The Memoir Land Author Questionnaire #148: Julie M. Green
"If you’re scared, then you’re probably doing it right. Also: if you have a story that won’t leave you alone, then the world needs to hear it."
Since 2010, in various publications, I’ve interviewed authors—mostly memoirists—about aspects of writing and publishing. Initially I did this for my own edification, as someone who was struggling to find the courage and support to write and publish my memoir. I’m still curious about other authors’ experiences, and I know many of you are, too. So, inspired by the popularity of The Oldster Magazine Questionnaire, I’ve launched The Memoir Land Author Questionnaire.
Here’s the 148th installment, featuring Julie M. Green, author of Motherness: A Memoir of Generational Autism, Parenthood, and Radical Acceptance. - Sari Botton
P.S. Check out all the interviews in The Memoir Land Author Questionnaire series.
Julie M. Green’s work has been published in the Washington Post, Globe and Mail, Parents, Chatelaine, Today’s Parent, and more. I have appeared on various shows and podcasts, including CTV, BBC Radio, Global News, and Sirius XM. In 2024, I was a finalist for the CBC Nonfiction Prize. I write about my experience as an autistic mother raising an autistic child at The Autistic Mom. For more info, see juliemgreen.ca.
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How old are you, and for how long have you been writing?
I’m 48. I’ve been working as a freelance writer for around 20 years, but I’ve been writing for a lot longer if you count the terrible short stories I wrote in high school. Motherness is my first published book.
What’s the title of your latest book, and when was it published?
Motherness: A Memoir of Generational Autism, Parenthood, and Radical Acceptance was published in September 2025.
What number book is this for you?
First.
My son, Carson, was three years old when he was diagnosed with autism. But like so many women, it took me a long time to realize I might also be on the spectrum. I was finally diagnosed—almost ten years later—aged 44.
How do you categorize your book—as a memoir, memoir-in-essays, essay collection, creative nonfiction, graphic memoir, autofiction—and why?
These distinctions have somehow become overcomplicated. On one hand Motherness could be called a hybrid memoir because it combines personal essay with elements of research. Or it could be a memoir-in-essays since each chapter can be read as a stand-alone piece. Then again, since the narrative is mostly chronological, it might well be straight-up memoir.
What is the “elevator pitch” for your book?
I will let the catalogue copy do the work:
“A funny, unflinchingly honest, and deeply compassionate memoir about one woman’s experience of raising an autistic child while discovering she is also ‘on the spectrum.’ With more girls and women being diagnosed in the last decade—many of them later in life—the face of autism is changing. This groundbreaking memoir provides a rich, intensely personal account of what it is like to be autistic, through the lens of both a mother and child.
At its heart Motherness is a story about accepting your child while learning to accept yourself.”
What’s the back story of this book including your origin story as a writer? How did you become a writer, and how did this book come to be?
My son, Carson, was three years old when he was diagnosed with autism. But like so many women, it took me a long time to realize I might also be on the spectrum. I was finally diagnosed—almost ten years later—aged 44.
A kind of reckoning happens when you learn you are autistic late in life. My diagnosis shed light on a lifetime of feeling othered and misunderstood. Motherness traces my journey from childhood to early motherhood, when I learned to advocate for my son while navigating my own struggles. This book served as a necessary excavation of my past and an affirmation of my present.
What were the hardest aspects of writing this book and getting it published?
I decided to go on submission without an agent, so finding my way out of the slush pile was a daunting prospect. I did some research and made a very short shortlist of independent presses I thought would be a good fit. Lo and behold, I got a “maybe” from my dream acquisitions editor. Unfortunately the “maybe” turned into a “no, thanks.” I was devastated because I felt in my gut that this was both the editor and the publisher I wanted to work with. So, I made the case for a revision, and fortunately the dream editor agreed to have another look. Once the structure came together, “no, thanks” became “yes, please!”
The actual writing, though emotionally gruelling at times, came easily because I think the story had been percolating long enough and was ready to be told. This process runs in stark contrast to the previous 20 years I spent labouring on a YA novel that found an agent but ultimately went nowhere.
A kind of reckoning happens when you learn you are autistic late in life. My diagnosis shed light on a lifetime of feeling othered and misunderstood. Motherness traces my journey from childhood to early motherhood, when I learned to advocate for my son while navigating my own struggles. This book served as a necessary excavation of my past and an affirmation of my present.
How did you handle writing about real people in your life? Did you use real or changed names and identifying details? Did you run passages or the whole book by people who appear in the narrative? Did you make changes they requested?
I had my son’s consent to write about some things that happened in his childhood from my perspective. He has read parts but not the book in its entirety. Much of the story concerns my own experiences before he was born, but I think he’s now at an age where he can process it. At least I hope he can. That’s the thing with memoir; it is so carefully curated. I have been as selective and intentional about what I have kept in as what I have left out. Even so, I changed all names and certain identifying characteristics of every person in the book.
While I deliberated and honestly felt a bit sick about it, I eventually shared the manuscript with my mother. She’s an intensely private person, and I was fully prepared for her enmity. Oddly enough, she loved the book and only requested the most minor and inconsequential changes, so I was happy to oblige. It’s peculiar to me the kinds of details with which readers will take exception. To be perfectly honest, I’m not sure that I would have made any significant changes even if she had objected. I’m just relieved there are no hard feelings.
Who is another writer you took inspiration from in producing this book? Was it a specific book, or their whole body of work? (Can be more than one writer or book.)
Wow, there are too many great memoirs to mention. A few that stuck with me are Strong Female Character (Fern Brady), Run Towards the Danger (Sarah Polley), Superfan (Jen Sookfong Lee), The Electricity of Every Living Thing (Katherine May).
What advice would you give to aspiring writers looking to publish a book like yours, who are maybe afraid, or intimidated by the process?
If you’re scared, then you’re probably doing it right. Also: if you have a story that won’t leave you alone, then the world needs to hear it.
What do you love about writing?
The artful sculpting that happens in revision, with each draft whittled into something more precise and refined. Something altogether different (and hopefully better) than what you started off with.
What frustrates you about writing?
That no matter who you are, your first draft will absolutely, necessarily suck. It’s hard to power through those early pages, writing through the sludge until you finally reach a clearing. So much of the process is about keeping the faith as you stumble along. Then comes the business of publishing, which is a whole other thing.
What about writing surprises you?
You rarely end up where you started. You rarely end up where you thought you would, even when you are the one driving the thing. The fact that my words sometimes have the power to surprise me is, in itself, surprising.
While I deliberated and honestly felt a bit sick about it, I eventually shared the manuscript with my mother. She’s an intensely private person, and I was fully prepared for her enmity. Oddly enough, she loved the book and only requested the most minor and inconsequential changes, so I was happy to oblige.
Does your writing practice involve any kind of routine or writing at specific times?
I wish! Writing is a job like any other; too many people glamorize it. There’s no magic formula that I know of. No special pens or notebooks or seating arrangements will make the work any better or easier. It’s a lot like exercise. If you want results, put in the hours and stop making excuses for yourself. You are guaranteed to feel so much better afterwards.
Do you engage in any other creative pursuits, professionally or for fun? Are there non-writing activities do you consider to be “writing” or supportive of your process?
I am a semi-professional artist, though I do a lot less painting recently because book promotion is all consuming. There is a meditative quality to painting that requires a completely different part of my brain than writing, and it helps quiet my racing thoughts. I feel the same way about time spent outdoors: hiking, gardening, and kayaking.
What’s next for you? Do you have another book planned, or in the works?
I am 50K words into another memoir. I am also considering exhuming the YA novel I wrote 20 years ago because you never know.





Enjoyed this interview! As a writer for several decades now, I couldn't agree with this more: "You rarely end up where you started. You rarely end up where you thought you would, even when you are the one driving the thing. The fact that my words sometimes have the power to surprise me is, in itself, surprising." Another way I've heard this paraphrased somewhere is "you have to write to find out what you think." So yes, "surprising" is a great word for the magic of the writing process.
I love what Julie says about confronting your fear of writing your book. The call to write a story signals a desire evolve, transform or share, and fear often points to the heart of the story. If you feel scared to write something, that’s what your story is asking you to explore.