The Selected Works of Audre Lorde

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Most Anticipated: The Great Spring 2024 Preview

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April April 2 Women! In! Peril! by Jessie Ren Marshall [F] For starters, excellent title. This debut short story collection from playwright Marshall spans sex bots and space colonists, wives and divorcées, prodding at the many meanings of womanhood. Short story master Deesha Philyaw, also taken by the book's title, calls this one "incisive! Provocative! And utterly satisfying!" —Sophia M. Stewart The Audacity by Ryan Chapman [F] This sophomore effort, after the darkly sublime absurdity of Riots I have Known, trades in the prison industrial complex for the Silicon Valley scam. Chapman has a sharp eye and a sharper wit, and a book billed as a "bracing satire about the implosion of a Theranos-like company, a collapsing marriage, and a billionaires’ 'philanthropy summit'" promises some good, hard laughs—however bitter they may be—at the expense of the über-rich. —John H. Maher The Obscene Bird of Night by José Donoso, tr. Leonard Mades [F] I first learned about this book from an essay in this publication by Zachary Issenberg, who alternatively calls it Donoso's "masterpiece," "a perfect novel," and "the crowning achievement of the gothic horror genre." He recommends going into the book without knowing too much, but describes it as "a story assembled from the gossip of society’s highs and lows, which revolves and blurs into a series of interlinked nightmares in which people lose their memory, their sex, or even their literal organs." —SMS Globetrotting ed. Duncan Minshull [NF] I'm a big walker, so I won't be able to resist this assemblage of 50 writers—including Edith Wharton, Katharine Mansfield, Helen Garner, and D.H. Lawrence—recounting their various journeys by foot, edited by Minshull, the noted walker-writer-anthologist behind The Vintage Book of Walking (2000) and Where My Feet Fall (2022). —SMS All Things Are Too Small by Becca Rothfeld [NF] Hieronymus Bosch, eat your heart out! The debut book from Rothfeld, nonfiction book critic at the Washington Post, celebrates our appetite for excess in all its material, erotic, and gluttonous glory. Covering such disparate subjects from decluttering to David Cronenberg, Rothfeld looks at the dire cultural—and personal—consequences that come with adopting a minimalist sensibility and denying ourselves pleasure. —Daniella Fishman A Good Happy Girl by Marissa Higgins [F] Higgins, a regular contributor here at The Millions, debuts with a novel of a young woman who is drawn into an intense and all-consuming emotional and sexual relationship with a married lesbian couple. Halle Butler heaps on the praise for this one: “Sometimes I could not believe how easily this book moved from gross-out sadism into genuine sympathy. Totally surprising, totally compelling. I loved it.” —SMS City Limits by Megan Kimble [NF] As a Los Angeleno who is steadily working my way through The Power Broker, this in-depth investigation into the nation's freeways really calls to me. (Did you know Robert Moses couldn't drive?) Kimble channels Caro by locating the human drama behind freeways and failures of urban planning. —SMS We Loved It All by Lydia Millet [NF] Planet Earth is a pretty awesome place to be a human, with its beaches and mountains, sunsets and birdsong, creatures great and small. Millet, a creative director at the Center for Biological Diversity in Tucson, infuses her novels with climate grief and cautions against extinction, and in this nonfiction meditation, she makes a case for a more harmonious coexistence between our species and everybody else in the natural world. If a nostalgic note of “Auld Lang Syne” trembles in Millet’s title, her personal anecdotes and public examples call for meaningful environmental action from local to global levels. —Nathalie op de Beeck Like Love by Maggie Nelson [NF] The new book from Nelson, one of the most towering public intellectuals alive today, collects 20 years of her work—including essays, profiles, and reviews—that cover disparate subjects, from Prince and Kara Walker to motherhood and queerness. For my fellow Bluets heads, this will be essential reading. —SMS Traces of Enayat by Iman Mersal, tr. Robin Moger [NF] Mersal, one of the preeminent poets of the Arabic-speaking world, recovers the life, work, and legacy of the late Egyptian writer Enayat al-Zayyat in this biographical detective story. Mapping the psyche of al-Zayyat, who died by suicide in 1963, alongside her own, Mersal blends literary mystery and memoir to produce a wholly original portrait of two women writers. —SMS The Letters of Emily Dickinson ed. Cristanne Miller and Domhnall Mitchell [NF] The letters of Emily Dickinson, one of the greatest and most beguiling of American poets, are collected here for the first time in nearly 60 years. Her correspondence not only gives access to her inner life and social world, but reveal her to be quite the prose stylist. "In these letters," says Jericho Brown, "we see the life of a genius unfold." Essential reading for any Dickinson fan. —SMS April 9 Short War by Lily Meyer [F] The debut novel from Meyer, a critic and translator, reckons with the United States' political intervention in South America through the stories of two generations: a young couple who meet in 1970s Santiago, and their American-born child spending a semester Buenos Aires. Meyer is a sharp writer and thinker, and a great translator from the Spanish; I'm looking forward to her fiction debut. —SMS There's Going to Be Trouble by Jen Silverman [F] Silverman's third novel spins a tale of an American woman named Minnow who is drawn into a love affair with a radical French activist—a romance that, unbeknown to her, mirrors a relationship her own draft-dodging father had against the backdrop of the student movements of the 1960s. Teasing out the intersections of passion and politics, There's Going to Be Trouble is "juicy and spirited" and "crackling with excitement," per Jami Attenberg. —SMS Table for One by Yun Ko-eun, tr. Lizzie Buehler [F] I thoroughly enjoyed Yun Ko-eun's 2020 eco-thriller The Disaster Tourist, also translated by Buehler, so I'm excited for her new story collection, which promises her characteristic blend of mundanity and surrealism, all in the name of probing—and poking fun—at the isolation and inanity of modern urban life. —SMS Playboy by Constance Debré, tr. Holly James [NF] The prequel to the much-lauded Love Me Tender, and the first volume in Debré's autobiographical trilogy, Playboy's incisive vignettes explore the author's decision to abandon her marriage and career and pursue the precarious life of a writer, which she once told Chris Kraus was "a bit like Saint Augustine and his conversion." Virginie Despentes is a fan, so I'll be checking this out. —SMS Native Nations by Kathleen DuVal [NF] DuVal's sweeping history of Indigenous North America spans a millennium, beginning with the ancient cities that once covered the continent and ending with Native Americans' continued fight for sovereignty. A study of power, violence, and self-governance, Native Nations is an exciting contribution to a new canon of North American history from an Indigenous perspective, perfect for fans of Ned Blackhawk's The Rediscovery of America. —SMS Personal Score by Ellen van Neerven [NF] I’ve always been interested in books that drill down on a specific topic in such a way that we also learn something unexpected about the world around us. Australian writer Van Neerven's sports memoir is so much more than that, as they explore the relationship between sports and race, gender, and sexuality—as well as the paradox of playing a colonialist sport on Indigenous lands. Two Dollar Radio, which is renowned for its edgy list, is publishing this book, so I know it’s going to blow my mind. —Claire Kirch April 16 The Notebooks of Sonny Rollins by Sonny Rollins [NF] The musings, recollections, and drawings of jazz legend Sonny Rollins are collected in this compilation of his precious notebooks, which he began keeping in 1959, the start of what would become known as his “Bridge Years,” during which he would practice at all hours on the Williamsburg Bridge. Rollins chronicles everything from his daily routine to reflections on music theory and the philosophical underpinnings of his artistry. An indispensable look into the mind and interior life of one of the most celebrated jazz musicians of all time. —DF Henry Henry by Allen Bratton [F] Bratton’s ambitious debut reboots Shakespeare’s Henriad, landing Hal Lancaster, who’s in line to be the 17th Duke of Lancaster, in the alcohol-fueled queer party scene of 2014 London. Hal’s identity as a gay man complicates his aristocratic lineage, and his dalliances with over-the-hill actor Jack Falstaff and promising romance with one Harry Percy, who shares a name with history’s Hotspur, will have English majors keeping score. Don’t expect a rom-com, though. Hal’s fraught relationship with his sexually abusive father, and the fates of two previous gay men from the House of Lancaster, lend gravity to this Bard-inspired take. —NodB Bitter Water Opera by Nicolette Polek [F] Graywolf always publishes books that make me gasp in awe and this debut novel, by the author of the entrancing 2020 story collection Imaginary Museums, sounds like it’s going to keep me awake at night as well. It’s a tale about a young woman who’s lost her way and writes a letter to a long-dead ballet dancer—who then visits her, and sets off a string of strange occurrences. —CK Norma by Sarah Mintz [F] Mintz's debut novel follows the titular widow as she enjoys her newfound freedom by diving headfirst into her surrounds, both IRL and online. Justin Taylor says, "Three days ago I didn’t know Sarah Mintz existed; now I want to know where the hell she’s been all my reading life. (Canada, apparently.)" —SMS What Kingdom by Fine Gråbøl, tr. Martin Aitken [F] A woman in a psychiatric ward dreams of "furniture flickering to life," a "chair that greets you," a "bookshelf that can be thrown on like an apron." This sounds like the moving answer to the otherwise puzzling question, "What if the Kantian concept of ding an sich were a novel?" —JHM Weird Black Girls by Elwin Cotman [F] Cotman, the author of three prior collections of speculative short stories, mines the anxieties of Black life across these seven tales, each of them packed with pop culture references and supernatural conceits. Kelly Link calls Cotman's writing "a tonic to ward off drabness and despair." —SMS Presence by Tracy Cochran [NF] Last year marked my first earnest attempt at learning to live more mindfully in my day-to-day, so I was thrilled when this book serendipitously found its way into my hands. Cochran, a New York-based meditation teacher and Tibetan Buddhist practitioner of 50 years, delivers 20 psycho-biographical chapters on recognizing the importance of the present, no matter how mundane, frustrating, or fortuitous—because ultimately, she says, the present is all we have. —DF Committed by Suzanne Scanlon [NF] Scanlon's memoir uses her own experience of mental illness to explore the enduring trope of the "madwoman," mining the work of Charlotte Perkins Gilman, Virginia Woolf, Sylvia Plath, Audre Lorde, and others for insights into the long literary tradition of women in psychological distress. The blurbers for this one immediately caught my eye, among them Natasha Trethewey, Amina Cain, and Clancy Martin, who compares Scanlon's work here to that of Marguerite Duras. —SMS Unrooted by Erin Zimmerman [NF] This science memoir explores Zimmerman's journey to botany, a now endangered field. Interwoven with Zimmerman's experiences as a student and a mother is an impassioned argument for botany's continued relevance and importance against the backdrop of climate change—a perfect read for gardeners, plant lovers, or anyone with an affinity for the natural world. —SMS April 23 Reboot by Justin Taylor [F] Extremely online novels, as a rule, have become tiresome. But Taylor has long had a keen eye for subcultural quirks, so it's no surprise that PW's Alan Scherstuhl says that "reading it actually feels like tapping into the internet’s best celeb gossip, fiercest fandom outrages, and wildest conspiratorial rabbit holes." If that's not a recommendation for the Book Twitter–brained reader in you, what is? —JHM Divided Island by Daniela Tarazona, tr. Lizzie Davis and Kevin Gerry Dunn [F] A story of multiple personalities and grief in fragments would be an easy sell even without this nod from Álvaro Enrigue: "I don't think that there is now, in Mexico, a literary mind more original than Daniela Tarazona's." More original than Mario Bellatin, or Cristina Rivera Garza? This we've gotta see. —JHM Prairie, Dresses, Art, Other by Danielle Dutton [NF] Coffee House Press has for years relished its reputation for publishing “experimental” literature, and this collection of short stories and essays about literature and art and the strangeness of our world is right up there with the rest of Coffee House’s edgiest releases. Don’t be fooled by the simple cover art—Dutton’s work is always formally inventive, refreshingly ambitious, and totally brilliant. —CK I Just Keep Talking by Nell Irvin Painter [NF] I first encountered Nell Irvin Painter in graduate school, as I hung out with some Americanists who were her students. Painter was always a dazzling, larger-than-life figure, who just exuded power and brilliance. I am so excited to read this collection of her essays on history, literature, and politics, and how they all intersect. The fact that this collection contains Painter’s artwork is a big bonus. —CK April 30 Real Americans by Rachel Khong [F] The latest novel from Khong, the author of Goodbye, Vitamin, explores class dynamics and the illusory American Dream across generations. It starts out with a love affair between an impoverished Chinese American woman from an immigrant family and an East Coast elite from a wealthy family, before moving us along 21 years: 15-year-old Nick knows that his single mother is hiding something that has to do with his biological father and thus, his identity. C Pam Zhang deems this "a book of rare charm," and Andrew Sean Greer calls it "gorgeous, heartfelt, soaring, philosophical and deft." —CK The Swans of Harlem by Karen Valby [NF] Huge thanks to Bebe Neuwirth for putting this book on my radar (she calls it "fantastic") with additional gratitude to Margo Jefferson for sealing the deal (she calls it "riveting"). Valby's group biography of five Black ballerinas who forever transformed the art form at the height of the Civil Rights movement uncovers the rich and hidden history of Black ballet, spotlighting the trailblazers who paved the way for the Misty Copelands of the world. —SMS Appreciation Post by Tara Ward [NF] Art historian Ward writes toward an art history of Instagram in Appreciation Post, which posits that the app has profoundly shifted our long-established ways of interacting with images. Packed with cultural critique and close reading, the book synthesizes art history, gender studies, and media studies to illuminate the outsize role that images play in all of our lives. —SMS May May 7 Bad Seed by Gabriel Carle, tr. Heather Houde [F] Carle’s English-language debut contains echoes of Denis Johnson’s Jesus’s Son and Mariana Enriquez’s gritty short fiction. This story collection haunting but cheeky, grim but hopeful: a student with HIV tries to avoid temptation while working at a bathhouse; an inebriated friend group witnesses San Juan go up in literal flames; a sexually unfulfilled teen drowns out their impulses by binging TV shows. Puerto Rican writer Luis Negrón calls this “an extraordinary literary debut.” —Liv Albright The Lady Waiting by Magdalena Zyzak [F] Zyzak’s sophomore novel is a nail-biting delight. When Viva, a young Polish émigré, has a chance encounter with an enigmatic gallerist named Bobby, Viva’s life takes a cinematic turn. Turns out, Bobby and her husband have a hidden agenda—they plan to steal a Vermeer, with Viva as their accomplice. Further complicating things is the inevitable love triangle that develops among them. Victor LaValle calls this “a superb accomplishment," and Percival Everett says, "This novel pops—cosmopolitan, sexy, and funny." —LA América del Norte by Nicolás Medina Mora [F] Pitched as a novel that "blends the Latin American traditions of Roberto Bolaño and Fernanda Melchor with the autofiction of U.S. writers like Ben Lerner and Teju Cole," Mora's debut follows a young member of the Mexican elite as he wrestles with questions of race, politics, geography, and immigration. n+1 co-editor Marco Roth calls Mora "the voice of the NAFTA generation, and much more." —SMS How It Works Out by Myriam Lacroix [F] LaCroix's debut novel is the latest in a strong early slate of novels for the Overlook Press in 2024, and follows a lesbian couple as their relationship falls to pieces across a number of possible realities. The increasingly fascinating and troubling potentialities—B-list feminist celebrity, toxic employer-employee tryst, adopting a street urchin, cannibalism as relationship cure—form a compelling image of a complex relationship in multiversal hypotheticals. —JHM Cinema Love by Jiaming Tang [F] Ting's debut novel, which spans two continents and three timelines, follows two gay men in rural China—and, later, New York City's Chinatown—who frequent the Workers' Cinema, a movie theater where queer men cruise for love. Robert Jones, Jr. praises this one as "the unforgettable work of a patient master," and Jessamine Chan calls it "not just an extraordinary debut, but a future classic." —SMS First Love by Lilly Dancyger [NF] Dancyger's essay collection explores the platonic romances that bloom between female friends, giving those bonds the love-story treatment they deserve. Centering each essay around a formative female friendship, and drawing on everything from Anaïs Nin and Sylvia Plath to the "sad girls" of Tumblr, Dancyger probes the myriad meanings and iterations of friendship, love, and womanhood. —SMS See Loss See Also Love by Yukiko Tominaga [F] In this impassioned debut, we follow Kyoko, freshly widowed and left to raise her son alone. Through four vignettes, Kyoko must decide how to raise her multiracial son, whether to remarry or stay husbandless, and how to deal with life in the face of loss. Weike Wang describes this one as “imbued with a wealth of wisdom, exploring the languages of love and family.” —DF The Novices of Lerna by Ángel Bonomini, tr. Jordan Landsman [F] The Novices of Lerna is Landsman's translation debut, and what a way to start out: with a work by an Argentine writer in the tradition of Jorge Luis Borges and Adolfo Bioy Casares whose work has never been translated into English. Judging by the opening of this short story, also translated by Landsman, Bonomini's novel of a mysterious fellowship at a Swiss university populated by doppelgängers of the protagonist is unlikely to disappoint. —JHM Black Meme by Legacy Russell [NF] Russell, best known for her hit manifesto Glitch Feminism, maps Black visual culture in her latest. Black Meme traces the history of Black imagery from 1900 to the present, from the photograph of Emmett Till published in JET magazine to the footage of Rodney King's beating at the hands of the LAPD, which Russell calls the first viral video. Per Margo Jefferson, "You will be galvanized by Legacy Russell’s analytic brilliance and visceral eloquence." —SMS The Eighth Moon by Jennifer Kabat [NF] Kabat's debut memoir unearths the history of the small Catskills town to which she relocated in 2005. The site of a 19th-century rural populist uprising, and now home to a colorful cast of characters, the Appalachian community becomes a lens through which Kabat explores political, economic, and ecological issues, mining the archives and the work of such writers as Adrienne Rich and Elizabeth Hardwick along the way. —SMS Stories from the Center of the World ed. Jordan Elgrably [F] Many in America hold onto broad, centuries-old misunderstandings of Arab and Muslim life and politics that continue to harm, through both policy and rhetoric, a perpetually embattled and endangered region. With luck, these 25 tales by writers of Middle Eastern and North African origin might open hearts and minds alike. —JHM An Encyclopedia of Gardening for Colored Children by Jamaica Kincaid and Kara Walker [NF] Two of the most brilliant minds on the planet—writer Jamaica Kincaid and visual artist Kara Walker—have teamed up! On a book! About plants! A dream come true. Details on this slim volume are scant—see for yourself—but I'm counting down the minutes till I can read it all the same. —SMS Physics of Sorrow by Georgi Gospodinov, tr. Angela Rodel [F] I'll be honest: I would pick up this book—by the International Booker Prize–winning author of Time Shelter—for the title alone. But also, the book is billed as a deeply personal meditation on both Communist Bulgaria and Greek myth, so—yep, still picking this one up. —JHM May 14 This Strange Eventful History by Claire Messud [F] I read an ARC of this enthralling fictionalization of Messud’s family history—people wandering the world during much of the 20th century, moving from Algeria to France to North America— and it is quite the story, with a postscript that will smack you on the side of the head and make you re-think everything you just read. I can't recommend this enough. —CK Woodworm by Layla Martinez, tr. Sophie Hughes and Annie McDermott [F] Martinez’s debut novel takes cabin fever to the max in this story of a grandmother,  granddaughter, and their haunted house, set against the backdrop of the Spanish Civil War. As the story unfolds, so do the house’s secrets, the two women must learn to collaborate with the malevolent spirits living among them. Mariana Enriquez says that this "tense, chilling novel tells a story of specters, class war, violence, and loneliness, as naturally as if the witches had dictated this lucid, terrible nightmare to Martínez themselves.” —LA Self Esteem and the End of the World by Luke Healy [NF] Ah, writers writing about writing. A tale as old as time, and often timeworn to boot. But graphic novelists graphically noveling about graphic novels? (Verbing weirds language.) It still feels fresh to me! Enter Healy's tale of "two decades of tragicomic self-discovery" following a protagonist "two years post publication of his latest book" and "grappling with his identity as the world crumbles." —JHM All Fours by Miranda July [F] In excruciating, hilarious detail, All Fours voices the ethically dubious thoughts and deeds of an unnamed 45-year-old artist who’s worried about aging and her capacity for desire. After setting off on a two-week round-trip drive from Los Angeles to New York City, the narrator impulsively checks into a motel 30 miles from her home and only pretends to be traveling. Her flagrant lies, unapologetic indolence, and semi-consummated seduction of a rent-a-car employee set the stage for a liberatory inquisition of heteronorms and queerness. July taps into the perimenopause zeitgeist that animates Jen Beagin’s Big Swiss and Melissa Broder’s Death Valley. —NodB Love Junkie by Robert Plunket [F] When a picture-perfect suburban housewife's life is turned upside down, a chance brush with New York City's gay scene launches her into gainful, albeit unconventional, employment. Set at the dawn of the AIDs epidemic, Mimi Smithers, described as a "modern-day Madame Bovary," goes from planning parties in Westchester to selling used underwear with a Manhattan porn star. As beloved as it is controversial, Plunket's 1992 cult novel will get a much-deserved second life thanks to this reissue by New Directions. (Maybe this will finally galvanize Madonna, who once optioned the film rights, to finally make that movie.) —DF Tomorrowing by Terry Bisson [F] The newest volume in Duke University’s Practices series collects for the first time the late Terry Bisson’s Locus column "This Month in History," which ran for two decades. In it, the iconic "They’re Made Out of Meat" author weaves an alt-history of a world almost parallel to ours, featuring AI presidents, moon mountain hikes, a 196-year-old Walt Disney’s resurrection, and a space pooch on Mars. This one promises to be a pure spectacle of speculative fiction. —DF Chop Fry Watch Learn by Michelle T. King [NF] A large portion of the American populace still confuses Chinese American food with Chinese food. What a delight, then, to discover this culinary history of the worldwide dissemination of that great cuisine—which moonlights as a biography of Chinese cookbook and TV cooking program pioneer Fu Pei-mei. —JHM On the Couch ed. Andrew Blauner [NF] André Aciman, Susie Boyt, Siri Hustvedt, Rivka Galchen, and Colm Tóibín are among the 25 literary luminaries to contribute essays on Freud and his complicated legacy to this lively volume, edited by writer, editor, and literary agent Blauner. Taking tacts both personal and psychoanalytical, these essays paint a fresh, full picture of Freud's life, work, and indelible cultural impact. —SMS Another Word for Love by Carvell Wallace [NF] Wallace is one of the best journalists (and tweeters) working today, so I'm really looking forward to his debut memoir, which chronicles growing up Black and queer in America, and navigating the world through adulthood. One of the best writers working today, Kiese Laymon, calls Another Word for Love as “One of the most soulfully crafted memoirs I’ve ever read. I couldn’t figure out how Carvell Wallace blurred time, region, care, and sexuality into something so different from anything I’ve read before." —SMS The Devil's Best Trick by Randall Sullivan [NF] A cultural history interspersed with memoir and reportage, Sullivan's latest explores our ever-changing understandings of evil and the devil, from Egyptian gods and the Book of Job to the Salem witch trials and Black Mass ceremonies. Mining the work of everyone from Zoraster, Plato, and John Milton to Edgar Allen Poe, Aleister Crowley, and Charles Baudelaire, this sweeping book chronicles evil and the devil in their many forms. --SMS The Book Against Death by Elias Canetti, tr. Peter Filkins [NF] In this newly-translated collection, Nobel laureate Canetti, who once called himself death's "mortal enemy," muses on all that death inevitably touches—from the smallest ant to the Greek gods—and condemns death as a byproduct of war and despots' willingness to use death as a pathway to power. By means of this book's very publication, Canetti somewhat succeeds in staving off death himself, ensuring that his words live on forever. —DF Rise of a Killah by Ghostface Killah [NF] "Why is the sky blue? Why is water wet? Why did Judas rat to the Romans while Jesus slept?" Ghostface Killah has always asked the big questions. Here's another one: Who needs to read a blurb on a literary site to convince them to read Ghost's memoir? —JHM May 21 Exhibit by R.O. Kwon [F] It's been six years since Kwon's debut, The Incendiaries, hit shelves, and based on that book's flinty prose alone, her latest would be worth a read. But it's also a tale of awakening—of its protagonist's latent queerness, and of the "unquiet spirit of an ancestor," that the author herself calls so "shot through with physical longing, queer lust, and kink" that she hopes her parents will never read it. Tantalizing enough for you? —JHM Cecilia by K-Ming Chang [F] Chang, the author of Bestiary, Gods of Want, and Organ Meats, returns with this provocative and oft-surreal novella. While the story is about two childhood friends who became estranged after a bizarre sexual encounter but re-connect a decade later, it’s also an exploration of how the human body and its excretions can be both pleasurable and disgusting. —CK The Great State of West Florida by Kent Wascom [F] The Great State of West Florida is Wascom's latest gothicomic novel set on Florida's apocalyptic coast. A gritty, ominous book filled with doomed Floridians, the passages fly by with sentences that delight in propulsive excess. In the vein of Thomas McGuane's early novels or Brian De Palma's heyday, this stylized, savory, and witty novel wields pulp with care until it blooms into a new strain of American gothic. —Zachary Issenberg Cartoons by Kit Schluter [F] Bursting with Kafkaesque absurdism and a hearty dab of abstraction, Schluter’s Cartoons is an animated vignette of life's minutae. From the ravings of an existential microwave to a pencil that is afraid of paper, Schluter’s episodic outré oozes with animism and uncanniness. A grand addition to City Light’s repertoire, it will serve as a zany reminder of the lengths to which great fiction can stretch. —DF May 28 Lost Writings by Mina Loy, ed. Karla Kelsey [F] In the early 20th century, avant-garde author, visual artist, and gallerist Mina Loy (1882–1966) led an astonishing creative life amid European and American modernist circles; she satirized Futurists, participated in Surrealist performance art, and created paintings and assemblages in addition to writing about her experiences in male-dominated fields of artistic practice. Diligent feminist scholars and art historians have long insisted on her cultural significance, yet the first Loy retrospective wasn’t until 2023. Now Karla Kelsey, a poet and essayist, unveils two never-before-published, autobiographical midcentury manuscripts by Loy, The Child and the Parent and Islands in the Air, written from the 1930s to the 1950s. It's never a bad time to be re-rediscovered. —NodB I'm a Fool to Want You by Camila Sosa Villada, tr. Kit Maude [F] Villada, whose debut novel Bad Girls, also translated by Maude, captured the travesti experience in Argentina, returns with a short story collection that runs the genre gamut from gritty realism and social satire to science fiction and fantasy. The throughline is Villada's boundless imagination, whether she's conjuring the chaos of the Mexican Inquisition or a trans sex worker befriending a down-and-out Billie Holiday. Angie Cruz calls this "one of my favorite short-story collections of all time." —SMS The Editor by Sara B. Franklin [NF] Franklin's tenderly written and meticulously researched biography of Judith Jones—the legendary Knopf editor who worked with such authors as John Updike, Sylvia Plath, Elizabeth Bowen, Anne Tyler, and, perhaps most consequentially, Julia Child—was largely inspired by Franklin's own friendship with Jones in the final years of her life, and draws on a rich trove of interviews and archives. The Editor retrieves Jones from the margins of publishing history and affirms her essential role in shaping the postwar cultural landscape, from fiction to cooking and beyond. —SMS The Book-Makers by Adam Smyth [NF] A history of the book told through 18 microbiographies of particularly noteworthy historical personages who made them? If that's not enough to convince you, consider this: the small press is represented here by Nancy Cunard, the punchy and enormously influential founder of Hours Press who romanced both Aldous Huxley and Ezra Pound, knew Hemingway and Joyce and Langston Hughes and William Carlos Williams, and has her own MI5 file. Also, the subject of the binding chapter is named "William Wildgoose." —JHM June June 4 The Future Was Color by Patrick Nathan [F] A gay Hungarian immigrant writing crappy monster movies in the McCarthy-era Hollywood studio system gets swept up by a famous actress and brought to her estate in Malibu to write what he really cares about—and realizes he can never escape his traumatic past. Sunset Boulevard is shaking. —JHM A Cage Went in Search of a Bird [F] This collection brings together a who's who of literary writers—10 of them, to be precise— to write Kafka fanfiction, from Joshua Cohen to Yiyun Li. Then it throws in weirdo screenwriting dynamo Charlie Kaufman, for good measure. A boon for Kafkaheads everywhere. —JHM We Refuse by Kellie Carter Jackson [NF] Jackson, a historian and professor at Wellesley College, explores the past and present of Black resistance to white supremacy, from work stoppages to armed revolt. Paying special attention to acts of resistance by Black women, Jackson attempts to correct the historical record while plotting a path forward. Jelani Cobb describes this "insurgent history" as "unsparing, erudite, and incisive." —SMS Holding It Together by Jessica Calarco [NF] Sociologist Calarco's latest considers how, in lieu of social safety nets, the U.S. has long relied on women's labor, particularly as caregivers, to hold society together. Calarco argues that while other affluent nations cover the costs of care work and direct significant resources toward welfare programs, American women continue to bear the brunt of the unpaid domestic labor that keeps the nation afloat. Anne Helen Petersen calls this "a punch in the gut and a call to action." —SMS Miss May Does Not Exist by Carrie Courogen [NF] A biography of Elaine May—what more is there to say? I cannot wait to read this chronicle of May's life, work, and genius by one of my favorite writers and tweeters. Claire Dederer calls this "the biography Elaine May deserves"—which is to say, as brilliant as she was. —SMS Fire Exit by Morgan Talty [F] Talty, whose gritty story collection Night of the Living Rez was garlanded with awards, weighs the concept of blood quantum—a measure that federally recognized tribes often use to determine Indigenous membership—in his debut novel. Although Talty is a citizen of the Penobscot Indian Nation, his narrator is on the outside looking in, a working-class white man named Charles who grew up on Maine’s Penobscot Reservation with a Native stepfather and friends. Now Charles, across the river from the reservation and separated from his biological daughter, who lives there, ponders his exclusion in a novel that stokes controversy around the terms of belonging. —NodB June 11 The Material by Camille Bordas [F] My high school English teacher, a somewhat dowdy but slyly comical religious brother, had a saying about teaching high school students: "They don't remember the material, but they remember the shtick." Leave it to a well-named novel about stand-up comedy (by the French author of How to Behave in a Crowd) to make you remember both. --SMS Ask Me Again by Clare Sestanovich [F] Sestanovich follows up her debut story collection, Objects of Desire, with a novel exploring a complicated friendship over the years. While Eva and Jamie are seemingly opposites—she's a reserved South Brooklynite, while he's a brash Upper Manhattanite—they bond over their innate curiosity. Their paths ultimately diverge when Eva settles into a conventional career as Jamie channels his rebelliousness into politics. Ask Me Again speaks to anyone who has ever wondered whether going against the grain is in itself a matter of privilege. Jenny Offill calls this "a beautifully observed and deeply philosophical novel, which surprises and delights at every turn." —LA Disordered Attention by Claire Bishop [NF] Across four essays, art historian and critic Bishop diagnoses how digital technology and the attention economy have changed the way we look at art and performance today, identifying trends across the last three decades. A perfect read for fans of Anna Kornbluh's Immediacy, or the Style of Too Late Capitalism (also from Verso). War by Louis-Ferdinand Céline, tr. Charlotte Mandell [F] For years, literary scholars mourned the lost manuscripts of Céline, the acclaimed and reviled French author whose work was stolen from his Paris apartment after he fled to Germany in 1944, fearing punishment for his collaboration with the Nazis. But, with the recent discovery of those fabled manuscripts, War is now seeing the light of day thanks to New Directions (for anglophone readers, at least—the French have enjoyed this one since 2022 courtesy of Gallimard). Adam Gopnik writes of War, "A more intense realization of the horrors of the Great War has never been written." —DF The Uptown Local by Cory Leadbeater [NF] In his debut memoir, Leadbeater revisits the decade he spent working as Joan Didion's personal assistant. While he enjoyed the benefits of working with Didion—her friendship and mentorship, the more glamorous appointments on her social calendar—he was also struggling with depression, addiction, and profound loss. Leadbeater chronicles it all in what Chloé Cooper Jones calls "a beautiful catalog of twin yearnings: to be seen and to disappear; to belong everywhere and nowhere; to go forth and to return home, and—above all else—to love and to be loved." —SMS Out of the Sierra by Victoria Blanco [NF] Blanco weaves storytelling with old-fashioned investigative journalism to spotlight the endurance of Mexico's Rarámuri people, one of the largest Indigenous tribes in North America, in the face of environmental disasters, poverty, and the attempts to erase their language and culture. This is an important book for our times, dealing with pressing issues such as colonialism, migration, climate change, and the broken justice system. —CK Any Person Is the Only Self by Elisa Gabbert [NF] Gabbert is one of my favorite living writers, whether she's deconstructing a poem or tweeting about Seinfeld. Her essays are what I love most, and her newest collection—following 2020's The Unreality of Memory—sees Gabbert in rare form: witty and insightful, clear-eyed and candid. I adored these essays, and I hope (the inevitable success of) this book might augur something an essay-collection renaissance. (Seriously! Publishers! Where are the essay collections!) —SMS Tehrangeles by Porochista Khakpour [F] Khakpour's wit has always been keen, and it's hard to imagine a writer better positioned to take the concept of Shahs of Sunset and make it literary. "Like Little Women on an ayahuasca trip," says Kevin Kwan, "Tehrangeles is delightfully twisted and heartfelt."  —JHM Traveling: On the Path of Joni Mitchell by Ann Powers [NF] The moment I saw this book's title—which comes from the opening (and, as it happens, my favorite) track on Mitchell's 1971 masterpiece Blue—I knew it would be one of my favorite reads of the year. Powers, one of the very best music critics we've got, masterfully guides readers through Mitchell's life and work at a fascinating slant, her approach both sweeping and intimate as she occupies the dual roles of biographer and fan. —SMS All Desire Is a Desire for Being by René Girard, ed. Cynthia L. Haven [NF] I'll be honest—the title alone stirs something primal in me. In honor of Girard's centennial, Penguin Classics is releasing a smartly curated collection of his most poignant—and timely—essays, touching on everything from violence to religion to the nature of desire. Comprising essays selected by the scholar and literary critic Cynthia L. Haven, who is also the author of the first-ever biographical study of Girard, Evolution of Desire, this book is "essential reading for Girard devotees and a perfect entrée for newcomers," per Maria Stepanova. —DF June 18 Craft by Ananda Lima [F] Can you imagine a situation in which interconnected stories about a writer who sleeps with the devil at a Halloween party and can't shake him over the following decades wouldn't compel? Also, in one of the stories, New York City’s Penn Station is an analogue for hell, which is both funny and accurate. —JHM Parade by Rachel Cusk [F] Rachel Cusk has a new novel, her first in three years—the anticipation is self-explanatory. —SMS Little Rot by Akwaeke Emezi [F] Multimedia polymath and gender-norm disrupter Emezi, who just dropped an Afropop EP under the name Akwaeke, examines taboo and trauma in their creative work. This literary thriller opens with an upscale sex party and escalating violence, and although pre-pub descriptions leave much to the imagination (promising “the elite underbelly of a Nigerian city” and “a tangled web of sex and lies and corruption”), Emezi can be counted upon for an ambience of dread and a feverish momentum. —NodB When the Clock Broke by John Ganz [NF] I was having a conversation with multiple brilliant, thoughtful friends the other day, and none of them remembered the year during which the Battle of Waterloo took place. Which is to say that, as a rule, we should all learn our history better. So it behooves us now to listen to John Ganz when he tells us that all the wackadoodle fascist right-wing nonsense we can't seem to shake from our political system has been kicking around since at least the early 1990s. —JHM Night Flyer by Tiya Miles [NF] Miles is one of our greatest living historians and a beautiful writer to boot, as evidenced by her National Book Award–winning book All That She Carried. Her latest is a reckoning with the life and legend of Harriet Tubman, which Miles herself describes as an "impressionistic biography." As in all her work, Miles fleshes out the complexity, humanity, and social and emotional world of her subject. Tubman biographer Catherine Clinton says Miles "continues to captivate readers with her luminous prose, her riveting attention to detail, and her continuing genius to bring the past to life." —SMS God Bless You, Otis Spunkmeyer by Joseph Earl Thomas [F] Thomas's debut novel comes just two years after a powerful memoir of growing up Black, gay, nerdy, and in poverty in 1990s Philadelphia. Here, he returns to themes and settings that in that book, Sink, proved devastating, and throws post-service military trauma into the mix. —JHM June 25 The Garden Against Time by Olivia Laing [NF] I've been a fan of Laing's since The Lonely City, a formative read for a much-younger me (and I'd suspect for many Millions readers), so I'm looking forward to her latest, an inquiry into paradise refracted through the experience of restoring an 18th-century garden at her home the English countryside. As always, her life becomes a springboard for exploring big, thorny ideas (no pun intended)—in this case, the possibilities of gardens and what it means to make paradise on earth. —SMS Cue the Sun! by Emily Nussbaum [NF] Emily Nussbaum is pretty much the reason I started writing. Her 2019 collection of television criticism, I Like to Watch, was something of a Bible for college-aged me (and, in fact, was the first book I ever reviewed), and I've been anxiously awaiting her next book ever since. It's finally arrived, in the form of an utterly devourable cultural history of reality TV. Samantha Irby says, "Only Emily Nussbaum could get me to read, and love, a book about reality TV rather than just watching it," and David Grann remarks, "It’s rare for a book to feel alive, but this one does." —SMS Woman of Interest by Tracy O'Neill [NF] O’Neill's first work of nonfiction—an intimate memoir written with the narrative propulsion of a detective novel—finds her on the hunt for her biological mother, who she worries might be dying somewhere in South Korea. As she uncovers the truth about her enigmatic mother with the help of a private investigator, her journey increasingly becomes one of self-discovery. Chloé Cooper Jones writes that Woman of Interest “solidifies her status as one of our greatest living prose stylists.” —LA Dancing on My Own by Simon Wu [NF] New Yorkers reading this list may have witnessed Wu's artful curation at the Brooklyn Museum, or the Whitney, or the Museum of Modern Art. It makes one wonder how much he curated the order of these excellent, wide-ranging essays, which meld art criticism, personal narrative, and travel writing—and count Cathy Park Hong and Claudia Rankine as fans. —JHM [millions_email]

A Guide to Making Art as a Parent

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How does a parent maintain a creative hobby? This was the question posed in a recent Care and Feeding column at Slate by an artist and first-time mother. She sketched the arc of her creative life: before motherhood, she supported herself through commissions and sales of her art; now, she was the mostly-solo parent of a toddler, with a husband “who works on remote sites for months at a time,” living in a northern climate that keeps her indoors and isolated with her child until late spring each year. She described trying to sit down at the end of the day to create, but finding her brain “mush,” what with the unrelenting demands of cleaning, meal prep, and other housework lapping at her conscience and executive function. “Even just being able to work on a project in stolen moments would be a relief,” she wrote, “but I give everything I have to keeping our life together and it's still not enough.” The response from Care and Feeding guest columnist Doyin Richards, framed as “tough love,” scolded, “All I’m hearing is a bunch of excuses.” Richards proceeded to rattle off a litany of suggestions (Have you tried sleeping less? Not doing housework? Hiring a nanny, or having a friend or family member babysit?). “Any successful person with young children… will share similar stories of the sacrifices they made to make it to where they are now,” he said. “If they can do it, why can’t you?” “It truly comes down to how badly you want it,” he concluded. As if the burdens and resources of childcare are evenly distributed in our country, as if the artist-mother had simply dismissed the possibility of hiring a nanny due to a lack of desire. This is a familiar, Calvinist idea about who succeeds in making art, and a wrong one, based on a deep misunderstanding—common among not only the general public but also artists and many of those who teach them—about what it takes to sustain an artistic career through a lifetime that includes caregiving. It’s the artistic corollary to the myth of the American dream: that those who succeed in artistic careers are those who wanted, and thus deserved, it most. But who writes to an advice column at their wit’s end because they have lukewarm desire? Wanting is not the issue here; the issue is resources—material, certainly, but also educational. The artist-mother had asked: “How does a parent maintain a creative hobby?” “How” is a question we ask when we want to learn something. What she wanted was to learn how to establish and maintain a creative practice in motherhood. That Richards did not know how to teach her this does not mean that it’s unteachable; it means he wasn’t equipped to do this kind of teaching. Richards is far from alone in his lack of understanding of how mothers can be taught to make, and persist in making, art. In the U.S., both art-making and motherhood are largely viewed as solo endeavors, with success in either viewed as a confluence of talent and determination. The most prestigious writing program in the country reinforces this view, declaring on their program philosophy website, “We continue to look for the most promising talent in the country in our conviction that writing cannot be taught but that writers can be encouraged”—a bold claim for a program offering a graduate degree. This belief in the primacy of talent in an artist’s success is predicated on a narrow understanding of what it means—and what is required—to support an artist’s growth. Contrast Iowa’s statement with James Baldwin’s take on the role of talent in an artist’s development. Asked by the Paris Review if he could “discern talent in someone,” he answered: “Talent is insignificant. I know a lot of talented ruins. Beyond talent lie all the usual words: discipline, love, luck, but most of all, endurance.” Baldwin’s valuing of discipline, love, and endurance over talent—and even Iowa’s acknowledgement of the importance of encouragement—highlights the importance of what’s known as the affective domain of learning. The focus of much teaching and learning is often on the cognitive domain—that is, knowledge and the development of intellectual skills. But the affective domain is how we process and respond emotionally to new experiences, information, and challenges. It’s made up of beliefs and mindsets that are hard to quantify but often constitute the most important learning of our lifetimes: how you came to believe something about the world, or about yourself; how you shed old assumptions; how you learned to navigate a new challenge or system. The vast majority of American education focuses on the cognitive domain—on facts and skills, the stuff that’s measured on state tests—unless we’re teaching character traits like “grit” to marginalized middle-schoolers. But in nearly two decades of teaching writing to undergraduate, graduate, and adult writers, I’ve come to understand that the education of writers has to attend as much to the affective domain of learning as it does to the cognitive. This might sound suspiciously woo-woo. I was once a skeptic; my earliest teacher training was all about outcomes and data-driven significant gains and no excuses. I have since shed or significantly modified almost all of those beliefs, but retained a core tenet: that effective teaching really can do something like magic, more than anyone expects it to; that it’s our responsibility as teachers to leverage any and all tools to help our students succeed. Besides, artists spend much of our time trying to portray, describe, analyze the ineffable—why would we doubt its importance in our learning? It’s often said that writing is a career of attrition, and there are few more consistent drop-off points in a woman's career than the birth of a child. When we discuss how to teach writers—especially those who are in some way marginal or vulnerable—we can talk about analyzing and emulating elements of craft, reading and responding to students’ work. But if we are not also tending to teaching them how to keep going—if we are not helping them cultivate the practices and mindsets that help them sustain their work, when everything else in the world makes not-writing the rational choice—we are failing them in one of the most vital domains of their education. Academia might be starting to catch on. The recent success of books on creative writing pedagogy such as Craft in the Real World and The Anti-Racist Writing Workshop, and the subsequent implementation of many of the practices recommended therein, in writing classes across the country, points not only to understanding of the vital need to interrupt and reverse the effects of white supremacy on the teaching of literary craft, but more broadly, acknowledgement of the need for closer attention to the affective domain of any program purporting to teach writers. Quite plainly, the affective domain is the subject of the letter that that artist-mother wrote to Slate. Not: how do I apply paint to canvas? How do I shape a scene on a page? But: How do I keep going when I feel so alone? Perhaps Richards’ response left her fired up and determined, which I’m guessing was his intent. But I’m more inclined to imagine her feeling blamed and dispirited, crying in an April snowstorm. * I am a writer, a mother, and a teacher. This fall marks my twentieth heading a classroom or writing program, and my sixth teaching a graduate seminar in creative writing pedagogy in Columbia University’s MFA writing program. This past summer, I led the eighth cohort of a course called “Writing Through Motherhood,” an independent workshop I developed when I was pregnant with my second child, in a determined attempt to avoid winding up exactly where the Care and Feeding’s artist-mother is—which is to say, exactly where I was with my first child. When that first child was born, three years after I graduated with my MFA in fiction, I was in my third year of a demanding job leading a writing center at a public university. I was supervising a staff of 32, pumping breast milk twice a day, bolting out the door at 5pm sharp for a one-hour commute so I could spend what time I could with this new child who I loved more than anything in the world before he fell asleep at 7:30, then waking up multiple times a night to feed him. I did not have a single night of uninterrupted sleep for 18 months. I did my job reasonably well, I parented reasonably well, but I did not write. When a new-mother friend in the neighborhood mentioned the au pair she’d hired for their newborn so that her husband could work on his first novel, I knew this to be so far from my material reality that I didn’t even mention that I wrote, or that I’d written. To call myself a writer would have made me feel like a failure and a fraud. But then, magically, aided by a three-hour time change on a trip to visit friends, my son learned how to sleep through the night. He stopped nursing. A month later, my writer brain came back online, along with a voice that urged: If you want to write, you're going to have to learn how to do it, now. I reached out to a friend from my MFA program who also had a baby, and we established a weekly check-in; I set a weekly writing goal of 3,000 words, an intentionally high-for-me number that would require me to shine a flashlight through the tattered sheet of my schedule to find every possible pinhole of light. I wrote during my lunch break, on my phone on the subway, in those last 15 minutes before I passed out in bed. I started writing regularly, more regularly than I had ever managed before children, or even in my MFA program. The novel that I’d begun in my graduate program began to grow. When I was pregnant with my second child, I vowed: never again would I lose connection with my writing, with myself. And as I spoke to writers who were pregnant or had small children and who shared the same anxieties, I understood that I could guide others on the same path. I hoped that doing so would guide me, too. Based on teaching experience and instinct, I knew some things would help: creating a community; combatting loneliness; establishing purpose and setting goals; connecting to the literary tradition of writing through motherhood; talking honestly about the simultaneous restrictions of time and brain function and the extraordinary blooming of sensitivity and creativity that often accompanies the period of early parenthood. It wasn’t until years later that I encountered a study by the New England Learner Persistence Project, which provided a framework for many of the practices I had intuited and assembled through my teaching. The 2009 NELP project engaged 18 New England-based adult education programs to ask: What drives persistence? What, in other words, makes adult learners—often low-income and/or immigrants, with multiple jobs and families to support—decide to keep showing up to learn, even when so much else in life makes it profoundly difficult? So I’d like to offer an adaptation of this framework now—to the writer of the letter to Care and Feeding, to teachers of writers and other artists, and to anyone out there trying to piece together an artistic practice amid motherhood. To generously interpret the intent of Richards’s response, it is likely true that the writer of the letter is the only one in her life at this moment who is going to decide that this her work is important, and who is able to make it happen. But she doesn’t have to start from scratch, and she doesn’t have to do it alone. * Sense of belonging and community is the first driver of persistence that the NELP report identifies. “It is human nature that when we feel welcomed, respected, and develop a sense of belonging, we are more apt to return to the setting or task then when those factors are not present,” the report claims. “Building community calls for fostering connections among people. Activities and processes that help students get to know one another build trust and camaraderie.” So: the first thing that any parent-artist can do to support their artistic practices is to find at least one other person doing the same. Reach out to someone you know (or knew) in a setting where you made art together in the past, if that exists for you, or seek out others who have similar interests and circumstances. Fates forgive me, but Twitter is actually great for this. A buddy may be all you need to get started. If you wish to take it further, look for the many existing communities established by parent-artists—such as Lenka Clayton’s Artist Residency in Motherhood, Pen Parentis, Writing Through Motherhood alum’s Catherine Mueller’s PAMAs/MAMAs workshops, Nancy Reddy and Emily Perez’s Writing Through the Confetti Time of Caregiving, or the Here to Save You podcast hosted by Annie Hartnett, Tessa Fontaine, and Ellen O’Connell Whittet, among many, many others. Spend a morning Googling; find a community or class that fits your vibe, your budget, your schedule, and connect. The one thing I want to underscore is that you’re not just looking for another artist or writer; you’re looking for another artist-parent, ideally one in a similar stage of parenting as you. (Being the sole parent in a writing workshop can be more isolating than writing solo, in some ways.) Once you have your partner or community, get talking about your lives and your work. Nearly instantly, you will feel less alone, and more capable of going forward. You will watch someone you know and respect struggle and adapt to extraordinary circumstances. You’ll watch them feel like failures, and you’ll give them pep talks when they do, because you can clearly see the truth: that the work they’re making is valuable, and their circumstances are challenging. Then, all of a sudden, you’ll be on the receiving end of that same pep talk. There will be times you won’t believe them. But eventually, you will. And that will help. * I’d like to interrupt NELP’s recommendations with one of my own, specific to artists: Creative exposure and connection. In addition to connecting with other artist-mothers, it’s vital to also connect to art. The artist-mother who wrote to Care and Feeding lamented, “I’ve tried to sit down and make something after my daughter goes to bed, but after a full day with a baby (under stimulating but somehow still exhausting) my brain is mush, and I just want to be passively entertained by the TV or a podcast.” For anyone looking for a toe-hold in creative practice, infusing small amounts of art into your day can help you re-enter the imaginative life of a practicing artist. There are a few ways to achieve this. When you take a drive or a walk with the stroller, or when you’re meal prepping or doing dishes, you might choose a podcast or audiobook (many libraries offer these for free download) or podcast connected to your discipline. At night, if you’re exhausted, by all means wrap those episodes of Ted Lasso or Schitt’s Creek around you like a down comforter. But at least once a week, choose a book or show or film that’s somehow in conversation with your project or creative discipline. Feed your brain and your imagination, and they’ll begin to talk back. It can be particularly powerful to seek out art by mothers in your creative tradition. Often, I ask students in my Writing Through Motherhood workshops to research and read from one artist-mother whose work they admire. When did the writer have children, and when did and how did they make their work? What resources and challenges were present in their lives? How did motherhood show up in or affect their creative work? We are, hallelujah, in a moment of Rachel Yoder and Jacqueline Woodson and Jessamine Chan, of Julia Fine and Lisa Ko and Elena Ferrante, a moment where motherhood is being recognized as the subject of ambitious, creative, intellectually rigorous work. If you’ve absorbed the beliefs that making art about motherhood is sentimental, lightweight, lesser-than, shoring yourself up with work such as these can be empowering. In The Artist’s Way, Julia Cameron calls for weekly “Artist Dates”—solo excursions to immerse oneself in art or the stuff that inspires it. The idea of a solo excursion, let alone something so formal and regular, may feel like a luxury beyond reach for many caretakers of small children. But these can be modified, and often can be done with children. If there are any close by, by all means, take a field trip to a museum or gallery or library or bookshop, or take in a concert or performance. But you can also, simply, read together, draw together, tell stories, write, listen to music, make music. A solo outing to see a play can be a wonderful artist date, but so can that walk with an audiobook while your child naps in their stroller. Crank up the art in your life every way you can, to both feed your imagination and learn from the examples of those who have worked in similar creative circumstances. * Clarity of purpose is the next affective need named in the NELP project, and it refers to making clear the goals and dreams that drive our learning. “By hearing the goals and aspirations of others,” goes the report, “they often expand their notions of what is possible.” To accomplish this clarity of purpose, the NELP recommends establishing concrete goals and creating opportunities for adult learners to see they are making measurable progress. It’s common to have big, lofty goals for our writing—I’m going to write that novel/finish this essay/publish this book. Goals like these, while true, can feel intimidatingly ambitious, distant, and beyond our control. But I was struck by how meager the goal of the advice-seeker in Care and Feeding was: “How do I maintain a creative hobby?” I just want to get back into it.  What can help with both grand and modest goals is setting specific, weekly goals—and, if you’ve found a writing buddy or community, declaring these goals at the start of the week and reporting back at its end. One way to make writing goals more effective is to move away from product goals (I’m going to write X; I’m going to finish Y) and toward process and/or practice goals—because “I want to finish this novel” is huge and vague and unachievable in all except the very last writing session before it’s sent to print. Process goals name a specific next step in your writing or artistic process (I’m going to spend one hour researching this topic. I’m going to revise my conclusion. I’m going to revise the first chapter for imagery, or sound. I’m going to make an outline. I’m going to write three pages of a shitty first draft), while practice goals focus more on simply dedicating time focused on your work (I’m going to write three longhand pages first thing when I wake up, or after I drop my kid off at camp, or before I go to bed. I’m going to spend one 25-minute Pomodoro session writing. I’m going to write 1,000 words this week, or 100, or one sentence a day).  Shifting into a different paradigm of goal-setting—one based in practice or process—can both give us something achievable and concrete to work towards, and help build self-efficacy when we do so. It can also help us make a concrete strategy: not I’ll sit down and see what happens, but I’ll sit down and free-write for 15 minutes. I’ll sit down and revise this scene to make the imagery resonate with the themes of my novel. I’ll sit down and highlight the dialogue between these two characters to make sure their building conflict makes sense. I’ll sit down and see what I have, and then make a note about what I might do next time. The beauty of pairing goal-setting with buddy- or group-system is that we build an accountability structure: for ourselves and for someone else. When we meet our goal, we have someone cheering for us (and perhaps, as my writing buddy Clare Beams and I did in our early days of partnership, sending us prizes from the internet, like videos of otters holding hands, or the latest brilliance from the Awl). And when we don’t, we have someone supporting us anyway, keeping us from beating ourselves up, and making sure we plan for the week ahead. * The next affective need, Agency, extends Clarity of purpose into action. NELP defines agency as “the capacity for human beings to make things happen through their actions.” In other words, deciding what one wants to do is clarity of purpose; finding a way to get it done is agency. When your life shifts from one of relative independence to one that revolves around the feeding, sleep, and care of a tiny human seemingly hellbent on its own death, your agency can feel suddenly, profoundly limited. When the ability to feed yourself, or keep up with laundry, or print a return label, or schedule a doctor’s appointment seems beyond your grasp, carving out time to write, let alone establishing a regular schedule, may sound like a pipe dream. Forget self-actualization; I need to take a shower. Writers can certainly experience a sense of agency from setting a goal, as discussed above, then meeting it. This is another reason that setting appropriately small-scaled goals can be so buoying for a writing practice in motherhood; few things boost a sense of agency like finishing something. A writer in early parenthood may want to try, then, experimenting with writing in crots and fragments. (There’s a reason so many writers who are mothers write in these forms). A crot a day, in your notes app or texted to yourself, can be small, flexible, and quickly add up. Creating something tiny and complete can provide a sense of accomplishment. But alongside writing goals, you can bolster a sense of agency by taking a look at the structures and support around your writing practice. This might mean identifying small toeholds. Can you claim 15 minutes a day for your writing, whether those be stable (every morning when I first wake up) or flexible (the first 15 minutes of the first nap of the day, any 15 minute-stretch I can grab)? If you have a present partner, can you claim a similar stretch at the same time each day where the other person can be solely responsible for childcare? If it’s available, you might even dedicate a small area of your home to writing—a desk, a corner. I often think of helping writers to develop agency in early parenthood as working through the serenity prayer: finding the courage to change what we can, the serenity to accept that we can't, and the wisdom to know the difference. If you want to get started again, but feel hemmed in, try taking 10 minutes to write about what you need and what you want, what you have and what you don't, what might be attainable and what feels beyond possibility, and why. Which parts are material reality, and which are based in the fear of imposing or self-aggrandizing? For one week’s goal, consider naming something you need and taking a step toward it. If you can spend money on these resources, such as childcare, by all means go for it; if not, promise yourself that you’ll find the tiniest ways that you can help support your writing, and commit to them. * “All adults have a need to feel competent in key aspects of their lives,” the NELP declares in its next section, Competence. Is there anything that makes us feel more shockingly incompetent and also more astonishingly capable than parenting? The magic of a child calming quietly only in one’s arms, then the soul-sinking despair when they cannot feed or sleep or develop the way a chart or teacher says they should. Uncertainty paired with certainty, isn’t that the game? The NELP report is passionate on this topic: [A]dults’ beliefs about and realistic assessment of their competence can have a profound effect on their persistence and achievement. … Students with more self-efficacy are more willing to persist to reach their goals in the face of adversity. People who have high self-efficacy visualize success whereas those who doubt their efficacy typically visualize failure. This, I believe, is where Richards’s response went most off-base: through his tone, in the syntax of asking why can’t you, he made the writer visualize and internalize failure. How, then, to visualize and internalize success? The practice of setting and meeting goals will go a long way towards this, as will the study of the works and lives of writer-mothers. But we can also focus on the writing itself, that source of greatest doubt. Consistently, one of the most powerful experiences of Writing Through Motherhood is when students share a small passage of their writing, and receive appreciative feedback. Most of them begin tentative and apologetic; by the end of the process, they practically glow through the Zoom screen. If you’re trying to get back to your writing, consider sharing your work with a trusted partner or group. Critique, suggestions—these absolutely have a place in the writing process, but the point where you’re trying to get going, to generate new ideas, to find enough bravery just to come to the page: that ain’t it. Tell your readers explicitly what you need in response instead: to hear what resonates, what’s beautiful, what lingers in their memories, what sparks their imagination, what they want to keep reading, what they hope to see more of. This might feel self-indulgent at first, but if it helps to re-frame it: Isn’t encouragement, and the building of confidence, an essential part of parenting? What happens when we shine that light on ourselves? If you were your child, what would you say to you? In a recent study, an experimental psychologist randomly sorted a group of ordinary rats into two cages—one labeled as containing particularly smart rats, the other labeled particularly unintelligent. Researchers were then tasked with running the rat through a maze over the period of a few weeks, and recording their progress. Consistently, the rats whose humans thought they were smarter performed better. I think about this a lot in terms of teaching, especially for learners who may have been told or convinced themselves that they’re the bad rats—not “good” or “real” writers or artists. I mentally run my finger on the soft fur between my students’ ears, and whisper, You are the best rat, and then let them run. * The next driver of persistence is Relevance—the degree to which learning activities resonate and correlate with adult learners’ goals, interests and life experiences. For writers-mothers, this question quickly becomes existential: What on earth does writing have to do with my daily life? What do I possibly have to say? How could this matter? I note how the writer of the Care and Feeding letter described what was clearly a previous artistic “career,” but in her question, she demoted this work to “hobby.” The question of relevance can feel particularly hard in a country where resources to support mothers are so scarce. It’s hard to defend art, the time and money that goes into it, the lack of observable productivity. Everyone loves art, but few people have the patience for what it takes to make it. And for most of us, the majority of choices in parenting are driven by economic necessity. It’s easy to say: This novel, this painting, this song—what does this have to do with our lives, what we need to survive? For this reason, I’ll often ask my students to read writer-mothers talking on the importance—and, crucially, the necessity—of writing in their lives. We read Audre Lorde’s “Poetry is Not a Luxury,” Joan Didion’s “Why I Write,” Tillie Olsen’s “Silences.” Tillie’s a bummer in this piece, asking, “What is it that happens with the creator, to the creative process,” during literary silences? The silences she speaks of “are unnatural; the unnatural thwarting of what struggles to come into being, but cannot.” After tracing various causes of literary silence through history, she turns, finally, to mothers. “The circumstances for sustained creation…” she says, are “nearly impossible. The need cannot be first. It can have at best, only part self, part time…. More than any human relationship, overwhelmingly more, motherhood means being instantly interruptible, responsive, responsible… It is distraction, not meditation, that becomes habitual; interruption, not continuity; spasmodic, not constant toil.” She concludes that there is no reconciliation for “what is lost by unnatural silences.” Modern parenthood is often framed as a series of competing priorities and ideas, but what can help create a sense of relevance is to consider art and life not as two competing forces, but as interwoven and complementary. This passage, from Sarah Ruhl’s 100 Essays I Don’t Have Time to Write, summarizes it beautifully: There was a time, when I first found out I was pregnant with twins, that I saw only a state of conflict. When I looked at theater and parenthood, I saw only war, competing loyalties, and I thought my writing life was over. There were times when it felt as though my children were annihilating me... and finally I came to the thought, All right, then, annihilate me; that other self was a fiction anyhow. And then I could breathe. I could investigate the pauses. I found that life intruding on writing was, in fact, life. And that, tempting as it may be for a writer who is also a parent, one must not think of life as an intrusion. At the end of the day, writing has very little to do with writing, and much to do with life. And life, by definition, is not an intrusion. Once we’ve read the work above, I ask writer-mothers to draft their own “Why I Write” manifestos together in class. Then we read excerpts aloud, because it helps to know you’re doing work not only to convince yourself, but to convince others. What we learn every time: Why mothers write has everything to do with the world they are trying to create, with the person they are trying to become, and the people they are raising. What could be more relevant to parenting? With these words in front of them, a small voice is squashed—This is a luxury; it has nothing to do with my life. Writing supports parenting; parenting supports writing: they fortify and inform each other. * The final driver of persistence is Stability. “Learning is difficult in an environment that is chaotic or unstable,” the report declares, and there are few more universal markers of the early days of parenthood than a lack of stability—a field of landmines of waking and sleeping, feeding, and diaper-changing and soothing. So much of our culture’s mythos about who a writer is seems built around stability; the imperative to write every day, to start the morning with three pages, to build a routine. But if that schedule simply isn’t possible, what choices exist? Some of what has been covered already contributes to a sense of stability. Joining a class or a group or a collective, finding an accountability partner, setting goals: if you can find someone external to yourself to help you establish this environment, wonderful. But courses are often temporary, and the years are long. What’s important to remember, I think, is that stability, as an affective need, should not be confused with consistency. That is, something does not need to be exactly the same in order to be permanently present. And that one of the most important things we can help stabilize is a writer’s sense of self-as-artist. One of the first things we often discuss in Writing Through Motherhood is what it means for someone to be a writer. This often surfaces in introductions—someone will feel it necessary to say that they’re not really a writer. I’ll raise the question: Who is? “Someone who publishes a book,” is almost always the first answer. “Ah, but we have another word for that—author,” I say. “Someone who makes a living from writing.” “But for this we have a modification—professional writer.” It’s easy, too, to rattle off a long list of writers who write as a side gig, working other full- and part-time jobs while they eke out words on the side. I’ll ask: If someone tells you they’re a runner, do you immediately believe they are making claims about Olympic goals and Nike sponsorships? Is someone who calls themself a gardener clearly vying to design the Rose Garden? Why is it that, the closer we get to the arts, the more we feel we need to prove that we have earned our title with pay or even livelihood? What if we trust the most essential meaning of the word writer? Usually someone in the group is a current or former K-12 teacher, and they will recite something they’ve told their students: A writer is someone who writes. “Do you believe this when you tell it to your students?” I ask. “Absolutely.” “Do you believe it for yourself?” They’ll shift in their seat. Because what does it mean to claim and defend a label of our desires? The friction comes, I believe, from identifying ourselves both to ourselves and to others. To not want to mislead, to not put on airs or pretensions. But who does it hurt if you tell someone you’re a writer? Who does it hurt if you deny it? And if, in early parenthood, you have shown up to the page or to a writing workshop, in person or online, even having paid to be there, amid all the other obligations in your life, what further proof do you need of your own commitment? Writer, painter, dancer, runner, gardener: these all take the -er suffix, which corresponds to the Latin -or, designating an actor or agent, or the Old English -ere “man who has to do with.” On its surface, the word mother looks like it might follow the same pattern, and a false etymology might likewise suggest the name comes from the performer of a verb. But mother, like father, and sister, and brother, takes its -er from a suffix that denotes not doing, but kinship. What if we replace, as an imaginative act, the -er in writer with the -er of mother? What changes if we consider ourselves writers as those who are kin to writing? Let’s lean into the fullest, most positive possibilities. Kin can be something we hold close to us, that often defines us. Kin can be someone we love and who loves us back, one we tend to and who tends to us. Sometimes we don’t see kin for a long time. But the bond is still there. What if, in those stretches where we struggle to make it to the page—when we’re most beating ourselves up for not showing up, for our lack of discipline, an inability to focus—we think of ourselves not as writers, but of writing as kin: a home outside ourselves that will always be there for us. Perhaps, then, we can better weather the dry stretches, the highs and lows, the days and weeks and months and years when the most stable element of writing seems to be the desire for it and the absence of the wherewithal to sit down and do it. It does get better, and exponentially so when your kids start to have a more steady bedtime and wake-up, and when they enter some sort of predictable daily schedule that includes childcare or school. You and writing will be there for each other. And when you’re ready and able to return, you have steps you can take to reestablish that relationship. A grace note in the NELP discussion of relevance I think is worth sharing: “The degree of perceived relevance of the instructional program to the adult learners goals, interests, and life experience is a key factor in adults’ motivation to persist in their studies even if they need to stop out for a while.” * One of the most vital skills we learn in parenthood is what advice to internalize and what to ignore. Motherhood forges our sense of our own authority and integrity, because bad advice isn’t only a threat to ourselves, it’s also a threat to our children. So I say to the writer of the Care and Feeding letter: Former writers of this column, like Nicole Chung and Nicole Cliffe, both writer-mothers themselves, probably would have hit this question out of the park for you. This respondent was simply a bad match, with bad advice that you should dismiss as easily as the insistence that your kid should be wearing another sweater. Mothering is the hardest it’s been in a long time. The pandemic has brought us illness and the threat of illness, isolation, supply chain disruptions, and, more broadly, the stripping of formal and informal social supports, and the mounting awareness of how uniquely hung out to dry mothers are in the U.S. I finished the first draft of a novel with my infant daughter curled on my chest (which, let’s be clear, tends to be a much easier stage than toddlerhood). I finished a full revision of that book while supervising remote schooling for two kids in the pandemic, and I continue today. The work is slower than I want, but it is always there, and I am always connected to it. I was only able to do it because of community, artistic exposure, clarity of purpose, and senses of agency, competence, relevance, and stability. I assembled these over many years, bit by bit, largely in conversation with other writers who are mothers. To the letter-writing artist-mother, to any writer or artist wanting to create in parenthood: You are not alone. You are connected to community, a tradition, a legacy. You are a writer because writing is your kin. Nothing will take that away from you. You don’t have to prove it or defend it. But you want to connect with it—listen to that. [millions_email]