Sheila Heti’s Motherhood: Advocating for a Different Kind of Birth Genna Rivieccio
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t’s getting easier—well, slightly less shameful—to be counted among one of the women who opts to abscond from her anatomical responsibility in life: to have children, or at least, a child. Or maybe it only seems that way when one exists amid the “artist community,” where it isn’t such a source of shame to pass off one’s passion (read: unpaid work when you’re not Sheila Heti) as a child unto itself. The sort of thing you already have to devote all your time and energy to without further adding to it as a result of biological and societal pressure. Yet, by and by, as Motherhood hopefully saturates the collective culture, possibly even those
“Book of the Month Club” type of women will come around to the notion that child-bearing isn’t meant for every dame—nor should it be expected to. For not only do some of us not have the type of body to bounce back from such an endeavor, but also the type of mind required to give a shit about another human being more than our own self—irrevocably narcissistic thanks to the endless proof provided by social media (which is a term that really ought to have a different name by now, as it sounds almost as prehistoric as World Wide Web). At the time of writing Motherhood, Heti had six books published—out there in the ether of the world for all and any to read, to catch a glimpse into her soul. Now, we’ve been introduced to her
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