A Lineage of Women and Writers: A Conversation with Melissa Fraterrigo

The Perils of Girlhood: A Memoir in Essays

by Melissa Fraterrigo

University of Nebraska Press, 2025; 206 pp; $21.95

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After publishing two books of literary fiction—Glory Days and The Longest Pregnancy—Melissa Fraterrigo’s first book of nonfiction, The Perils of Girlhood, comes out in September 2025. This wide-ranging memoir-in-essays covers pop culture in the ‘80s and ‘90s, inherited ideals of girlhood and motherhood, countless depictions of lifelong friendships, and Fraterrigo’s enduring pursuit of writing. Fraterrigo teaches creative writing at both the undergraduate and graduate levels and is the founder and director of Lafayette Writers’ Studio. 

Mary Ardery, a fellow Indiana-based writer, conducted a month-long email exchange with Fraterrigo. They discussed what it’s like to write in a new-to-you genre, how we come of age as writers, and the importance of a literary lineage. This interview has been edited for content and clarity.

Mary Ardery: The book opens and closes with scenes of you with a close friend—a craft decision that underscores the power of these friendships in your life—but we also get opening and closing images of you driving or riding in a car. Could you talk about what those driving images mean to you? How do your relationships to driving and writing inform each other?

Melissa Fraterrigo: As a writer and mother, my car is in many ways a pseudo-office. I have written in my car outside the grocery on a crumpled list in my lap, I’ve jotted lines while waiting to pick up carpool from dance class, and I’ve scrawled a long-ago memory from behind the wheel (don’t judge me—I try to do this at stoplights!). If you are a parent—a mom in particular—your time is never your own, and space seldom belongs to you alone. I tell my students that they do not have to write every day—I am unable to ask this of myself—but they do have to widen the scope of what they consider writing to be. I can draft an essay while chopping carrots, walking the dog, or while driving; all it takes is for me to truly focus on the moment and what I am thinking. Sometimes it’s simply easier to access this headspace when you are driving and away from some of the other concerns of the office or home. At least that’s how it is for me. 

MA: Your previous books are fiction, and so much of that expertise (like your narrative pacing!) comes through in the essays. Were there any habits or lessons you had to learn or unlearn to write essays instead of fiction? I’m also thinking about the book’s content and one theme seems to be unlearning lessons that no longer serve us or maybe never did.

MF: When writing fiction, there is nothing I love more than asking “What if?” and giving my fictional characters the opportunity to surprise me. I never really know what my characters are going to do, and that is part of the joy of it. Essays have been a whole new animal. Whereas I previously leaned into my imagination, with essays, I had to use my senses to detail what was.

When looking at the manuscript as a whole, I could see how I had diminished my truths, even years later. I was conscious in the revision process of tightening certain threads: the shame I felt about my body, the way my swim coach and other men made me question myself, and how my friends remained powerful advocates. In the essay form, I could not hide behind fictional characters or situations. I had to challenge myself to figure out exactly what I thought and then get that on the page in a way that would not only serve me and my experience but also offer a sort of portal through which others could reflect on their own experiences.

MA: In “More like Dad,” you make it look so easy, like you effortlessly chose all the perfect moments/scenes to illustrate a relationship that has spanned a lifetime. Could you talk about your process for writing and revising this essay in particular? 

MF: This is one of the top three that emotionally challenged me, as I was aware that I would be sharing some lesser-known facts about my dad’s volatile temper—a temper that, with age, has mellowed. I was thinking a lot about familial relationships and how, while we might only live with our parents for 18 years, we spend the rest of our lives mulling over that time. 

While drafting, I was trying to educate myself on contemporary creative nonfiction. I’ve never taken a formal course on the essay form outside of writing workshops, and I’m somewhat addicted to anthologies as they offer a range of voices between the covers. The essay that really jumpstarted “More Like Dad” was “Under the Influence” by Scott Russell Sanders, in which he explores his father’s drinking problem and uses a reflective retrospective narrator. My dad was not a drinker, but he had a temper that could still cause me, even as an adult sitting in my suburban kitchen with my cold cup of coffee and mortgage bill, to wilt when I recalled moments of my childhood. No matter what sort of parenting you’ve experienced, it influences you and the kind of parent you are ultimately going to become.

In terms of revision, I had to sit with it for some time. I moved the pieces around like a jigsaw, and I worked with editors at Indiana Review. By letting the essay go on a bit longer, I could bring in another scene, this time showing how I became his accomplice and his witness. This [scene] felt more complex and honest, and so now the final lines are: “… he slammed his fist on the leg of his jeans, goddamn it, he said, eyes beady. I walked two steps to keep up with his one, but I was there. I took in his anger, ready to both bear witness and, later, absorb some of his fury.”

MA: There’s a powerful moment in “My Body, My Shame” when your daughter is upset, so you say something to comfort her and then realize: “It was what I wish I had been told.” That made me wonder: of all the essays in your book, which one do you wish you could give to a younger version of yourself to read?

MF: I’d probably offer her “The Perils of Girlhood.” Younger me loved reading the newspaper and true crime. My girlhood-self would be interested in Liberty and Abigail’s story because of their age, but I think she’d also grow invested in how the essay defines girlhood and honors the female experience. I can’t remember anyone ever talking to me about what it meant to be female beyond tampons and menstrual cramps, and it would have been helpful to consider how I was part of a lineage of women, and that is something of which to be proud. 

MA: A secondary theme of this book felt like a writer’s bildungsroman. In “The Telling,” you write: “I couldn’t wait to tell my friends. At that time, I believed the telling was more important than the lived experience, how seeing it unfold in another person’s face, it became real.” There’s a truth about youth here, but I think it also touches on something about being a writer.

Later, in “Deeper Than the Eye Can See,” you write: “And maybe that was it: the process of regularly writing and contemplating generated pure and unbridled happiness.” This is one of my favorite narrative revelations—the way writing eventually becomes something that not only makes life enjoyable but quite possibly saves your life during your darkest seasons. Can you talk more about what writing has meant to you over the years and perhaps name some writers you consider part of your literary lineage?

MF: When I was putting the book together, I was conscious of the writing thread. I have been writing and developing the art of storytelling my whole life, and as such, the act of putting words on paper feels less like an activity and more like bonding with a very good friend. Connecting with other writers and learning from them has been of the utmost importance. Jo Ann Beard was my freshman-year rhetoric teacher at the University of Iowa and the first person to ask me if I’d ever considered a career in writing. While I’d wanted to be a writer my whole life, her seeing this potential in me made it possible. 

I also had an amazing MFA cohort at Bowling Green State University. I am still in touch with the writers who sat with me around the workshop table. Bonnie Jo Campbell served as a visiting writer, piled our workshop table with treats, and taught us to laugh at ourselves and consider the world of the story beyond what we’d penned. Both Jo Ann and Bonnie Jo made it clear that writing was something to be celebrated and shared, that everyone had a story to tell, and that by listening to one another and spending time together, we could help overcome our doubts and hesitations. By practicing and pursuing writing, it became a real possibility. Without these women and countless others, I am certain I would not be answering your questions today!

MA: We live in the same town in Indiana. We are both mothers, and we are both writers. Or, to borrow the title of Nicole Graev Lipson’s essay, we are both “thinkers who mother.” What’s a piece of advice you would give to a fellow thinker who mothers here in our town or in Indiana more generally?

MF: Advice! Goodness. Take the time to get to know yourself as a mother and realize that might mean leaving the local playground early or begging off a coffee date. Save some time and room to be with your thinking self. This could translate into being alone or connecting with a good friend to dissect something that’s taking place in your family or with your children. Be conscious of what you are doing and why you are doing it. Try to give yourself the freedom to alter the conversation or engage in whatever process you may need to keep those creative thoughts thrumming.