“Linda Carroll has written an honest and tender account of both her childhood and motherhood, and it soars above innuendo.” — Haven Kimmel, author of A Girl Named Zippy


Click HERE to purchase a copy of Her Mother’s Daughter,
specially autographed by Linda.

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About the Book


The daughter of esteemed writer Paula Fox and the mother of Courtney Love relates “the curse of the first-born daughter” that has haunted four generations of her family.

As an adopted child, Linda Carroll created a magical world of her own, made up of dramatic adventures and the abiding fantasy that her real mother would come and take her away. When she finds herself pregnant at the age of eighteen, she is determined to have the perfect understanding with her child that she lacked with her adoptive mother. But readers will know better, for that baby grows up to be Courtney Love, desperately attention-seeking, deeply troubled, and one of the most talented women in rock.

Even as a baby, Courtney is beset by mood swings that no doctor can explain or cure. Her dark moods and paranoia escalate as she grows up, driving mother and daughter apart. When Courtney has a daughter of her own, Linda finally decides to find her own biological mother, and end the estrangement of generations of first-born daughters.

Her Mother’s Daughter is Linda Carroll’s story of self-discovery as an adopted daughter, a childlike hippie mother, and a woman determined to find herself before finding her roots. Set apart from the typical celebrity memoir by Carroll’s gifted storytelling, Her Mother’s Daughter gives a fresh perspective on the elusive yet enduring connections between mothers and daughters, and reveals the true history of the wildly confabulatory Courtney Love.
Click to Read an Excerpt
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Chapter One


“This is your daughter.” Her raspy voice on the telephone turns an ordinary statement into an accusation.

“Hello, Courtney,” I say, bracing myself. I can't remember the last phone call that didn't end with screams and tears on her end and stony responses on mine. It has been years since we spoke with ease.

“I thought you'd like to know—I’m three months pregnant.”

I hear my own sharp intake of breath and feel the sudden rush of emotions: fear, joy, dread, shock. I search for the next thing to say, the right thing; everything I think of seems hollow. It would be absurd if it weren't so painful. For the first time I am going to be a grandmother--yet I cannot even utter a sigh that isn't filtered through the screen of my own caution.

“That's very exciting news, Courtney,” I manage.

“Guess what else, Mother? I just married a prince. He's the biggest rock star in the world.”

Then I register the shock: she got married, and I hadn't been informed. Now she is going to have a child.

Things didn't start out this way, so guarded, so wary.

Courtney was my first child, born July 9, 1964, in the middle of the afternoon. I heard her cries, soft, then louder, and I reached for her. Nothing prepared me for that moment. Receiving her into my arms, I knew she was a miracle, a mystery entering the world. I couldn't believe this perfect baby had come from my body.

Until that moment, babies had held little interest for me. Yet from the instant I held Courtney, I felt that I was born to be a mother. In those first weeks, I inhaled her scent deeply—she smelled like wildness, wrapped in wind-dried sheets with a hint of Breck baby shampoo in her hair.

Get that baby on a schedule, Dr. Spock advised. But I knew what was right for her; I could feel it in my bones. Instinctively, I matched my timetable to hers, sleeping and waking when she did. She was so smart: she crawled and walked months before the baby charts said she would. At one year, she was using short sentences. People marveled at how articulate she was.

My concern was what happened when she became upset. At times she cried so hard, it was impossible to comfort her.

“Don't worry,” the pediatrician said. “It's colic.”

Deep down, though, I did worry. Something was hurting her that she wasn't able to express in words. As Courtney grew into a toddler, anticipating her moods became my central preoccupation. If I got to her crib as she awoke, all was well. But if I waited a moment too long, there was no consoling her. She could cry for hours.

Pale in complexion, Courtney had soft, generous features. Most startling were her sea green eyes, which shifted from tears to delight with breathtaking speed. Her radiance and enthusiasm were as extraordinary as her distress. As a two-year-old, she was always ready to climb into our Volkswagen Beetle and go for an adventure. She sat in the backseat as I drove, her pigtails bouncing between the two front seats as she asked her wide-eyed question, "Any news?"

She loved news.

But more than news, she loved music. Whenever the Beatles' hit “Michelle” came on the car radio, she would sing along. Already her voice held the dreamy inflection that would later become part of her fame.

Courtney was my first real love. I believed nothing could come between us.

Now here we are, twenty-five years later, holding a telephone conversation about a momentous event with such estrangement that I monitor even my sighs.

The life Courtney lives stuns and frightens me. Yet in her latest news, this pregnancy, I sense something hopeful.

“It's wonderful,” I say. The words sound empty, concealing the emotions washing over me.

“Yeah, well, I thought you'd want to know,” she says. The phone clicks, and she's gone.

I hold the receiver a moment longer before I drop it into its cradle. I hear my husband, Tim. He is downstairs, pulling a roasted chicken out of the oven. He calls up to me: “Dinner.”

We are leaving for Hawaii tomorrow to visit close friends. Our suitcases are packed and waiting by the front door.

“I’ll be right there,” I call back.

I sit down on the bed. I can't bear to talk to anyone just yet, not even Tim. Our cat, Nelson, sidles over and nudges my arm. I set him on my lap. A current of excitement mixed with dread courses through me. My heart races even faster than my thoughts. Finally, I go downstairs.

I tell Tim the news.

“Why do you call the baby ‘she’?” he asks.

“I don't know,” I say, preoccupied. “I’m just certain the baby will be a girl.”

Something is stirring inside, a feeling on the periphery of my awareness whose arrival I've been expecting for years. It's as though I have stepped into a deep stream and am being carried somewhere new.

Two days later at Puako beach on the big island of Hawaii, I sit on the edge of a lava formation that juts out into the Pacific. I have left a gathering of friends; I feel a need to be alone. Tall palms, with their lush foliage, shade the porous rock around me. I look for that mysterious green flash that sometimes lights up the sky as the sun sinks beneath the horizon.

The water is calm. Below me I see schools of fish—yellow butterfly fish, parrot fish. A pod of spinner dolphins, called the Nai'a, play off the shore.

Old ones, young ones, babies. Generations.

Generations.

In my mind's eye, the word flashes. Then, with absolute clarity, I know it is time to find my mother, the woman who gave birth to me.

When I was growing up, people asked me how I felt about being adopted, and I always said, “It's not an issue.” I believed my own lie. The longing ran too deep to acknowledge: for a family who looked like me, for a genealogy, for the full story of my life. Even deeper lay the fear of what I would discover. Now, with the news of Courtney's pregnancy, the desire to find my birth mother, to unravel the mystery of my own origin, was too strong to ignore.
linda carroll author
      

Praise for Her Mother’s Daughter


“A fascinating, beautifully written work… Carroll unites the intimate perspective of a psychologist, the contextual sense of a historian, and the clarity of a fine biographer in one absorbing package."

— Martha Beck, author of
Finding Your Own North Star


“Anyone who comes to Linda Carroll’s life story will turn the pages hungrily as they realize that a woman born between two stars can, perhaps, shine just as brightly.”

Entertainment Weekly


“An intriguing mother-daughter story…raises striking questions about genetic destiny, the role of nature versus nurture, and the complex dynamic created when celebrity is added to that mix.”

The Los Angeles Times


“There is a delicious fictional quality to this true-life story that I found riveting. In Carroll's deft telling, the book is a kind of resurrection of a family. . . I think I loved Her Mother's Daughter most for the devotion that Linda Carroll has for her unusual family through decades of separations and unconventional journeys.”

— Terry Ryan, author of
The Prize Winner of Defiance, Ohio


 
“Looking backward and forward in time, this haunting memoir tells the story of a young woman’s journey to finding herself, her birth mother, and her daughter, Courtney Love. The candor and power of these pages illuminates the difficulties of all mother-daughter relationships, but offers a rare glimpse into that elemental relationship when it is shadowed by the temperamental features of early-onset bipolar disorder. Linda Carroll has grit and grace, and writes like her mother’s daughter.”

— Demitri F. Papolos, M.D. and Janice Papolos,
authors of The Bipolar Child