MORE THAN A WOMAN
The author of the international bestseller How to Be a Woman returns with another “hilarious neo-feminist manifesto” (NPR) in which she reflects on parenting, middle-age, marriage, existential crises—and, of course, feminism.
A decade ago, Caitlin Moran burst onto the scene with her instant bestseller, How to Be a Woman, a hilarious and resonant take on feminism, the patriarchy, and all things womanhood. Moran’s seminal book followed her from her terrible 13th birthday through adolescence, the workplace, strip-clubs, love, and beyond—and is considered the inaugural work of the irreverent confessional feminist memoir genre that continues to occupy a major place in the cultural landscape.
The author of the international bestseller How to Be a Woman returns with another “hilarious neo-feminist manifesto” (NPR) in which she reflects on parenting, middle-age, marriage, existential crises—and, of course, feminism.
A decade ago, Caitlin Moran burst onto the scene with her instant bestseller, How to Be a Woman, a hilarious and resonant take on feminism, the patriarchy, and all things womanhood. Moran’s seminal book followed her from her terrible 13th birthday through adolescence, the workplace, strip-clubs, love, and beyond—and is considered the inaugural work of the irreverent confessional feminist memoir genre that continues to occupy a major place in the cultural landscape.
Since that publication, it’s been a glorious ten years for young women: Barack Obama loves Fleabag, and Dior make “FEMINIST” t-shirts. However, middle-aged women still have some nagging, unanswered questions: Can feminists have Botox? Why isn’t there such a thing as “Mum Bod”? Why do hangovers suddenly hurt so much? Is the camel-toe the new erogenous zone? Why do all your clothes suddenly hate you? Has feminism gone too far? Will your To Do List ever end? And WHO’S LOOKING AFTER THE CHILDREN?
As timely as it is hysterically funny, this memoir/manifesto will have readers laughing out loud, blinking back tears, and redefining their views on feminism and the patriarchy. More Than a Woman is a brutally honest, scathingly funny, and absolutely necessary take on the life of the modern woman—and one that only Caitlin Moran can provide.
- Harper Perennial
- Paperback
- September 2020
- 272 Pages
- 9780062893710
Buy the Book
$16.99
About Caitlin Moran
Caitlin Moran’s debut book, How to Be a Woman, was an instant New York Times bestseller. Her first novel, How to Build a Girl, received widespread acclaim. She lives in London.
Praise
“Moran handles weighty topics with lightness and a welcoming spirit, delivering straight talk with empathy, humor, and hope.” -Booklist
“Superbly funny….The most obvious precursor to More Than a Woman is I Feel Bad About My Neck…. But where Ephron’s impulse was to chronicle the often inglorious slide towards old age, Moran’s is, where possible, to celebrate and find value in it.” -The Guardian
Excerpt
Prologue
September 2010
I AM IN THE SPARE ROOM, WHICH DOUBLES AS MY OFFICE, AND I HAVE just finished my day’s work. Typing the last full stop with a flourish, I light a cigarette, and lean back in my chair. Today is the day I finished writing How to Be a Woman, and I am exhausted—but jubilant. Like a salmon that’s just spawned a super-chunky hardback through its mental vent.
I have tried to put every conceivable female wisdom into a single, 220-page volume—spanning the entirety of a straight, white, working-class woman’s experience in a mere 89,000 words. I have thoroughly chronicled the most difficult years of a woman’s life: thirteen to thirty. The painful years of constructing yourself. The messy, panicky, scared, brave years, where you have to invent—and then reinvent—yourself, over and over, until you finally find peace in the bones you’re in.
Those are the dark decades, I muse. Thank God that once a woman gets to thirty, she knows the worst bit is over! She is strong in herself, and ready to enjoy the next epoch. I am ready to enjoy the next epoch! This is the beginning of my true, real, great life—right now!
By way of celebration, I try to blow a smoke ring. I fail. Oh well—plenty of time to practice in the coming, empty weeks! Now I’ve achieved perfection! I’m going to have time for all kinds of amazing hobbies!
There is a small commotion behind me.
“Oh my GOD—press save! You’re making me anxious. Why would you finish a document and not press save? Do you not remember how much work you’ve lost over the years?”
I turn around—and there, sitting on the bed, is what I would describe as an “elderly” woman in a leopard-print coat, with messy hair, regarding me with a sigh. I stare.
“Nanna?” I say, eventually.
For it appears to be—my nan. But wearing Doc Martens boots. My Doc Martens boots. Why is my dead grandmother here, dressed like an aging indie kid? Is her ghost having a breakdown in Heaven? Whoever she is, she seems preternaturally peeved by my reaction.
“Nanna?” “Nanna?” You cheeky cow—it’s me. You. I’m you. From the future. “Nanna?” Jesus Christ, I’m only forty-fucking-four.
I look again. Oh God—it is me. Me—but much more grays Future Me is looking at me like she’s expecting me to freak out—but, obviously, I’m not going to give her the satisfaction. We’ve all seen all the Back to the Futures. We all know how this stuff works. I’m going to act cool.
“Oh, yeah,” I shrug. “You are me. From the future. Sweet. Fag?”
I offer her a cigarette, politely.
“No,” she says, primly. “I’ve given up. It’s so bad for you, and it really starts hurting once you get to thirty-eight. It’s a disgusting habit.”