Books about motherhood come in waves: the recent spate only the latest in a long line of literary endeavours. In the 1950s there was Shirley Jackson's Life Among the Savages. The 1960s wave saw Margaret Drabble's The Millstone and Doris Lessing's The Golden Notebook, alongside Betty Friedan's The Feminine Mystique; the 1970s The Women's Room by Marilyn French, Adrienne Rich's Of Woman Born, and In Search of Our Mothers' Gardens by Alice Walker. In the 1980s writing about motherhood became even more transgressive and imaginative, with Beloved by Toni Morrison, The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood, and Nights at the Circus by Angela Carter. The early 2000s saw an explosion in nonfiction, including accounts by Rachel Cusk and Anne Enright. And on and on, up to the present day, where no matter how much is written about motherhood, it feels as though there is still more to say.
Three novels published recently have come the closest so far to giving me what I craved: The Nursery by Szilvia Molnar, Soldier Sailor by Claire Kilroy, and Reproduction by Louisa Hall. Elena Ferrante said in an interview that she felt motherhood was one of those things whose literary truth has yet to be explored. I'm inclined to agree with her.
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