In 2011, the London Times columnist Caitlin Moran published “How to Be a Woman,” a book that combined personal essays with an outline of the state of—and need for—feminism today. The book was a best-seller in England, and, by the summer of 2012, in America as well, thanks in large part to Moran’s brutally funny approach to a serious topic. “What do you think feminism IS, ladies?” she writes, after stating that only twenty-nine per cent of American women describe themselves as feminists. “What part of ‘liberation for women’ is not for you? Is it freedom to vote? The right not to be owned by the man you marry? The campaign for equal pay? ‘Vogue,’ by Madonna? Jeans? Did all that good shit GET ON YOUR NERVES? Or were you just DRUNK AT THE TIME OF SURVEY?”

Moran’s latest book, “Moranthology,” a collection of her columns for the Times, has just been published. She recently answered some questions on feminism, writers who have influenced her, celebrities, and sex; an edited version of the exchange follows.

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The columns collected in “Moranthology” cover such a wide range of topics and genres: feminism, of course, but also celebrity interviews, parenting, poverty, “Downton Abbey,” and late-night half-asleep talks with your husband. Do you have a favorite sort of column to write?

I like it when I’ve got a meaty topic to fly into—I wrote one about my experiences with schizophrenia recently that I was inordinately proud of. “Broken reason cannot mend broken reason.” Mental health is seen as a massive drag to have to write about—worthy, dull. Something you should “have” to read / write about. Like feminism, I guess. Or another one of my hobbyhorses: socialism. But I find all these topics thrilling to write about—ideas about freedom, consideration for other mental states. The idea of an equal world, and just how liberating and God-damned exciting that might be. Writing about those things—and I will be frank—turns me on. I like a little bit of revolution. I think it’s a very good hobby for a young woman. Better than squash.

But, on the other hand, there’s nothing quite like sitting down with a cup of tea and writing about how, given that that man died in bed with her, Lady Mary from “Downton Abbey” technically now has a haunted vagina. I would say I am half Wollstonecraft, half LOLcats.

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It’s as if “How to Be a Woman” anticipated the current political and cultural conversation—contraception, abortion, equal pay, “having it all”—and sought to give women, particularly younger ones, talking points on identifying as feminists. Did you foresee this cultural and political moment? Or was “How to Be a Woman” the book you were simply writing at that point in your life?

I could see that there was a massive, terrifying gap where nothing was being written about feminism / the experiences of women in a way that women would actually want to read and identify with. I thought, Not only is that gap something I could fill with all the ideas I’ve been having about feminism for the past twenty years but I estimate that a book about it will turn out to gross a massive payment off my mortgage. And so it proved to be.

It was obvious to me that things would get worse for women, because, culturally, the language used to talk about women and the images we see of women have become so sour and restrictive. I wrote “How to be a Woman” for my sister: a twenty-five-year-old single mother living on benefits, who’s never read a book in her life, and only reads celebrity magazines and watches “Jerry Springer” or MTV. She has no idea what feminism is, other than something from the olden days that’s a bore. I thought, The only images she ever sees of women are either of celebrities with “circles of shame” around their sweat patches or berating them for having put on ten pounds or “trailer trash” mums being screamed at by an audience. Her view of being a woman is so terrifying and restrictive. As her older sister, I want to put my hands on her shoulder and go, “The reason you feel weird is because this culture is being rude to you. This has become a very impolite society toward women.” I wanted to write a book that would make her go, “That happened to me! And that! And that!,” so she didn’t feel weird about being a normal woman anymore. And then I wanted to go, “Do you know what feminism actually is? It just means women being equal to men. That whatever they get, and feel comfortable with, we get, and feel comfortable with, too. Are you a feminist?” And she rang me the day she read the book, and went, “I’m a feminist. I’ve always been a feminist.” And I cried. And wished I’d charged her for the book.

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In most of the articles I’ve read about “How to Be a Woman,” the chapter most often mentioned is the one on your abortion. You write about abortion in “Moranthology” as well, though not from such a personal perspective. What made you decide to write about your own experience?

The idea of not being able to control my own fertility genuinely terrifies me. That one mistake might change your life. That everything I am, and do, could be ended by the repeal of laws our mothers fought so hard for, that women had waited for the entire span of humanity to come about. Because that’s what the anti-abortion movement would want: a situation where no woman is ever allowed to make a single mistake without bearing the consequences for the rest of her life. Just like we used to have, until very recently.

Imagine a parallel in the lives of men. You go out one night, get drunk, and lose, badly, at poker. You wake the next morning, and someone turns up on your doorstep with a twenty-five-year-old man called “Ray,” tells you, “You’re now financially and morally responsible for this man for the rest of your life,” and then walks away, leaving you with Ray. That’s what not allowing women to rectify—quickly, safely, and legally—an accidental pregnancy is like. Except the Ray version is still easier, because he’s a fully grown man—not a tiny baby you have to labor out of your body, and breast-feed, and tend to at 4:30 A.M., and give up work for. Maybe risk your life or your sanity or your continence for. The unkindness of not letting women decide when they want to be parents takes my breath away. Not only for the simple inhumanity of the act but also because I feel it demeans parenting. It suggests that these people think you can parent terrified, unwillingly, exhaustedly, when you simply don’t wish to. And maybe some people can. But I believe in giving a parent-child relationship the most favorable start possible. And that favorable start begins, for me, with deciding that you want the baby in the first place. Not hoping that you love it nine months down the line, after the government has invaded your body, forced your hand. Women have always aborted. Women always will. No kind government would make a thing that will inevitably happen dangerous, and illegal, again.