9. (or 7) [This also has to do with birth. Now that I’ve given birth three times and been to the births of friends and clients, what none of the books or women or stories ever made clear (were they lying? was I not ready to believe?) is that birth is beautiful and spiritual and also totally mundane and shitty (literally). It is hard work—the lowest and highest—and that’s what I’m interested in writing. Not about birth per se but the realness of experience, the permission to write with shame and honesty and humor and ambivalence. Arielle and I co-wrote a book called Home/Birth: a poemic that will be published next month by 1913 Press. We had to do a round of midnight hour proofreading last week when the editor admitted to us that she hadn’t done a great job proofreading because when she reads the manuscript she bursts into tears. I’m proud of that. For having written something about birth that makes a woman who has not given birth cry, for writing a book that makes anyone cry. Sentiment and sentimental. Aboutness. My relationship to my reader.]