I remember the day I became obsessed with Shirley Jackson.
It was summer, I had a deadline, and I was supposed to be watching my six-year-old son and his friend. In an act of desperation, I googled "wifi" and "bounce house" and we embarked for Let's Go Bananas! - a dusty warehouse filled with listing inflatable landscapes. I propped my laptop on a picnic table that was usually reserved for birthday parties. Every five minutes or so, I unfolded my legs from a pint-size plastic chair and checked to see if the ambient screams were emanating from one of my charges. In this manner, I managed to produce perhaps 200 words (half a page) in just under two hours.
Around this time, a friend loaned me two collections of Jackson's domestic memoirs: Life Among the Savages and Raising Demons.* In these tales, which first appeared in magazines like Good Housekeeping and Women's Day, Jackson creates a glib and distant fantasy of family life. She always seems to be stirring a pudding, sewing costumes for the school play, beating dust from the curtains, and attending little league games - all while observing her four children with a wry yet loving eye.
A casual reader of Life Among the Savages might assume that Jackson's husband, literary critic Stanley Edgar Hyman, was the sole writer in the family's book-lined study. The word "typewriter" appears only once, and it is identified as "father's typewriter." Jackson's stories might as well have appeared on the doorstep like milk bottles, for she certainly never discusses her work habits. You would never guess that she published six novels, two memoirs, a play, and scads of critically acclaimed short stories in the years while her children were still very young.
"She learned early that the special breed known as the housewife-mother-writer must make important choices and firm decisions. If she looked up from her typewriter and noticed that the windows were dirty, she did not get up and wash them."
- Lenemaja Friedman, Shirley Jackson
Jackson has been on my mind again lately. It's summer, I'm freelancing, my now nine-year-old son is skulking around the house, and I haven't worked on my personal writing in more than a month. My wife, the therapist, gets to leave the house every day and no one can call her in the middle of a session to complain that they've lost the batteries for the Wii remote.** I'm here with the kid and the dogs and the dirty dishes, and I have the sensation of needing to do ten things at once and doing a little bit of everything a little bit badly.
To top it all off, we're really broke right now. We've been amassing the paperwork to apply for a home equity loan, and I had to explain my work history to a 25-year-old loan officer in matching Banana Republic career separates.
"I was working part-time because I was, uh..." Oh for heaven's sake, just say it. "I-was-trying-to-write-a-book." The loan officer regards me impassively. Her doe eyes neither confirm nor deny the validity of my literary ambitions.
Later, I notice that she has simply entered "homemaker" as my profession.
This tickles me to no end. I wish that she could see my home - the piles of unfolded laundry, the tumbleweeds of dust and dog hair, the brown sludge at the bottom of the refrigerator drawers. If anything, I've become more resistant to household chores since I've started working from home. And the irony is even sweeter because I have been supporting myself by writing chatty copy about seasonal veggies, home-canning and other domestic pursuits - this despite the fact that my son only eats toaster waffles, Granny Smith apples (regardless of season), pizza, bean tacos, and California rolls.
There isn't a really great biography of Jackson, but there is a compulsively readable one: Judy Oppenheimer's Private Demons: The Life of Shirley Jackson. Oppenheimer is overly given to psychologizing - except in the moments when one might crave it the most. (For instance, when Jackson develops a debilitating writer's block after a critic suggests that her novels feature lesbian themes...)
There's a particular moment in Private Demons that I cherish: Jackson is invited to speak at a writer's conference, and her daughters have been farmed out to neighbor women for the weekend. "Without premeditation," Oppenheimer recounts, "each woman, in response to an irrepressible urge, immediately grabbed the little girl left to her, and dumped her into the bathtub to wash her hair." It's almost as if their hair has never been combed before, one of the neighbors recalls. The matted snarls are so intractable that the girls end up with haircuts. Then Shirley comes home, and she's pissed, because she thinks the other moms are trying to show her up by cleaning her kids.
In citing this story, I'm not indulging in schadenfreude; I'm in awe of Jackson as a writer and as the "housewife-writer-mother" who managed to look away from dirty hair and dirty windows. I am continually reproached by dirt and disorder. I can't help it; I come from a lineage of repressed artists and impeccable housekeepers. At my grandmother's memorial, every single testimonial included a reference to her legendary cleanliness. My mother likened her mom's spotless refrigerator to a still life.
Oppenheimer describes Jackson's frequent letters to her parents, in which she depicts herself as a "mature, well-organized, serene housewife and mother." I imagine the letters as rough drafts for the domestic memoirs - fictional feats in which feminine expectations are deftly transformed into a commodity to support her unorthodox life and writing.
"Her letters were her revenge," says her son, and I'm struck by the warmth and empathy that the Jackson children seem to harbor towards their mom despite the snarled and dirty hair. It's a sharp contrast to my paranoid fantasies of my son's future. I tend to imagine him on a therapist's couch. "She was always tyyyyping," he complains. "She made me toast my own Eggo."
Earlier this summer, The Atlantic published a much-discussed article by Anne-Marie Slaughter titled "Why Women Still Can't Have It All." (Nothing sells magazines like a disillusioned feminist.) Personally, I can't remember the last time I worried about having it all. I am usually too focused on staying sane for the next fifteen minutes.
My recipe for sanity has many ingredients: writing, exercise, activism, sex, family, friends, dresses. I need to make money and care for my loved ones and keep my personal space clean enough that it doesn't interfere with any of the aforementioned items. On a given day, I'm lucky if I manage to juggle three of these priorities. Usually it's writing that falls to the very bottom of the list, until I begin to feel pent up and frustrated and then it pushes back to the top.
In the summertime, it's even harder to keep all the balls in the air. I've been lucky to have lots of paying jobs, but they've come right at the moment when I had hoped to spend more quality time with Waylon. We've had several visits from family, and I always seem to watch them approach through dirty windows.
Can't wait for fall.
*I suppose that the title "Life Among the Savages" is partly a Romantic reference to childhood and partly an ironic reference to Jackson's white, Christian neighbors. I imagine that the publishers were eager to capitalize on the fame of "The Lottery" and Jackson's reputation as an observer of small-town New England mores. My paperback copy of Life has a picture of a white woman posed between a white child in an African mask and a white child in a Native American headdress, which may also be a reference to husband Stanley's writing about African folk traditions and African American literature. I can't help wondering what Shirley's friend Ralph Ellison had to say about the title and the cover (see Ellison's "Slip the Yolk, Change the Joke," which is a response to Hyman and a meditation on masks and archetypes).
**In all fairness, Katy tried to talk me out of working from home with Waylon. I believe her professional prediction was "It will drive you crazy."
Photo credit: Paige Schilt