by Shalini Rana
Photo by Hannah Cohen
The exploration of trauma involved in delivering life is both what keeps this story grounded and what launches it into sci-fi and dystopia. What do you think the relationship of trauma is to the genre of this story?
What’s funny is that I think of the story as realistic! Women in the known world consume their placentas, which may sound dystopian; it did to me when I first learned about the practice. That said, the intensity of childbirth and its attendant traumas can feel otherworldly too, and the story gathers up those details.
The slip into the singular “she” as the collective voice responds to the colleague’s story on p. 3 makes me think about the cultural pressure on newborn mothers, and how anyone who doesn’t live up to the presumed standards of motherhood gets ostracized. How did you decide to use the collective voice, and what do you think its impact is on this story?
I think of this piece as a kind of manifesto. There is cultural pressure on new mothers, and a lot of judgement, too. I like how the first-person plural unifies these women’s voices and creates a kind of cohesion, despite their differing opinions and choices.
I noticed a distinct turn on p. 6, in which vulnerability becomes explicit, narrowing from the collective to the specific. A first turn seems to occur when perspectives from a few people within the collective emerge, and then a second more personal turn when a single person becomes the focus. The mention of children is more explicit here, too. How do you see this turn working within the larger themes of the story?
The singular mother, the solo “I,” won’t participate in placentophagy. What’s important though, is that she understands why a woman might. She sees herself in the susceptibility that comes with new motherhood.
The first line is captivating, setting up tension between an inside and outside group. There’s a historic gesture in the word “madwomen,” calling to mind the origins of the word “hysteria.” The voice is adamant about their aspirations for wholeness and a return to stasis, as well as a deep mistrust of outsiders. There’s a confidence in the beginning that slowly disintegrates, moving from certainty to a more tenuous faith in this abandoned practice, eventually unraveling to a kind of desperation. How did you construct the balance between this self-confidence and distrust, knowledge and uncertainty?
The early days of motherhood can be so complex. I experienced simultaneous pride and fear and confidence and self-doubt. I know women who endured post-partum psychosis and others who have never felt such bliss. I wanted the story to showcase the range of ways women may feel—hence, the plural point of view—and also nod to the ways in which women have been historically misrepresented and misunderstood.
There is a point, right after giving birth, when the collective speakers cross the threshold and become something else—“We felt the eyes of history then. The dominion of the matriarchy” (5). Do you see this as a moment when cultural expectations become internalized or is this a moment of authenticity that eventually leads to the break into the singular?
I see this as the moment when women recognize that their intense, unimaginable experience was not unique! The line that precedes that moment is: “We watched hospital workers shuttle in and out of the birthing suite and an obvious fact became profound: all of them had mothers. Every human resulted from a singular, astonishing birth.” New mothers join the continuum of all child-bearers from the dawn of time. That’s profound.
Consumption is an ongoing theme here that spans time, space, and cultural practices—and hunger, too—a wish to live up to this “eruptive love.” The collective is disturbed when faced with the threat of postpartum depression, though this is a reality for many women. How do you see this hunger toward “eruptive love” as both pivotal to maternity and also somewhat of a danger to women?
I don’t know if I attribute postpartum depression to a “hunger” to love one’s newborn. I attribute it more to a chemical imbalance. There are absolutely pressures and expectations on new mothers, and we’re conditioned to think we’re supposed to feel certain ways after childbirth, but I think serious mental health issues have more to do with neurochemistry.
Your book, Spilt Milk, is a collection of autobiographical essays that include experiences of motherhood. How do you decide whether you are going to tackle a subject in nonfiction or whether fiction is a better vehicle?
It’s not always clear! Sometimes I start to write about a real experience, and I see ways to make it more dynamic, and it morphs into fiction. Other times, I want to explore an idea that has nothing to do with personal experience so I invent a dramatic situation to do so. The essays in Spilt Milk chase questions—about anxiety and empathy and spirituality and creativity—and working through them in nonfiction supplied helpful clarity.
Courtney Zoffness is the author of Spilt Milk (McSweeney's, March 2021). She won the Sunday Times Short Story Award, an Emerging Writer Fellowship from the Center for Fiction, and artist residencies from MacDowell. Her work has appeared in the Paris Review Daily, the Southern Review, Longreads, and elsewhere. She directs the Creative Writing Program at Drew University and lives with her family in Brooklyn, New York.
