Shirley Jackson: A Rather Haunted Life

“well, i like the title,” said stanley. “what’s the plot?”
“what plot?” i asked.
“the plot of the novel,” said stanley, wide-eyed.
“don’t be silly,” i said. “i let the characters make the plot as they go along.”
“you mean you don’t have any idea what’s going to happen?”
“not the slightest,” i said proudly.
“but,” said stanley rather breathlessly, “people don’t write novels like that.”
"i do,” i told him very smugly indeed.

"I’ve just buried my husband,” I said.
“I’ve just buried mine,” she said.
"Isn’t it a relief?” I said.
"What?” she said.
“It was a very sad occasion,” I said.
"You’re right,” she said, “it’s a relief.”

—Come Along with Me

In some respects, having a baby is roughly like being in the path of a major hurricane.
Or like having all your relatives come at once for a two-week visit. . . .
Or like discovering suddenly that you have only one hand when you thought you had two.
Or like discovering suddenly, as a matter of fact, that you have only two hands when you hoped you had four.

INTERVIEWER: You were encouraged to write by your family?
JACKSON: They couldn’t stop me.

A clerk asks Jackson, as she arrives at the hospital to give birth to her third child, to state her occupation.
“Writer,” she says.
“I’ll just put down housewife,” the clerk replies.