FRIENDS IN MOTHERHOOD: New anthology features local writers with reading at Writers' Week 2026
Motherhood. It’s hard. It’s hard to do. Hard to describe. Hard to believe at times. It’s a painful and beautiful state of being at your best and worst. It’s being surrounded and alone. It’s also a club that seems a lot more exclusive from the outside, but most anyone can join at a tiered level—the baseline (in my opinion) being a nurturing human of humans and/or life around you. Whether we believe in or embrace that ability or not, the commitment to care for others is not tethered to body parts but a mindset.
Motherhood is profoundly different for everyone, and there is a book for every version or interpretation to come. Hell, I could write a book on motherhood but it would be completely incomplete, mostly unreliable, and likely leave readers with more questions than answers. Thankfully, we are not talking about a book with answers about motherhood, we’re talking about a book with dispatches from the frontlines in Notes to New Mothers, an anthology of writings from about 65 contributors edited by Rebecca Knight and Julie Buntin. The book’s launch at Cameron Art Museum this Wednesday, November 11 is part of UNCW Creative Writing’s annual Writers’ Week: Sent(i)ence.
As we settle into my backyard for an outdoor lunch, I am delighted to talk to one of the book’s Wilmington-based contributors, my friend in life and motherhood, Emily Louise Smith. Emily is a writer and professor at UNCW’s Creative Writing Department. One would think that our respective careers in writing, publishing, and education would have brought us together in the Port City before we connected as new moms at Mother's Milk in 2018. Emily with Birdie. Me with Etta. Our two baby girls with “old lady” names.
“Do you remember that class?” Emily asks me as I drag my family’s dog, Bowie, off of her lap (again) while we belly up to our chicken and sweet potatoes. “It wasn't a class,” Emily continues, “It was, like, you would weigh your baby when you got there, and then everybody just sat around and breastfed together, and then they weighed your baby when you left so you know how much they eat. Because when you bottle-feed, you know how much your baby drank.”
I do remember. I remember I was so worried about Etta having enough to eat in those first weeks and months, it was helpful to understand how much she was getting from me. I was a “low producer” and had to supplement with formula, which didn’t feel great, but I remained committed to breastfeeding and pumping as much as I could. I remember unpacking it all with this circle of women, this lactation congregation, if you will.
“You’re handling all this pretty well,” one woman notes after I share. There can be a lot of shame associated with how we feed babies—whether by choice or not—and I think it was my lack of external shame that made me seem stoic in a painful part of early motherhood.
“I don’t know how else to handle it,” I reply. “She has to eat.”
Etta (left) and Birdie (right) as Granny Babies for their first Halloween. Photos by Tom Dorgan
Chapters and themes in Notes to New Mothers range from “Feeding” and “A List of Things No One Tells You,” to “Hurting,” “Loving,” “Sharing,” “Your Mother,” “Your Partner,” “Yourself” and so on. This is not a “how to” guide, it’s not a “what to expect” list, and it’s not a “do this and not that” bestseller that many, including myself, sought as new mothers during frustrating and exhausting quests for information.
“What has always remained top of mind for me was the sleep and bed situation,” I say, remembering what those days were like. “Even when she was in a crib it was hard for her to stay asleep, and I remember so many nights of just "giving up" and just lying there. Being exhausted, being frustrated about her not being in her crib, about her not sleeping by herself, but also just feeling her lying on my chest as this baby, as this sweet little thing. … I actually find myself reliving those moments recently, because she'll lie on my chest and it's like she's a baby again.”
“I know,” Emily adds. “I think at some point I had one of those sleep books; somebody gifted it to me in their hand-me-down bag. And I sort of looked at it, and everything was very, ‘Get your husband to do this, get your husband to do that,’ and so I put the book down, because I was kind of like, ‘I am clearly not the audience for this book.’”
That reminds her of an entry in the Notes to New Mothers anthology about co-sleeping: “It's a single mom saying there's no reason not to [co-sleep]. So I think whether you're parenting solo or not, it's less frowned upon to co-sleep now anyway. And it's true, I feel the same way, that time might be running out. She's not going to be an eighth grader crawling into bed with me. And if she is, then, you know, I'll savor that too.”
“I can't tell you how many books or lengthy journal articles I just abandoned,” I say to Emily. “Because sometimes—I eventually realized—you don't need to be told what to do. You just need to understand that what's happening is not just you.”
“Yes, you want reassurance, or just solidarity,” she agrees. “That is one of my favorite things about [Notes to New Mothers]: so many of the books on early motherhood are kind of prescriptive, right? You're reading how to get your child to sleep, how to get your child to take a bottle, how to get your child to—I don't know—be smart and capable, or fearless, or whatever. And in this, two entries adjacent to each other might say completely opposite things.”
This "chorus of voices," as Emily describes, is not about the way to do motherhood but rather honoring all the different ways it can happen; how it can change a person or change how we experience the people and world around us. That kind of affirmation or validation can come from someone just sharing their story, or one-two sentences—or a simple illustration.
That’s how this anthology began, with Knight and Bunton’s own friendship. Then, as they describe in the Introduction, they “began comparing notes on what, exactly, was going on in our post-partum bodies and minds. …This is the book we wish we could have given each other then: a collection of raw, unfiltered glimpses into the lives of mothers going through the exact same thing.”
“It's pretty raw and honest,” Emily affirms. “And postpartum is a big part of it. So childbirth, healing your body, healing your—I won't say soul, but healing. So there's a lot of heaviness.”
To that point, Arianne Zwartjes’ entry leaps out:
Thinking of a news story I read years ago about Palestinian parents popping balloons above the crib to get their baby used to the sound of bombs, which makes me cry every single time I think about it. Thinking about how every single Ukrainian and Russian soldier is some woman’s child, and how heartbroken all those mothers must feel, regardless of which side of the conflict they’re on.
When Emily chose to become pregnant, she also began to document her experience of becoming a mother and she is still writing about it. “And some of those things that I wrote early on were to hold myself accountable to writing my own book separately,” she explains. “Even though I knew… I didn't necessarily think, ‘This is going to be the book.’ I just knew that I might not remember all the details of that liminal space, and that I wanted to remember it.”
As it turns out, when the call came for entries for this anthology, mothers (solo moms, two-mom perspectives, and those from heteronormative relationships), had some of the same notes and scribbles just sitting around in this same way. “So most of mine were things that I wrote probably in the first year of Birdie's life, in an attempt to document and to remember. Some of them I wrote during the call [with Knight and Buntin], reflecting more on those early days, because they had specific prompts.”
Emily notes the breadth of experiences represented in the book, with snippets and stories of joys, trepidations, and fears throughout. This includes perspectives on relationships with partners, friends, and mothers as new mothers.
“I feel like there's so much time spent, throughout this journey of motherhood, where I go back and think about what my mom did or didn't do, or I'm happy that she did, maybe a little questioning of what she did," I say. “And also often left thinking, Ah, I'm still just like my mom."
“I think that's why it's such a potent section,” Emily offers, “because it runs the gamut from people who had a healthy relationship with their mom to pretty traumatic relationships with their moms, and everything in between.”
This collection overall is mostly from or geared toward new motherhood and stories from the newborn months, as well as excerpts of toddlerhood. “Though most entries aren’t focused on teenagers or middle schoolers, there are a few that reflect beautifully from farther down the road,”Emily notes. “I think they got so many contributions that they had to winnow them.”
Not to say these stories are only coming from new mothers weathering sleepless nights as I type. As a reminder, the newborns Emily and I once held during Mothers Milk are now 8 years old. And while Emily’s UNCW colleague KaToya Ellis Fleming is no longer a “new mother”—in fact, her son is an adult man with a graduate degree and thriving career—she too has entries featured in Notes to New Mothers.
“It just reminds you that motherhood and ‘birthing’ years are long and that you can have friends on this journey who are at all different places along it,” Emily says. “It's been really fun to be in it with a colleague. It's the first time she and I have ever been on the same pages together. And there are other writers I admire and have read, and I'm excited to be published alongside them.”
Both Emily and KaToya will read from the book as part of Writer’s Week at the Cameron Art Museum on Wednesday, November 11, from 5:30-6:30 p.m. Both editors of the anthology, Julie Buntin and Rebecca Knight, will attend as well. “Julie and Rebecca are doing separate craft talks during the week,” Emily notes. “And everything for Writers' Week, of course, is free and open to the public.”
As Emily thinks about which entry she’ll read Wednesday, she admits she hasn’t decided. Of her 20 or so entries, there are about a dozen that made it into the book to now choose from. “There's one about my mom,” Emily says with a soft hitch in her voice, “which I will not read at the reading. There's no way I could read that one out loud.”
The moment I felt my daughter lifted onto my chest, I understood the depths of my mother’s love in a way I never had before, despite never doubting it. Despite witnessing her love on the sidelines of soccer games and in the front row of piano recitals. Despite her showing up to move me into every new dorm and apartment, tending to every fresh heartbreak. Despite her near-constant sacrifices. Despite her weekly care packages, her availability and vulnerability, I somehow still didn’t get it—not entirely—until I knew just how far I’d go to protect, love, and advocate for my own child. Until I was flooded with hope for someone else. Understanding the reaches of my own heart has expanded my appreciation for my mother and has made our relationship both stronger and softer.
- Emily Louise Smith, Notes to New Mothers
“I'm going to have to figure out how to read them,” she continues. “They're all so raw and resonant. …I'll go through and figure out what I feel like I can read with humor and joy without getting emotional.”
Bowie immediately bounds toward Emily again to comfort her with aggressive kisses and “hugs.” My dog is very empathic and sweet, she could be a great emotional support animal if not for her terrible trainers at home.
“How aware is Birdie of your writing?” I eventually ask.
“She's very proud that she's in the book,” Emily says and describes Birdie’s excited anticipation of waiting for a copy to come in the mail. “She does know I'm a writer and she knows that I'm writing a book, a separate book that she's in. I haven't said it's about her, per se, but I've said it's about becoming a mom and motherhood. So she's aware of it, and I think she's proud of it too.
“The thing about writing about kids, too, though, is that I already know that whether it's as a writer or an artist or a dancer or a photographer, however she chooses to express herself in the world—she also can write about whatever she wants. But I guess one of my greatest fears is that she might reflect on her childhood, or my motherhood, as not entirely positive, or not remember it the way that I did—which is true of me and my mom. Probably all mothers everywhere, right? And I celebrate that.”
Our conversation is interrupted by our two “old lady” babies asking for Halloween candy rations and more time to play before leaving. The timer is set for everyone. Emily and I pick up our empty plates.
“Has your mom read it? Has she said anything to you about it?” I ask.
“She has read it,” Emily replies. “She was like, ‘This is good. These are really good.’ That's it, as far as discussion about it. …I know she shared it with my sister. And she also shared it with her book club. She told everybody. So sometimes, you know, parents can't really discuss the details of something, but the evidence shows they do care. ...I mean, she took it to her book club, right?”
UNCW Creative Writing’s annual Writers’ Week: Sent(i)ence is November 9-13. Check out the full schedule and register for events, like November 11's Notes to New Mothers readings at CAM here.
