“I’m a pretty open book,” Clementine Ford tells me over the phone a week before the publication of her memoir How We Love. “There’s nothing that’s off limits because you can always find something to talk about that will be relatable.” Clementine’s third book is indeed relatable. Combining a special blend of the deeply personal and the universal, it’s a read that makes you feel, in parts, uncomfortably seen.
Reminiscent of British writer Dolly Alderton’s , the memoir follows Clementine’s encounters with love throughout her life, starting with her mother. It’s a change of gear for the writer and feminist, whose first two books, and are rage-filled explorations into the damaging effects of the patriarchy. But, as she
