertility, miscarriage, or abortion, and deal with postpartum depression and the aftermath of secrets and longing. They work inside and outside the home and renegotiate parental roles. They come together to form a portrait of modern life, centering on the struggles, choices, and realities of reproduction.

With stark images and metaphors (menstrual blood on white underwear “like a botched Japanese flag”) and an undercurrent of humor, Rosenwaike’s stories explore topics from women’s lives that are often underrepresented in contemporary literary fiction.

Rosenwaike has published stories, essays, and reviews in The New York Times Book Review, Glimmer Train, New England Review, The Millions, and the San Francisco Chronicle. She is fiction editor for Michigan Quarterly Review, and lives in Ann Arbor with the poet Cody Walker and their two daughters.

The Millions chatted with Rosenwaike via email about secrets, plotting, and writing about women’s lives with honesty and humor.

The Millions: The experiences of the women in Look How Happy I’m Making You provide a window into traditionally underrepresented or ignored subjects. Did you find yourself freer in writing these stories, or wishing for more models to draw from? Were there any books or authors that served as inspiration?

Polly Rosenwaike: I’ve had a great number of wonderful models for writing about new motherhood, as well as about the experiences of young(ish) women and their relationships with their families and romantic partners. Rachel Cusk’s A Life’s Work, Helen Simpson’s Getting a Life, Jenny Offill’s Dept. of Speculation, Lorrie Moore’s Birds of America, Elisa Albert’s After Birth, and numerous stories by Alice Munro have inspired me with their candor, artfulness, and humor about emotionally complex subjects in women’s lives.

I’d say I felt free in writing on these topics in the sense that writing has been for me, as I think it is for many shy or private people, a space in which I can be open about things I might not fully express to many others. I didn’t see myself as venturing into new territory—to the contrary, I worried that I might be treading on too-familiar ground (and indeed was told as much by several agents who rejected my collection).

TM: You tackle subjects that often carry social taboos: infertility, miscarriage, abortion, choosing not to have children. What was writing about these topics like? Did you get any pushback?

PR: I haven’t gotten any pushback, which I think speaks to the fact that everyone I’ve worked with on the book has understood that these are aspects of women’s reproductive lives and choices that are worth discussing and representing. My relationship to writing about each topic was different. I had two miscarriages, and I fictionalized this firsthand experience in various ways when I created the characters who have miscarriages in “Period, Ellipsis, Full Stop” and “Tanglewood.” Like many people, I think, the prevalence of miscarriage wasn’t on my radar until a number of women I knew started getting pregnant, and a significant percentage of them had miscarriages. I think it’s scary to become aware of how common it is—10 percent to 20 percent of known pregnancies end in miscarriage—but I also think it’s comforting to view it as a common part of the reproductive process, and to know that most women who have one will eventually have a successful pregnancy.

I’ve been lucky enough to have gotten pregnant only when I wanted to, and despite the miscarriages, I didn’t have to wait very long, and so I haven’t had an abortion or had to struggle with not conceiving. I entered into writing about those topics delicately, with the fiction writer’s hope that I would portray the lives of invented characters in a way that felt true. As for the matter of choosing not to have children, I find it frustrating that women are often judged harshly for what feels to me like a perfectly understandable choice. I really love how Sheila Heti takes on this subject in depth in her book Motherhood. In my story “Love Bug, Sweetie Dear, Pumpkin Pie, Etc.,” I wanted to explore what happens when a couple disagrees about whether or not to have a child.

TM: This book explores grief, longing, and depression, and there’s also so much subtle humor from line to line. The title comes from Audrey in “Grow Your Eyelashes.” She doesn’t want children, and her mother tearfully tries to convince her that children bring joy. Audrey replies, “Look how happy I’m making you.” In “Love Bug, Sweetie Dear, Pumpkin Pie, Etc.,” when Serena goes back to her job as a research librarian after maternity leave, she thinks, “No one would scream or fall ill because she hadn’t satisfied them.” How do you see humor informing your stories?

PR: My partner Cody Walker’s first book of poetry, Shuffle and Breakdown, has an epigraph from Richard Pryor’s stand-up show Live & Smokin’: “This ain’t as funny as we thought it was gonna be.” I wish my book were funnier. Cody’s books, let me just say, are really funny; I like to think I’ve learned a bit from him. He studied comic theory for his dissertation, and I stole some of his stuff for “A Lady Who Takes Jokes,” about a cognitive psychologist who does research on babies’ laughter. I think humor helps to cut the sentimentality that often accompanies the portrayal of new mothers and babies. And I love how it can work to intensify (rather than lighten) a dark and difficult situation. Lorrie Moore’s “People Like That Are the Only People Here” is a wrenching story about a mother whose young child has cancer. It’s also terribly funny. That’s the kind of humor I aspire to—the kind that makes sadness and longing and fear even more acute.

TM: “Ten Warning Signs of Postpartum Depression” uses a listing device and structure to tell the story. How does experimentation play into your writing? Do you often write across different genres and forms?

PR: In my 20s, when I was trying to escape how hard it was to write a story, I puttered around with poetry, screenwriting, creative nonfiction; but it turned out those genres were just as hard. So I accepted my fate as a fairly traditional fiction writer. In the second-person story “Ten Warning Signs,” I really enjoyed how the structural framework—the 10 warning signs listed in a pamphlet about postpartum depression—helped me to generate material I might not otherwise have come up with. I’m hoping to experiment more with form and content in my next longer fiction project. And I have some hope of returning to genres I’ve abandoned. Though probably not poetry. I love to teach it, and I love to encounter it in my house (Cody writes a poem every single day), but it’s probably best that I stick to being a fan of poetry rather than a failure at it.

TM: Secrets are deeply woven into these stories, some shared and others kept hidden. How, for you, do secrets operate within fiction? Are they tied more closely to character or to plot?

PR: What an interesting question—I hadn’t quite thought about it, but yes, I guess there are a lot of secrets in these stories, and indeed, secrets play an important role in fiction generally. Everyone knows fiction writers are liars, right? Considering the characters that keep secrets in my collection, I think there’s something about their personalities—a deep insecurity mixed with pride, a calculated self-armoring—that makes this an enticing behavior for them. But for me as the writer, a character’s keeping a secret from other characters is definitely a means toward trying to increase the level of drama and conflict in the story. So in that way, it’s more closely tied to plot.

In “Period, Ellipsis, Full Stop,” it was quite late in the drafting process when I decided to have Cora hide her suspicion of having a miscarriage from her husband. I needed a way to externalize the conflict in their relationship and create more tension between them, and so I added in this secret. In “White Carnations,” it was always inherent to the story’s structure that when Karyn gets together with other childless, motherless women on Mother’s Day, she hides her pregnancy—until the final paragraphs, when revealing it to Anne allows the two women to get closer and the story to end with that moment of connection. My inclination has been to use secrets to explore the consequences for the characters rather than to conceal things from the reader. A reader of “The Dissembler’s Guide to Pregnancy” figures out pretty quickly, I think, that the narrator has stopped taking the pill without telling her sort-of boyfriend. The narrative question, then, becomes, what will this deception mean for their relationship? For the deceiver herself?

TM: What were your early experiences and influences as a writer? What’s next, writing-wise?

PR: I’m going to interpret this “early” as really early, because I’ve wanted to grow up to be a writer for as long as I can remember. As a kid, I was a great fan of Maud Hart Lovelace, Frances Hodgson Burnett, Rumer Godden, Laura Ingalls Wilder, Jennie Lindquist, Astrid Lindgren, Louisa May Alcott, Judy Blume. When my friend and I got the idea to make a celebrity cookbook like they do in a Sweet Valley Twins book (Yes, I read a lot of not-very-literary stuff too.), Judy Blume sent us a letter with a recipe for noodle kugel, which was hugely exciting. I never made the recipe, though, because it sounded gross, and I never made the cookbook because Judy Blume was the only celebrity who wrote us back.

As a girl, my favorite books were almost all by women writers, now that I think about it, and they were almost all realistic fiction. Astrid Lindgren’s Pippi Longstocking, who lives on her own with a monkey and a horse (which she can lift up in the air), does stretch the bounds of realism a bit.

My grandmother’s first cousin Roz, an English professor who I think of as my first real-life literary influence, gave me a diary when I was about eight or so. It was royal blue with a shiny gold fan on it, and I viewed it as a sacred object, the beginning of my writing life. For many years, keeping a journal was the main genre of creative writing I practiced, and I see it as a precursor to the kind of fiction I began pursuing in my early 20s. Though my journals were certainly filled with lots of angst and emotional excess, I think articulating and obsessing over some of the elements of my daily life helped me develop an attention to detail and to “the mystery of personality,” as Flannery O’Connor calls it in her brilliant essay, “Writing Short Stories.”

Now I’ve conveniently run out of space and can’t discuss your second question. Writing about a work-in-progress feels to me like trying to describe a book I haven’t read.

TM: This collection seems to capture a significant cultural moment in that most (perhaps all?) of the mothers work, and parental roles are in negotiation. These stories collectively paint a portrait of working motherhood as the norm, rather than an either/or proposition. Was the idea of choosing to work in your mind while writing the book?

PR: Recently, Joshua Johnson interviewed Terry Gross on his NPR show 1A, and he asked about her plans for retirement. The gist of Gross’s answer: she plans to keep working as long as she can. Alluding to that oft-heard trope, “No one ever says on their deathbed, ‘I wish I’d spent more time at the office,’” she said something like (I’m definitely paraphrasing), “Well, you don’t say that if you don’t like your job, but I love my work.” The work in my own life—writing, teaching, nonprofit work, editing—has always been really important to me: intellectually, emotionally, practically. In the collection, I wanted to represent women who enjoy their work and find meaning in it. For most people, this doesn’t go out the window when you have a baby. It’s hard to manage everything, of course, but I think we need to assert that mothers have just as much reason and right to continue devoting themselves to their work lives as fathers, if that’s what they want to do.

TM: Is there a question about you or your work that you wish someone would ask? How would you answer it?

PR: I’m flattered that I’m being asked about myself and my work at all. A question I guess I’ve felt poised to answer, and did answer for my editor when she asked about it, is why I don’t have a birth story in the book. A few births are briefly alluded to—a sudden C-section in “June;” a “natural birth” that goes fine but “hurt so much you thought something must be terribly wrong” in “Ten Warning Signs of Postpartum Depression”—but for a collection of stories about having a baby, it might seem odd that this crucial experience is essentially skipped over. One reason why I avoided it is because I think childbirth often functions like the marriage plot trope, where a singular joyous event is meant to serve as the crowning culmination of a woman’s story. All the difficulty and pain of childbirth, as well as the hard work of mothering to come, is subsumed by the image of the shining newborn. For me, labor and childbirth, though certainly interesting—in the way that an extreme physical experience is interesting—was also a time when I felt least myself, most disconnected from the observing, reflective brain that I think of as me. It totally wiped me out. And so I didn’t write about it both in reaction to the way it’s often represented and because I couldn’t come up with a better way.

Then Again, Maybe I Will: The Reads I Kept Hidden in My Youth


I found the paperback on a metal card table at my neighbor’s garage sale: Judy Blume’s Then Again, Maybe I Won’t. I was 8 years old and already loved the author for books like Blubber, Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing, and Superfudge. The well-worn paperback cost a quarter, which I handed over to my neighbor and babysitter, Cheryl. The cover held an image of a boy with binoculars. Color me intrigued. I was already engrossed in the story (about spying on a female neighbor as she undresses in her room across the street) when the doorbell rang. Cheryl conferred with my mother: that book I’d bought? It wasn’t exactly appropriate for a kid my age. I was summoned to the door. This babysitter/traitor held out the quarter in one hand, and we undid the deal. Sold out by the very one whose ranks I had hoped to join.

She tossed her feathered hair and all but wagged her finger at me. Maybe she thought her babysitting job was on the line. Maybe my mother wouldn’t have cared what I was reading. But my mom trusted Cheryl, and the two of them were conspiratorial, chuckling at my choice of reading material. Isn’t she precocious! I seethed inside, mortified. Did they think I was interested in spying on people as they undressed? (Was I?)

I vowed to read the book anyway. At the library I gulped down the whole thing in one sitting. Later I read every Judy Blume book I could find. Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret was my introduction to the realities of menstruation, a puberty bible for girls growing up in the 1980s. When I found out that the book was frequently challenged or banned, all I could think was, “Why? Why would people want to prevent me from knowing about myself?”

As readers, we get to decide whether to accept or reject the knowledge that books contain. My youth was spent reading novels like they were life manuals for some future me, divining what was to come, even if I couldn’t see or imagine it yet. Even if my babysitter didn’t think I was ready. I didn’t want anyone’s laughter or condescension at my choices, so I read covertly, sneakily, my stack of library books bookended by less controversial titles. I love you on your own merits, Ramona Quimby, Age 8, but with the most gratitude for acting as my cover story.

Preteen years, late 1980s mall era, bangs shellacked with hairspray. Saturday nights, I’d go with my family to Waldenbooks or B. Dalton Booksellers. I could pick out three or four books at a time, depending on the price, and chip in my allowance if I wanted more. Browsing bookshelves with my family is one of my happiest childhood memories, no doubt one reason I wanted to become a writer. “Ready to check out?” my dad asked one Saturday, holding his stack of scholarly writing on King Arthur. I handed him two of the latest in the Sweet Valley High series, while slipping a third book behind my back. “I’m going to browse some more,” I lied. If he saw my copy of Girltalk about Guys by Carol Weston, he mercifully pretended not to. I’d been scoping out this book for weeks, visiting it, my footsteps muffled on the tan carpet. Standing with my back to the aisle, I’d read and reread the section on how to talk to guys. How to be confident. Not unrelated, the sections on looking and feeling your best.

All of it was urgent and mysterious and not-something-I-could-talk-about. If puberty was a transitional time from caterpillar to butterfly, I was still trapped in the cocoon, gawky limbs pushing to get out. I’d had enough skulking around the bookstore: This was a book I needed to own and read privately. Avoiding eye contact with the cashier, I made my purchase. After, we went to Sizzler, but my mind was elsewhere. I wanted to spend the rest of the night reading in my room, which I did as soon as we’d finished our steaks and baked potatoes and salads. The book promised real questions and real answers, and the Q&As revealed the best truth of every good advice column: that many, many other people out there shared similar problems. People like me, more comfortable asking a stranger to explain what was going on with zits, extreme emotions, body hair, and social life. Not to mention tampons: What the hell? I was filled with questions I didn’t know how to ask, and questions I didn’t know I had. Weston already knew, understood, and answered. Life thus far had taught that these were taboo topics, so I kept the book hidden in my closet, swaddled in the blankets of my old doll’s bassinet. I took that book baby out as often as possible, always with my bedroom door shut, the book’s open pages like some kind of new door.

A few years later, my older sister Katie bought a copy of I’m With the Band by Pamela Des Barres, which she stashed under her bed to keep me from hogging it. This memoir of a 1960s-70s rock groupie was clearly not my property. I noted when Katie would be at band practice (marching, not rock, at a Catholic high school), and raced through the racy pages. There was sex and rock and roll and pining and more sex and drugs and tons of gossip about musicians I loved. One of the rock stars who blurbed the book was Robert Plant, offering “again a thousand apologies for the premature ejaculation.” Not just entertainment, but education. Sex ed aside, this was a time period I wanted to learn more about. I was born six years after Woodstock but taped a concert poster to my wall as if I’d been there. I read everything I could about the era, especially related to music. Des Barres, obsessed somewhat differently, set out in Los Angeles to unapologetically conquer as many rock stars as she could. I was miles away from this lifestyle in every possible sense: geographically, emotionally, physically. But vicarious experience was, to use the parlance of Des Barres, delectable. By turning pages, you could run the gamut of experiences (and yes, the STDs) without having to face any emotional consequences or itching.

I read the tell-all at least a dozen times. “Give it back,” Katie said when I admitted I’d pilfered her paperback again, because she wanted to reread it. Not surprisingly, there was fallout for the author: On the talk show circuit, Des Barres defended herself from would-be slut-shamers. What of the male musicians she became involved with, I wondered? The power balance might’ve been skewed, but this was the memoir of a woman who controlled her own choices and went after what she desired. She was candid about her heartbreaks, too, airing her life for all the world to see. That took guts. That bravery inspires me now, some 25 years later, writing about books that once seemed worth hiding. Books that could’ve been banned from libraries or by family and kept out of my hands. Books that helped me understand the world and myself, both in constant states of change. Women writers who inspired me to write my own books, about topics others may want to challenge. Look. I want to show you.