Writing Parents, Parenting Writers Rachael Peckham Marshall University, [email protected]

Marshall University Marshall Digital Scholar English Faculty Research English 2017 'Welcome to Hell': Writing Parents, Parenting Writers Rachael Peckham Marshall University, [email protected] Follow this and additional works at: http://mds.marshall.edu/english_faculty Part of the Other English Language and Literature Commons, and the Rhetoric and Composition Commons Recommended Citation Peckham, Rachael. "'Welcome to Hell': Writing Parents, Parenting Writers." Grist: A Journal Of The Literary Arts, no. 10, 2017, pp. 252-268. This Article is brought to you for free and open access by the English at Marshall Digital Scholar. It has been accepted for inclusion in English Faculty Research by an authorized administrator of Marshall Digital Scholar. For more information, please contact [email protected], [email protected]. RACHAEL PECKHAM "Welcome to Hell": Writing Parents, Parenting Writers EADING FRANZ WRIGHT'S OBITUARY in the New York Times last year, I was struck by an anecdote about how the Pulitzer Prize winner came to be a poet. When Franz, at fourteen, completed his first poem, he immediately showed it to his father, James Wright, the famed poet and, long before his son, a fellow Pulitzer Prize winner. Wright's response was not to pat his boy on the back or tussle his hair, or display the poem above his desk at work, as other dads might do. Rather, in the face of his son's nascent talent, James Wright reportedly declared, 'TU be damned. You're a poet. Welcome to hell:' His response has come to mind a lot lately. My husband and I, both mid-ca reer writers, are raising an aspiring poet and essayist who, at sixteen, has already published in journals that routinely reject us, and racked up more award money for his writing than both of us combined. Are we proud? You bet. But we are also, like James Wright, a little apprehen~ive. There is a learning curve to parenting 252 any teenager, but I had assumed that at this point, we'd be spending time talking about bullies and the occasional bad grade-not about the family member who took issue with our son's characterization of him in print, threatening to write a letter to the journal's editor. I figured I'd be worrying about girlfriends, not the solicitations of editors and, in turn, the form letter rejections that I reassure him are normal. I'm not trying to boast but to brace myself for the tricky waters we are already learning to navigate. As exciting as his early success has been, it comes at a time in his young life when feelings of self-consciousness and vulnerability are already heightened. And that's not counting the impending economic toil he'll face as a writer; the sheer competitiveness (and with it, the often toxic culture) of writing programs; and, in the face of all these pressures and struggles, the temptation to self-medicate with booze, drugs, casual sex. How does a parent resist fears of addiction, alcoholism, anxiety, and depression that all too often color the writing life-sometimes made worse by success? Welcome to hell. Of course, I am not the first parent to experience this unique set of con cerns. Literary history is populated with plenty of notable parent-and-child writers, across the years (Mary Wollstonecraft and Mary Shelley; Andre Dubus II and Andre Dubus III, to name a few)-which is not to place my own par ent-child relationship in such renowned company. Rather, I'm seeking to explore the unique patterns and themes that emerge where parenthood and the profession of writing intersect. What are the inherent privileges and prob lems that mark such relationships? How do they develop? To what extent does the parent-writer cast both a shadow and a light on the child's career-and vice versa? How do they negotiate the complicated feelings toward appearing, as characters, in each other's work? Finally-and most important-how do they :a )> protect their relationship from all of this potential conflict? n ::c Dogged by these questions, I recently picked up the biographies and )> memoirs of three contemporary parent-and-child writer duos: James and '"r- "0 Christopher Dickey; Alice and Sheila Munro; and Alice and Rebecca Walker. 1 '"n :::-: All three cases, like any parent-child relationship, are fully unique in their ::c )> circumstances and dynamics, but examined collectively, it's impossible to 3: overlook a few running themes and common denominators: I) the writer's strong ambivalence toward having children, in the first place, for the threat 253 they pose to one's career-and, in turn, the threat that such a career imposes on the son's or daughter's sense of security and well-being; 2) the pressure the son or daughter feels to emulate the parent's literary success while forging his/her own writing career; and 3) one or both parties' attempts to reconcile their mutual hurt-or not-resulting in further fodder for writing. Is it possible for parent-and-child writers, no matter their respective levels of success, to avoid any or all the tendencies outlined above? Is there a good model for such a relationship-one that strikes a healthy balance between the 1. To avoid confusion over the inherent duplication of names here, I'll be using the parent-writers' last names, while referring to their sons and daughters by their first names. commitments to family and to making art; one that is mutually supportive of both enterprises, so much, perhaps, that they are actually enhanced by each other? This essay is a kind of case study, testing these questions against three of literature's more recent and prominent examples. THE WORK OF PARENTING VS. THE WRITER'S WORK IN A DISCUSSION LI KE TH IS, one can't avoid the frequent feelings of ambiva lence, anxiety, even antagonism, that many writers-especially women-admit to having toward the daily duties and disruptions that parenthood imposes on their careers. Of course, writers are hardly alone in those feelings (show me a parent and a working professional who isn't more than a little harried, juggling the two), Walker's determination to and, no doubt, there are plenty of writers (probably reading this) who would find the be a w rite r first, and then opposition too easy and reductive, perhaps even contradictory to their experience. To be a mother, was anathema sure, all of the writers mentioned in this essay in a ti me and culture in have acknowledged, at one time or another, the ways in which parenthood has enriched which black women had their work with a profoundly different per spective towards the human condition. I ittle choice but to support Be that as it may, shifting beneath this themselves by ca rin g for universal truth is a far less romantic set of politics. For the privileged (read "white") people's-usually w hite woman writer who attempted a career before the Women's Liberation movement hit full people's- children. swing in the late 1960s and 70s, having children brought with it a surprising and pragmatic upshot: the means to stay home and write. In Lives ofMothers & Daughters: Growing Up with Alice Munro, Sheila Munro makes it clear from the outset that her mother, the famous Canadian short story writer and Nobel Prize winner, never saw motherhood as an affront to her career, even in the conservative era of the 1950s; rather, domestic life was something of a protective screen behind which she could write safely and inconspicuously. Converting her laundry room into a writing space (where she wrote the popular novel Lives of Girls and Women), Alice Munro reconciled her writing life to the daily domestic chores that offered her just the right meditative headspace required for her to produce some of her best work. Her daughter explains, "She wanted a conventional life that included a husband and children, and beyond that she needed some kind of protective camouflage to conceal her raw ambition from the rest of the world. She never could have imagined going off to Paris and declaring herself a writer the way Mavis Gallant did. For her that would've been sheer folly, a dangerous exposure" [emphasis mine]. Funny that the word folly should come up. While domesticity provided the perfect sanctuary for Alice Munro to write, for Alice Walker, the Pulitzer Prize winning novelist and social activist, it was a prison from which she fought to break free. And that meant continually resisting the trap of what Walker calls "Women's Folly:' that set of patriarchal values and assumptions that women internalize about the traditional roles they're expected to play. In her essay ;:a )> "One Child of One's Own:' Walker dismisses both the notion that in order for n ::c a woman to achieve literary acclaim and legitimacy, she must remain child )> less-as the canon, at that time, suggested-and any implication, even from "'r- ~ her well-intentioned mother, that women should grow large families and avoid n"' ;:-. "plan[ning] their lives for periods longer than nine months:' In short, she rejects ::c )> any ideology-"Women's Folly" or otherwise-that would dictate her personal 3: and professional choices. Walker's progressiveness may not seem that remarkable today, but her 255 determination to be a writer first, and then a mother, was anathema in a time and culture in which black women had little choice but to support themselves by caring for people's-usually white people's-children. Not Alice Walker. She sent Rebecca, at only eighteen months old, toddling by herself down the street to a neighbor's nursery school so that Walker could turn her focus back to writing.

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