As her dark debut about a tradwife who wakes up in the past is made into a film by Anne Hathaway, the novelist explores the sinister truth b
This is not the direction Iām meant to go in when I talk about my novel orĀ the legacy of the tradwife. Iām meant to focus instead on the rise of milkmaid fashion, the proliferation ofĀ handkerchief headbands at Target, the sociopolitical implications of the apron-heavy spring Miu Miu line. Iām meant to talk about those consequences of āthe tradwife obsessionā that we are reasonably capable of stomaching. I know this because when, in response to a question about my novel, I try to talk about Renee Good, who was shot dead by ICE agents, I am gently encouraged to pivot, or alternatively reminded that what Iām saying isĀ a bit of a stretch,Ā andĀ this makes me feel crazy. Iām not crazy. Itās not a stretch. The tradwife, like the 1950s housewife, is not a real person. She is not a trend, or a cultural obsession. She is an advertisement, a curated performance of womanhood with a link in bio for purchases, who has shown up, like a 1950s advertisement, to remind women of their true purpose: serve, smile, procreate and purchase.
feels like this book couldn't come at a better time
