Hand Over was not written. Its sentences were assembled from notebooks, drafts, conversations, and published pages—some the author’s, some not, and some belonging to earlier versions of her. They appear without attribution, right aligned and spaced apart, so you can’t tell which voice is speaking (unless you consult the index). That uncertainty is intentional: language moves, authorship drifts, and every sentence is a crossing. Time collapses, gender collapses, pronouns collapse, enabling a new queer self to emerge, abundant in its contradictions.

Hand Over grapples with the constraints, pleasures, and excesses of a life experience of gender. What does it mean to be a woman when you’re also an intellectual, queer, and (for years reluctantly) a parent and partner? What if you don’t relate to the role of woman at all?

The hand over of the title is multiple: feminists handing over ideas to each other, mothers to children, philosophy to politics, duty to love, theory to embodied living. Poignant, cynical, joyful, sad, the narrative unpicks a seeming cis normative life that reveals itself, gladly, to be anything but.