‘Modern Love’ Podcast: Miranda July Knew Exactly What She Was Doing

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Hey, everyone. It’s Anna. Before we start, the “Modern Love” team wants to hear from you for our Father’s Day episode. We’re looking for stories about a moment your dad opened up to you emotionally. Where were you? What did he say? And how did you react? And if you’re a dad, we’re curious how you’re trying to show emotion and vulnerability to your kids. What do you do? Does it feel easy, hard? And how did your dad shape your approach to being a father?

Record your stories as a voice memo and email them to modernlovepodcast@nytimes.com, and we may use them on the show. Check out our show notes for tips on how to submit. Once again, we’re looking for stories about a moment your dad opened up to you, or if you’re a father, how you’re trying to show emotion and vulnerability to your kids. Send us a voice memo to modernlovepodcast@nytimes.com. We can’t wait to hear from you. All right, let’s start the show.

From “The New York Times,” I’m Anna Martin. This is “Modern Love.” Each week, we talk about love, sex, friends, family, all the complexity of human relationships. It’s been almost a year since the release of Miranda July’s hit novel “All Fours.” The book features a woman in her mid-forties who takes off on a solo road trip across the country. But she doesn’t get far. Instead, she makes what most people would think is a very strange decision.

She stops 30 minutes from her home and rents a motel room for three weeks. She doesn’t tell her husband, doesn’t tell her kid. The point of her staying at this roadside motel becomes clear. She needs time and space to check in with her desires and the parts of herself that have been dormant while she’s been busy as a mom, a wife, and a working artist.

The narrator wonders, what does she actually want her life to look like as a middle-aged woman? Is it OK to question the life she has, maybe even try something different? July’s novel has become a touchstone for how our culture thinks and talks about women in perimenopause, and that was intentional.

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Like, what does perimenopause mean? Is it really just the ending of something, the absence of something? Or is there some power to it?

A novel about a woman in the middle of her life, challenging typical structures in relationships, and pushing against patterns many might just accept as a given — it clearly struck a nerve.

People were writing me, I mean, every day, dozens of DMs that were just bursting with their own story, women who didn’t necessarily have a whole group of friends they could talk about this with, but wanted that.

July started a Substack to keep the conversation going. Readers all over the world joined discussion groups called “All Fours” Group Chats. There were hats made. There were meetups. It was shortlisted for the National Book Award. And recently, “All Fours” was optioned as a miniseries.

Though this book is fiction, it was born out of July asking her own big questions about what she wanted out of midlife, and then making her own big changes.

And it was really intense when the book was coming out. Like, it was this bet I’d placed on women, as a whole, to not distance themselves from this, but in fact, say, I see myself in this, you know? And it was going to be very bad if I was going to be the only one.

It’s now very clear July is not the only one.

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This book is sexy. It’s weird, it’s funny, it’s gut wrenching, and it seems particularly charged in this cultural moment.

I think one has to remember that in general, the movement has been towards silencing women for forever.

Today, I talk with Miranda July about the power of “All Fours” and how it’s expanded beyond the page to a kind of movement, one that’s inspiring and maybe a little threatening. Stay with us.

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Miranda July, welcome to “Modern Love.”

So glad to be here.

Miranda, one thing I know about you is, you are extremely fashionable. So good thing I wore my best denim shirt.

I like it.

Thank you. It’s from an ex — it’s from an ex-boyfriend who I really don’t think about unless I wear this shirt.

You know what? I am also wearing a shirt from an ex-boyfriend.

Are you freaking kidding me? Let me see that.

Yeah. Pink Floyd? Yeah.

Wow.

It was his — it’s like a child’s shirt.

This is a child’s shirt, too. [LAUGHS]

Yeah. I’m always like — I still am friends with them. And as I see him have different girlfriends over time, over many years, I’m like, I feel like I should give it back so they can have a chance at the shirt, you know?

What the heck? I’ve never felt that impulse.

Oh, really? But this is like a collector’s item. I’m not dissing your shirt. [LAUGHS]

Not your ugly shirt, Anna.

I know.

No, it’s not. No, it’s not. No, it’s not. That’s so funny. I think you should keep it.

I mean, I am. Definitely not returning it, but the thought will cross my head, like, oh —

A beautiful impulse I think you should squash.

So fun. OK, we’ve compared outfits. We’ve compared exes, as it were. Let’s talk about “All Fours.” Was there a question or a series of questions that you were asking yourself that spurred the writing of this novel?

Yeah. I mean, now, actually, we’ve made so much progress in such a short time that it’s actually hard to believe how risky it seemed. But it actually seemed risky just to use the word “perimenopause” or menopause, and then — and yeah, questions I was asking. I guess, like, why doesn’t this exist in the culture, given that this isn’t a minority niche topic?

So that was one question. But that’s just like, well, we hate women, you know? And we really hate older women. And we don’t want them coming into power as they become less busy with their kids or whatever traditionally was the way women’s lives went. So that seemed clear and was just like a chip on my shoulder.

But the unclear thing was the life that is expected of me as a married mom seems worse than it should be. But that seems complainy. And if there’s anything I know from being a woman, it’s to put my complaints behind all the much more important and rigorous complaints of the world, the serious things. And they weren’t really complaints. They were desires.

What were they?

Ah. I mean, me and my friend, Isabel, who the book is dedicated to, we would meet once a week and eat and talk about the idea that we were always changing. That was just a biological truth, that we were actually pretty different at different times of the month and that we were kind of putting on an act of sameness and, in a way, kind of boringness —

Huh.

— to basically make men feel safe and to make sure that we were trusted, as if change is somehow the same as being deceitful or untrustworthy, you know? As if the only way you can prove that you’re an upstanding person is by being a rigid, solid, unchanging monument, which is a man, right? That’s what men are told to be, who also, by the way, change.

So often, we were trying to do this sort of micro-rebellion which began inside ourselves, like asking of ourselves each day to stay with where we really were, to not be swayed by all the different currents of everyone else’s needs and expectations. We were participating in something that really worked against our basic nature, and we should stop doing that.

And how could we do that without taking down our lives and the people we loved so dearly around us? And then why did we think it would be in opposition to them? Why did we even have that thought? Wouldn’t they thrive if we were being honest with ourselves, you know? These were the things we were kind of obsessed with.

There’s so much to get into there. But I’m intrigued by your use of the word “micro-rebellions.” You’re describing this flattening, this stuffing down of the dynamism of one’s self to fit the mold of expectations, to not be threatening to men. And then these micro-rebellions you and Isabel were putting into practice in your daily life, can you give me an example of what that meant?

I mean, honestly, it could be as simple as, you’re in a meeting, and you’re thirsty. And there’s some part of you that just absolutely does not, even for a second, think I’m going to hit Pause on this meeting for a second and go get a glass of water and bring it back. But you know what I mean? Like, a sort of almost automatic overriding of your every impulse.

And then the weird thing is — and then we would report back. We’d be like, you know what? I drank water — or whatever the thing was. I got up and went to the bathroom. I mean, this really — hopefully, everyone is in this groove with me and gets that we’re not pathetic people. We’re actually [CHUCKLING]: powerful people.

But so we began with rather than, like, what’s wrong with our husbands or whatever, what are the ways that we are actually doing things that no one’s asking? No one’s saying, don’t drink water. Get through the meeting without getting a glass of water. So what are the ways we’re doing it to ourselves? And then building from there.

You’ve spoken about — maybe this is more macro-rebellion, and you might chafe at it being called rebellion. But it’s been widely reported on. You’ve spoken about taking your Wednesday nights for your own artistic practice, right? And that feels like a real kind of puncture in the role.

At first, those Wednesday nights felt like such an indulgence. And everything I did — hanging out with Isabel, being leisurely — seemed like this small part of myself that I was indulging in. And I guess what happened was, at some point, I thought the thought, what if that’s more me —

Yeah.

— than my real life, you know? And it seemed like trash. It was like, what if I’m saying the real me is just that shitty? That’s how it felt initially. I truly believed, when I said to my husband that I needed to spend every Wednesday night alone in my studio — I said, I’m not sure I can write this novel if I don’t do that.

“All Fours.”

“All Fours,” yeah. Because this was the first thing I really made while having a child. And I thought, gosh, to have to wake up and make breakfast and then lunch and then drive the kid to school and drive — where will my head be if I had just one morning a week where I woke up and could start writing? And that made sense to him. He’s a writer, too. He was facing similar issues. And but would any of us have given me that permission if it hadn’t been for my job —

Yeah.

— for work? But it wasn’t a big deal, by the way. He was like, sure. And my kid was like, fun. Do we get pizza on those nights? But it did beg the question, well, what else are we doing, just because that’s what you do? The agreement is you sleep in the same house, probably the same bed, every night, forever, unless there’s a work trip or a real reason.

Hmm. You’re articulating this opening up of possibility that perhaps was always there, but that you had to articulate your need for. It’s like you were saying. When you brought up spending these Wednesday nights alone in your studio, working, to your husband, to your child, they were like, yeah, go for it. But it felt so immense to even ask for because it was rupturing the expectation of what it means to be a wife, to be a partner, to be a mother.

And it’s fun, as a person who read “All Fours,” to think of that novel as being born of those Wednesday nights, that freedom. And we’re talking about these micro-rebellions that inspired the book, that are certainly a part of the book. I would say the main character of “All Fours” practices her own micro – and macro-rebellions.

Readers have reacted incredibly to this book. They’ve also put in place these micro-rebellions in their own life. I want to talk about the reaction to “All Fours.” Were you surprised by the immensity of it?

I wonder how I can say this and have it come off right. That was what the book was for. That was the intended goal of the book.

To start conversations?

So much — yes. Sometimes in interviews, since the book’s come out, I’ve actually seen people write things like — or introduce me saying, like, she couldn’t be more surprised that her little story has amazingly taken the world by storm. And it’s like, is that the only space I have as a woman that I can’t have masterminded something, you know? I couldn’t have a political motive? I just have to be shocked and grateful at my good fortune? I’m the one who did it. [LAUGHS]

And it wasn’t by accident, you know. And I just want to say that not like, hats off to me, whatever, but just to say, that would never happen — sorry to say, never happen with a man because we liked the idea that a man has planned and worked hard, and it worked according to that plan. But we don’t like to think of women as being that far-thinking and that far-reaching and imagining something of scope.

Yep.

It has to just be my story. Like, I just wrote my story. It was really just my diary.

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We’ll be right back.

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Miranda, you just talked about having, in part, political motives for writing “All Fours.” Can you talk more about that?

Oh, yeah. I mean, I was angry when I wrote this book. I know it’s funny, but what else are you going to do? I mean, my first notes about the book actually have to do with Trump. And then you’re like, what is really the best use of my specific powers to help this goal?

I’m not saying my entire goal was political, but I did have days where I was like, well, one thing I could do is change our conception of older women and their sexuality and just their lived lives and what goes on in their heads. And that actually might be important.

Hmm. I mean, to not only have that intention, to write this book with a main character who’s a middle-aged woman who is discovering her power sexually and emotionally, rearranging her life, pursuing her desires, pursuing her wants, her needs, not only to flesh that out through the novel, but then to have the intentionality to start real-life conversations with women about perhaps putting this into practice in their real lives, I mean, that does feel political to me. That feels political on the level of the work and on the level of the reception of the work.

Right. Even though I had those ambitions that we talked about, I didn’t actually know how it was going to play out. Like, the “All Fours” Group Chat thing, that was something that came out of the response. It was like — and then the press sort of picked up that phrase.

And then Riverhead made a few hats that said “All Fours Group Chat.” And I was like, oh, that’s funny. And then people wanted to buy the hats. And I was like, we can’t sell this. And there was actually a serious meeting at Riverhead. Like, OK, well, to produce the hats —

And Riverhead’s the book publisher.

That’s my publisher. Yeah, my wonderful publisher. Just picture all women my age, just a coven. And it was like, well, if you think we should do the hats, it would take this long to do them and — you know. And I was like, wait, wait, wait. No, this was their response, these chats. We can’t sell that back. This is just something to support.

I mean, you’re articulating something that I think is important to point out, which is the experience of reading a book, at least to me, is a very individual one, right? It’s you, the page. It’s a solo activity.

But there’s something very particular about “All Fours” that makes people want to wear the hat, broadcast to the world that they’ve read it, find other people who’ve also read this novel and bring them towards themselves and start a conversation. What do you think it is about the book that makes people want to do that. What private thing is it allowing readers to make public?

I guess it’s the feeling when there’s something you thought was just you, and then not only are you reading it in a book, but that’s not an obscure book. Apparently, this has been validated, this personal — not just personal, but problematic thing in you. And it could be one of many things.

I mean, actually, what I love is people pull out really kind of obscure details and say, this was the thing. Maybe the book, if I did it right, you kind of sensed that it’s not just this narrator. She has friends who also are willing to talk about it. So maybe you kind of want those friends.

Yeah.

You feel like, I’m not meant to just ponder this alone. That’s not the act that’s called for here.

Find your own Isabel, basically, Isabella’s as metonym, as metaphor, even though she’s also a real person.

Yeah, the best friend in the book is called Jordi. And I get so many messages that refer to my Jordi, you know. Or I need as many Jordis as possible in my life right now. And then other people talking about their Davy’s.

And Davy’s the love interest in the book, for those who haven’t read. But I want to read those DMs. I mean, that’s just to you, but that feels fun. You’re talking about this influx of messages from readers. I can only imagine. Does that ever get overwhelming to be the place that people are sending these stories? I imagine some of them are sexy. Here’s my Davy, young lover, type story. But I imagine some of them are also quite heavy. Does it ever get to feel like a lot?

Yeah, but the truth is, I’ve made many things over the last few decades. And I mean, so my first breakout thing was a movie. And that was such a huge shift in my whole life. And it felt much more like the focus was on me.

Mm-hmm. This is for “You, Me, and Everyone We Know.”

Yeah. That was a movie I starred in, wrote, directed. But part of it was just like the way we are about young women, you know? Like, there she is at the gas station. I don’t know. There’s a way in which you just are there to be eaten or something. And this feels so different. It really feels like I threw a party, and it went so well that you know when other people are getting a glass down from your cupboard and helping themselves, you know?

Yes.

Or maybe it’s gone so far that someone’s actually like, do you mind if I cook this thing?

I love that metaphor.

Yeah. It feels like that. So it doesn’t feel like all the focus is on me, you know?

Huh.

It really feels like people are there for themselves because they needed this night, you know? And they’re talking not just to me, but to each other. That really — it’s not just a metaphor. I realized I had to come up with — since I only knew about hierarchical power and winning, I started to have gross feelings that I associate with that, where you feel basically like a balloon filled with nothing, about to pop.

And I was like, hold on, am I just thinking that that’s what I’m feeling because that’s what I’ve always felt, or is that really what I feel? And I was like, wait, this is so different. Like, I’m not alone. And if anything, I’m safer and more taken care of. And it was such a different feeling. So that was a good shift.

That’s remarkable. The image that’s coming to mind is — I’m just continuing your party metaphor because I love it. But it’s like, when you throw a great party, and at some point, you look up. And you’re in your own home, but it looks totally different. People are having conversations over here, sitting in ways you never thought possible on your sofa. You know what I mean? And you just look around, and you’re like —

Someone’s crying. Yeah.

Totally. There always is. And for me, it’s one friend I’m thinking of who is always crying. But I really like that. You look around and you’re like, wow. Yeah, this is about me, but it’s also not about me. I want to ask, though. You’re saying, this felt different in the sense that it wasn’t so much about you. This reaction or reception to the book wasn’t so much about you.

And I want to poke on that a little, just because I feel like this is a work of fiction. You’ve been really clear about it. But there are resonances between your own personal life and the narrator’s. Like, you have represented a way of not abiding by certain norms or expectations, all these micro-rebellions that you also — you broadcast on Instagram.

Let’s say you’re public about these ways that you’re breaking the mold. So I guess, the question is, do you feel like you’ve become a sort of representation to some people about the political possibilities of defying norms or defying expectations? Is that a feeling that you have?

Yeah, I guess my lived experience is that I’m just more comfortable because I made a whole lot of room to be myself, not just publicly in terms of my work, but also the relationship that I’m in. No one thinks I’m any way other than I am, my child. And so, I guess, that’s the pervasive feeling now.

What you’re saying about living authentically in the way that you are with the relationship you have, the way that you’re parenting, the way you’re even spending your time, there’s something that I do feel could be perceived as threatening. So I just — I wonder if you’ve got any responses, perhaps, to that effect.

I mean, one thing I noticed — this was, I think, when the book was a finalist for the National Book Award — I —

Congratulations.

There’s a reason I mentioned that.

[CHUCKLING]

It’s that I was looking at the other books. And just, the quickest way to look at what they were — I mean, some of them I knew, some of them I didn’t. But I was going through Amazon, right, and looking through them. And I realized, at a certain point, that I had the lowest number of stars you could get of all the finalists.

How many stars did you have?

I mean, it’s plenty, but there are so many one-star Amazon reviews. And the longer it keeps existing, that is like the wider the audience, the further out of my niche, the more there are one-star reviews. And they’re really angry. They really hate the book. And it starts to feel like it mirrors the other schisms we see in the world right now. But it’s a little more heartbreaking because it’s all women.

Oof.

Their anger is really palpable. It’s like, this is despicable. This is narcissistic. I’ve never hated a narrator more, you know? And these are familiar things through my life. I mean, this was sort of from whence I came, frankly. Like, that is any woman with a voice doing anything at all different, that’s kind of the standard response. But I just keep my eye on it for a couple of reasons. One, to remind myself, as the book gets bigger and there’s the limited series of the book and stuff to remember, for a lot of people, this is upsetting.

What do you think is upsetting about this book to those people?

A woman masturbating, a woman writing about a woman masturbating, it’s like double masturbation. And the non-binary child gets a lot of hate. People really write advocating for the husband. The husband seems so nice. Why doesn’t she stay? Like, as if I didn’t write the husband — as if I’m not also the husband, you know?

Like, I guess I just want to keep my eye on it, one, just on a slightly paranoid personal safety level to not gallivant out in the world thinking, like, everyone loves me, when actually, some people are like — specifically don’t. And I’m maybe a symbol of a whole lot of things that are wrong right now.

And even within my own life, of course, the main reason all these women who are relating to the book, many of whom are writers themselves, the reason you don’t write a book like this is because you’re protecting one man.

And you don’t want to hurt his feelings. Even if you do everything to protect him, you know that your version of a woman’s story won’t be his version. And at a certain point, you have to do what you think is for the greater good.

Can I ask specifically, just to make sure I’m — like, protecting your husband at the time? Is that what you’re saying? Like, is it —

Yeah, I feel like I knew it would be really uncomfortable for him. And I felt horrible about that. I spent so many therapy sessions talking this through. I mean, just the amount of times I felt stopped in my tracks — and then I had to keep just realizing, this is your job. You’re not trying to do harm. The more honest you are, the more dangerous it feels. That has to be OK.

And the only reason I’m talking about it now — and I don’t love to do this — but I see a lot of women on my Substack specifically asking about this and grappling with it themselves. And —

The feelings of their male partner?

Yeah. Yeah, or sometimes, just their partner. And to be honest, all my writer friends and I, we all discuss this all the time.

Hmm.

And there’s all different solutions. And it’s really everyone’s personal appetite for Discord and risk. And, yeah, so I guess I just wanted to put that out there because, yeah, I don’t want people to think that it was just easy for me.

Hmm. I appreciate you sharing that. It’s making me think about — you’re talking about going through these Amazon reviews and reading some that say the narrator is so selfish, so selfish.

Yeah.

And it’s speaking to — I mean, you didn’t say selfish in what you just said, but perhaps the undercurrent of anxieties in writing this book and making this work. Am I being selfish, feels like a scary question to ask yourself.

Mm-hmm.

Did you ask yourself that question? And where did you land, if you did?

This was the first book where I could put what I had to offer to work for other people in a more direct way. And that was so conscious. And I mean, I had started out the process by doing interviews with all different kinds of women from all different backgrounds about this time in their lives, both perimenopause and menopause, but also, just, what did it feel like? What did they long for? And those were, for a long time, part of the book. So maybe that was my way of trying not to feel selfish, that I had to do that whole process to prove I work for the census, essentially. I’m just —

— just taking down the facts. But then ultimately, that’s not what I do. I’m a fiction writer. And fiction is the lie that tells the truth. So I realized, oh, there’s no amount of truths, of factual women’s truths that are going to be as powerful as this one lie.

Why do you think a middle-aged woman creating space to find out what she wants and needs, why do you think that feels so subversive? Why do you think that merits the kinds of Amazon reviews you were saying where people hate this woman? What is it about that quest that is so threatening?

It seems to call people’s choices into question. And that’s got to feel really bad and upsetting. And also, how dare someone receive accolades and such attention for doing — they call it selfish, but probably the feeling is sort of, like, it seems to judge them —

Ah.

— for not doing it. And I’ve even — I think we all feel this. Like, your friend gets divorced, and you’re like, should I get divorced? Like, you feel shaken by other women’s choices and personally somehow implicated.

I want to end on this idea of freedom. You’ve said during the course of this conversation that you really feel like, in a lot of ways, you’re living in a way that feels more aligned with your true self. Right now, in this moment, in your life, in the world, when do you feel the most free?

It’s funny. My first thought, which is a different — I think my whole life — ugh, I’m going to cry. My whole life, I would have said, in here, in my studio, when I’m alone. But my first thought was actually with my girlfriend.

Like, I just —

it’s funny. Because I’m so private, no one knows who this girlfriend is. But yeah, I just thought — I’m laughing. And I’m just totally relaxed. And in some ways, more than I — I’m learning how to be that way alone, you know?

I love that. OK, truly last question — bit of a left field one — what music are you listening to right now? What’s getting you going? Is there any track we can end this episode on?

Can I take a moment with this? Because I always balk because I can’t think.

Of course.

I just want to look at my actual playlist. You could put a Tirzah song.

I love Tirzah. Yeah, yeah.

This is good because it’s very lightly referenced in the book, “Holding On.”

I love that song!

Isn’t that a great song?

It’s a great song. Wow, imagine it playing in the background right now.

Yeah.

(SINGING) I’m not shy to say

Even when it’s wrong

But what’s keeping me from holding on?

Miranda, this was really fun. I’m really, really grateful for your time. Thank you so much.

Yeah. Thank you.

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This episode of “Modern Love” is produced by Sara Curtis. It was edited by Lynn Levy and our executive producer, Jen Poyant. Production management by Christina Djossa. The “Modern Love” theme music is by Dan Powell. Original music in this episode by Rowan Niemisto, Diane Wong, Elisheba Ittoop, and Dan Powell. This episode was mixed by Daniel Ramirez, with studio support from Maddy Masiello and Nick Pittman.

Our video team is Brooke Minters, Felice León, Michael Cordero, and Sawyer Roque. Special thanks to Lisa Tobin, Bianca Flores, and to Larissa Anderson, Gianna Palmer, Amy Pearl, Davis Land, Jess Metzger, Mahima Chablani, Nell Gallogly, Jeffrey Miranda, and Paula Szuchman.

The “Modern Love” column is edited by Daniel Jones. Miya Lee is the editor of “Modern Love” projects. If you want to submit an essay or a Tiny Love Story to “The New York Times,” we have the instructions in our show notes. I’m Anna Martin. Thanks for listening.

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