reprinted with permission from www.workinprogressinprogress.com

Give us your elevator pitch: what’s your book about in 2-3 sentences?

 What I say if someone asks:

The Heart Folds Early is a memoir about what it means to make a choice.

 My third-person pitch:

River Teeth editor Jill Christman’s fourth book of nonfiction, The Heart Folds Early, is about what it means to make a choice. Loving, rageful, and often funny, Christman’s new memoir centers her decision to end a half-term pregnancy when a routine ultrasound reveals her baby has just half a heart—and asks: As mothers, how do we carry life and death in our bodies and survive with our hearts intact?

What boundaries did you break in the writing of this memoir? Where does that sort of courage come from?

As a writer, I am a contrarian. In grad school, they told me No dead grandmothers. But I couldn’t help it. In my first memoir, Darkroom: A Family Exposure, I wrote the hell out of my dying grandmother (Beatrice Coe Ingraham, school librarian and ace poker player, may she rest in peace). Later, I learned that using multiple points of view in a memoir is bad form, but again, sometimes I feel as if I’m looking at my younger self from somewhere near the ceiling or perhaps I need to issue instructions or establish myself as  part of a community. Third person, first person direct address, second person (sparingly), first person plural. . . I use them all. Why have tools if we’re going to leave them in the box? And now you’re telling me there’s a fourth wall between the narrator and the reader? Crash through that wall like the Kool Aid Man. (I mean, when it suits you. Or you’re thirsty for some Red Dye 40.) So, yeah, both in terms of subject and craft, the breaking of rules is so much a part of my daily practice that it doesn’t even feel rebellious anymore—which is kind of too bad, you know?

Now, this book had to break that Big Boundary—the boundary that tells us we’re not supposed to talk about a thing. The boundary that shames and scares and shushes us into silence. This book is about my choice to have a second-trimester medical abortion.

This is my third memoir, written through a nearly twenty-year gestation, a time that ran parallel to me both raising a couple of kids with my poet husband (and, therefore, working in short, frequently interrupted bursts) and falling in love with the essay. So  

The Heart Folds Early started as a memoir (called Mothercraft), split off into essays, spawned a whole separate e-book (Borrowed Babies: Apprenticing for Motherhood) and several essays that ran away from the book and eventually got together with other essays to form a collection (If This Were Fiction: A Love Story in Essays)—all the while growing and shrinking and changing not only outfits but whole forms, shapeshifting between nonfiction classifications and structures like a love child of Proteus and Methis (I’m making this up: they didn’t hook up, even in myth, but just imagine!).

After an initial agent pitch to publishers came back with the news that the subject of dying babies is too depressing, and thus, hard to sell, I read my by that point teenage manuscript a story and put her to bed (or maybe it was the other way around, but in any case, I was done). Maybe, I thought, this was not a book I needed to write. Maybe, I thought, this was a book I had written for myself, and honestly, that’s a pretty good way to live, no writing is ever wasted, and I would move on and write other essays and books and let this one rest in a giant file that was, back then, named Blue Baby Blue.

But then something big happened. Something terrible. Something world rattling. In June of 2022, the Supreme Court overturned Roe v Wade, and now, now, I had a new urgent question, didn’t I? What the actual fuck? And so I rewrote the whole book, beginning with a prologue (in which it’s quite possible I curse too much), the moment in an Airbnb in Colorado when I heard the news we’d all known was coming, but now, now, here it was—the news that the right to an abortion in the United States was no longer protected. Spewing from the rageful volcano that was by then a perimenopausal me, The Heart Folds Early took on her final shape.

The book coming out this March from Nebraska is now quite solidly memoir, and even more or less chronological—except for that starting at the end to go back to the beginning bit, and some detours into my youth. One early reader called it a romance. Sexy. Another said she laughed in every chapter, even though she wasn’t sure she should be laughing. Writer and activist Sonya Huber said I had “steel nerves”—so that was something. Steel nerves! Me!

Tell us a bit about the highs and lows of your book’s road to publication.

I cheated and started answering this question above. (Do you see what I mean about me? I can’t even follow the clear rules of a good interview question.) So you know there was the low of being told that my story was too depressing and wouldn’t sell well as a baby-shower gift (that was an actual thing a marketing department shared by way of telling my then-agent they were taking a pass). And because the book is coming out with the amazing people at the University of Nebraska Press, in the American Lives series, an extraordinary team I’ve worked with before and knew I could trust with this book, well, that’s the actual publication high.

But if I could point to one thing that scared me enough to become a low until I really faced the scariness was how much I worried about the story being received, specifically by other parents who had faced the same diagnosis (or one like it), mid-term, and made a different choice. I deeply and truly respect these many choices. All of them. With love. So one thing that was really different for me—and hard—in making The Heart Folds Early was how conscious I needed to be of my audience in that final two-year rewrite. I was no longer writing the book for me. I was writing about my choice because I understood it was my responsibility to tell the story of my second-trimester abortion. I had the skills to tell my story and the resources to get that story out into the world. (Speaking of boundaries, we cannot let the parameters of the conversation around reproductive rights be defined by those who would—and have—stripped us of those rights. We cannot let these conversations—or any of the big things we’re wrestling with right now in this country—be over-simplified because they’re hard.)

So I was hyper-aware of my many audiences—both actual people I knew or knew of, and whole categories of people—like young people in the United States coming of age in a time when their right to an abortion is not protected. I am always aware that I am writing to my children—perhaps in a time when I will no longer be here. And, as I said, I was aware that I was writing to other parents, mothers and fathers, who had faced the same diagnosis we faced and made a different choice. I wanted to write a book that respected all choices—except, I suppose, the choice to take away somebody else’s choice. As I write this, I realize that another high of this book’s path to publication was figuring out how to tell this story out of love—and not from a place of fear.

What’s your favorite piece of writing advice?

Shew! Great question. I edit two magazines—River Teeth: A Journal of Nonfiction Narrative—and our (free!) weekly online magazine of micro-essays, Beautiful Things—and I’ve been teaching and writing nonfiction for thirty years, so let me tell you, I’m full of advice, most of which I footnote with—Or maybe not. Maybe you have a reason to do something else here. So let me try to offer some advice that doesn’t need that footnote. I’ll choose three:

• Remember that you are not the only one. Not even today. Not even this minute.
• When you’re working on something difficult? Stay. Don’t leave. Linger in the uncertainty. Slow down when it gets hard.
• But keep going. You’re doing it. Keep going.

My favorite writing advice is “write until something surprises you.” What surprised you in the writing of this book?

Ah! Yes. There’s more advice that doesn’t need a footnote. I’m here for the surprises. On a macro-level, I was surprised by how a book could grow from such hot rage and deep love—at the same time, on the same pages. On a micro-level, so many, but one I sometimes point to is on page 23 of The Heart Folds Early, in a moment where the writing-me returns on Google maps to look down on the intersection where, many, many years earlier, my then-fiancé was killed in a horrible crash along with two of his buddies on the way to get a pizza after work—the jolt of surprise and sadness I felt in my heart from my couch in Indiana, a lifetime away: “Before I was a mother, I never thought about this detail of the tragedy, but now? It makes me so sad to know they died hungry.”

What’s something about your book that you want readers to know?

As a serial memoirist and someone who’s been teaching creative nonfiction writing for over half my life, there’s a question I hear a lot: How long do I have to wait before I write about [insert hard thing here]. And my answer is always some version of the advice I give for all writing-advice questions: Only you know how long you need to wait. What do you think? But for this one, I usually add that the standard advice that we need to fully process a difficult experience before we write about it has never made sense to me. Isn’t writing how we come to understand the hard things in the world that don’t make sense? We can write the hard thing right away and then three months later and then a decade after that—and each time we put pen to paper from a different perspective, something new will emerge. Last spring, the wise and wonderful essayist Steven Harvey (aka, The Humble Essayist) visited my graduate writing class and when we asked him why he writes, why he’s still writing, he answered: “I write to compensate for losses.”

And the losses keep coming, don’t they? But when we write them, when we write into and through them, we can find something like hope—for ourselves, for our children, for each other, and maybe, you know, for the world.

Inquiring foodies and hungry book clubs want to know: Any food/s associated with your book? (Any recipes I might share?)

I love this question—because I love food. Oh gosh. I’m trying to think. I ate a lot of clementines during my first pregnancy—and consumed many avocados during the writing of the book. They’re in there, along with a fair amount of kid food. And cookies. In life, I’m a baker—sourdough baguettes and (vegan) banana bread (my daughter is deathly allergic to eggs)—even before the pandemic made us do it—so those are foods that supported The Heart Folds Early. My go-to easy, food-processor (gasp!)baguette recipe is Mark Bittman’s “Easiest and Best French Bread” and the queen of all banana bread recipes was developed by those vegan geniuses, Isa Chandra Moskowitz and Terry Hope Romero, in Veganomicon: I always double the recipe, add Penzey’s double-strength vanilla and half again the amount of spice, and bake one standard loaf pan and one pan of those cute mini-loaves for my kids’ dorm freezers. Sometimes it’s hard to make it to breakfast before class! (I can’t find the version from the cookbook online, and it’s always good to point folks towards Post Punk Kitchen, so here’s a recipe for Isa’s Marbled Banana Bread—which is basically the same except, you know, for the chocolate; if you’re not in the mood for marbling, just make this one, but omit the boiling water and chocolate, and add 1/3 c molasses and a 1/3 cup-ish applesauce: moist, fruity perfection.)

reprinted with permission from www.workinprogressinprogress.com

Give us your elevator pitch: what’s your book about in 2-3 sentences?

Momma May Be Mad: A Memoiris an inventive and striking memoir about motherhood, madness, and the grace of second and third chances. Kerry Neville shares the story of how she was caught in the perfect storm of bipolar disorder, anorexia, and alcoholism when her children were young and her marriage failing and how she found her way back to joy and hope. Electric shock therapy, hospitalizations, and even an exorcism were desperate, if failed, lifelines. But even in that dark chaos, she held fast to an abiding belief in love and fought to regain her own life and her life with her children.

What boundaries did you break in the writing of this memoir? Where does that sort of courage come from?

The easiest way to answer this question is to quote the opening of the memoir:

“How do you write a memoir when you can’t remember? And how then do you honor and unravel that tangle of time?…Electric Shock Treatments erased years of my linear memory. What remains? Unreliable chaotic approximation. Incomplete jerry-rigged record. Splinters and fragments: a fat file of doctors’ shorthand notes and coded diagnoses, Social Security Disability Insurance legalities, journal entries composed in situ, email correspondence with therapist, and friends who fill in the blanks.

“External documentation functions with the specious authority of a third-person limited narrator. Even my journals, though read as if extemporaneous synchronous records, are always belated after-accounts. We don’t live in time’s flow but in time’s lag. Our brains create a coherent understanding of the world from stimuli that travel at different times and speeds. Auditory processing is faster than visual processing. Starter pistol rather than flash of light. The brain waits for the slowest information to arrive before “making sense” of “now.” An eighty-millisecond lag between what is happening and what we understand is happening.

“When I read my medical records and journals, scroll through photos, and listen to my friends recount who I was and what I was doing and saying and how I was lying and dying and trying and not trying to get myself into sensible order? That “I” stands in strange, estranged proximity. I cast forwards and backwards through lost and found time, never able to catch up. My unruly IIIIIIIIII’s arrive at different times and speeds to these pages.

“I’ve tried and tried to write this happened and then this happened and then this happened and now it’s done, but each attempt was a failed mouth-to-mouth resuscitation of my corpse on the dissection table, so I ditched linear plot-forward-in-time.”

Additionally, the memoir is divided into three sections according to St. Augustine’s understanding of time as he outlines in Confessions: “present of things past, memory; present of things present, sight; present of things future, expectation.”

Courage: There was no other way to write this story—except to find a way to represent how I—we—construct ourselves as changing selves every day, how we revise and rerevise our stories of how we have arrived in this moment now. The memoir is an attempt at simultaneity: becoming and unbecoming at the same time. So, linear plot can’t do that on the page with its neat, progressive timeline. 

Tell us a bit about the highs and lows of your book’s road to publication.

My agent sent the manuscript out to the big presses, and I received positive feedback but…ultimately, no, no, no, no. I knew the structure would be a difficult sell—but memoirs are, anyway. My agent persevered because she believed the book would find a home, the right editor, at the right time. I know how fortunate I am to have an agent willing to keep on keeping on with the manuscript. Eventually, Kim Davis and her editorial team at Madville Publishing responded with a quick (!) and enthusiastic yes. The right home, the right editor, the right time!

What’s your favorite piece of writing advice?

Write from your me-ness”—you don’t have to be decorous, polite, modest, or measured. Write out of your fierceness, unruliness, and daring. Disturb the universe. (Fyi: it took me far too long to realize writing, at least early draft writing, is ferocious and feral. Late draft revision is meticulous and exacting.)

My favorite writing advice is “write until something surprises you.” What surprised you in the writing of this book?

What surprised me was how much I learned about what is beyond me—that is, research that brought the world and all its complicated wonders inside my understanding of self-as-world-on-the-page. Biology, neuroscience, anatomy, philosophy, botany, history, geology, religion, mythology!

How did you find the title of your book?

The title is the title of a long-retired blog I kept when I was in my dark, desperate times. Writing that blog about my mental health complications helped me to understand that I wasn’t the only momma, the only human being going through the really effing hard stuff—I heard from many readers who connected to my story (if not to exact facts, then to the ebb and flow of despair and joy). I had a running list of possible titles for the memoir but I kept coming back to Momma May Be Mad—there’s the sound of the M’s, but, too, there’s the uncertainty. Not “maybe” but “may be”—or may not be. And maybe it’s all of is: motherhood, madness, hysteria, wandering wombs, one body creating another body, body-at-hand and body-of-work. We are shapeshifters, phoenixes rising again and again from the ash. What are the forces at work on the inside and on the outside that contribute to despair, give rise to joy, and allow us to redeem ourselves?

reprinted with permission from www.workinprogressinprogress.com

Give us your elevator pitch: what’s your book about in 2-3 sentences?

Outside the Lines is a queer love story between a young public defender and a married mother of two, who meet in a writing workshop in Boston in the 1980s. Drawn together by surprisingly similar family secrets, hidden identities, and a deep connection to the Holocaust, they fall in love. Subsequently, a terminal illness changes and intensifies their relationship with each other and with their families.

What boundaries did you break in the writing of this memoir? Where does that sort of courage come from?

By the time I got around to writing this memoir (my third), I’d inadvertantly become something of an expert at family demolition. After my first memoir (which I thought was pretty tame) was published, my family disowned me and declared me dead.

It took twenty years for me to get up the ovarian fortitude to write a second memoir, in which I told the rest of the story, including many of the gory details I’d tactfully left out of the first book. (My parents had died in the meantime.)

I think the need to write these stories as memoir stems from the need to claim one’s own voice and one’s own truth, when the writer’s reality has consistently been denied or disavowed. Family secrets manipulate and mess with one’s sense of self, which is why they are so potent.

In my new memoir, Outside the Lines, the two main characters died many years ago, so I feel a little less anxious about writing my story as it relates to them. Once again, I’ve changed names and details, and omitted scenes in order to protect the privacy of surviving family members. But of course, I worry a great deal about how family and friends will feel. I don’t think it’s particularly “courageous” to write memoir; I think it’s compelled by a need to speak your truth when it has been consistently denied.

Tell us a bit about the highs and lows of your book’s road to publication.

I’ve wanted to write this book for a long time, but apparently I wasn’t ready to dive into the material until a few years ago. Writing the scenes set loose a flood of memories, both exhilarating and agonizing. So as with all writing, the highs and lows are always built right into the daily work. I write something one day and think it’s brilliant; I look at it in the morning, and it’s turned to garbage.

Perhaps my greatest high with this book came from my writer buddies, who never cease to amaze and inspire me with their own poetry and prose, and who never pretend something is working when it’s not. Every time we’d get together to talk about our work, I came away on fire to fix the things they’d suggested, and excited about the whole impossible project of bringing a bunch of words on the page into a completed book for publication.

It was also thrilling when my agent (whom I adore and revere) read the manuscript and liked it. Her belief in this little book was so powerful, it made the first slew of rejections from publishing houses less painful. Of course, when the next slew of rejections came in, and the ones after that, my mood descended  in direct proportion to the rise in rejections. Needless to say, it was wonderful to find a publisher I admired who liked this book enough to want to publish it. Working with her and her team has been a blast.  

What’s your favorite piece of writing advice?

“It’s all draft until you die.” The poet Ellen Bryant Voigt said that. Just conjuring her name makes me happy. She is the founder and mastermind of the Warren Wilson MFA Program for Writers, my alma mater. Ellen is all about process, all about doing the work, without letting yourself get distracted by anything else—the market or the critics, or your own inner judge. She reminds us that we can keep fiddling with a draft as long as we like, long after it’s been published, or long after we’ve given up on it. Writing is not just our work; it’s our play, it’s what reminds us we’re alive.

My favorite writing advice is “write until something surprises you.” What surprised you in the writing of this book?

I was surprised when I wrote a sentence I liked for more than twenty-four hours. And I was surprised—well, more like embarrassed—to discover how incredibly immature and clueless I was at the age of thirty. It’s sort of amazing to see the effect that thirty-plus years of perspective had on my memories and feelings—even sensory perceptions—that came back to me when I was writing. So as you see, self-absorption really does have its own rewards.

How did you find the title of your book?

I am terrible at titles. Prolifically terrible. I must have scribbled down hundreds of titles, one worse than the other. For a while, I was convinced that if I just found the right Leonard Cohen lyric, I’d have my title.

Fortunately, my wife pretty quickly came up with the title, Outside the Lines. I liked it immediately, and then went on to brainstorm another couple hundred awful titles. But I kept coming back to this one, because it’s about coming out, and it’s about the complications of navigating a life outside the norm. The title lasted through all my mood changes, so it’s a keeper. (So is she.)