Fame - Shirley Jackson & ERB

Fame

by

Shirley Jackson

“The Writer,” August, 1948

Two days before my first novel was to be published, while I was packing to leave the small Vermont town in which I live to go to New York, the telephone rang, and when I snatched it up irritably and said “Hello,” a sweet old lady’s voice answered me, “Hello, who’s this?” which is a common enough Vermont telephone greeting.

“This is Shirley Jackson,” I said, a little soothed because my name reminded me of my book.

“Well,” she said vaguely, “Is Mrs. Stanley Hyman there, please?”

I waited for a minute and then, “This is Mrs. Hyman,” I said reluctantly.

Her voice brightened. “Mrs. Hyman,” she said, pleased. “This is Mrs. Sheila Lang of the newspaper. I’ve been trying to get in touch with you for days.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I’ve been terribly busy – my book, and all.”

“Yes,” she said. “Well, Mrs. Hyman, this is what I wanted. You read the paper, of course?”

“Of course,” I said, “and I’ve been sort of expecting…”

“Well, then, surely, you read the North Village Notes column?”

“Yes, indeed,” I said warmly.

“That’s my column,” she said. “I write that column.”

“Of course, I’m a North Village resident,” I said, “but I rather thought that for a thing of this importance…”

“Now, what I’m doing is this. I’m calling up a few people in town who I thought might have items of news for me…”

“Certainly,” I said, and reached for one of the numerous copies of the book jacket lying around the house. “The name of the book…”

“First of all,” she said, “where exactly in town do you live, Mrs. Hyman?”

“On Prospect Street,” I said. “The Road Through the Wall.”

“I see,” she said. “Just let me take that down.”

“That’s the name of the book,” I said.

“Yes,” she said. “Which house would that be, I wonder?”

“The Elwell place,” I said.

“On the corner of Mechanic? I thought the young Elwells lived there.”

“That’s next door,” I said. “We’re in the old Elwell place.”

“The old Thatcher place?” she said. “We always call that the old Thatcher place; he built it, you know.”

“That’s the one,” I said. “It’s going to be published the day after tomorrow.”

“I didn’t know anyone lived there,” she said. “I thought it was empty.”

“We’ve lived here three years,” I said, a little stiffly.

“I don’t get out much anymore,” she said. “Now, what little items of local news do you have for me? Any visitors? Children’s parties?”

“I’m publishing a book next week,” I said. “I am going down to New York for my publication day.”

“Taking your family?” she asked. “Any children, by the way?”

“Two,” I said. “I’m taking them.”

“Isn’t that nice,” she said. “I bet they’re excited.”

“You know,” I said madly, “I’ve been asked to do the Girl Scout column for your paper.”

“Really?” She sounded doubtful. “I’m sure you’ll enjoy it. It’s such an informal newspaper.”

“Yes,” I said. “Would you like to hear about my book?”

“I certainly would,” she said. “Any time you have any little newsy items for me, you be sure and call me right up. My number is in the book.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Well, my book…”

“I have so much enjoyed our little talk, Mrs. Hyman. Imagine me not knowing anyone was living in the old Thatcher place!”

“The Road Through the Wall,” I said. “Farrar and Straus.”

“You know,” she said, “now that I don’t get out any more, I find that doing this column keeps me in touch with my neighbors. It’s social, sort of.”

“Two-seventy-five,” I said. “It’ll be in the local bookstore.”

“You’ll probably find the same thing with the Girl Scout column,” she said. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Hyman. Do call me again soon.”

“I started it last winter,” I said.

“Goodbye,” she said sweetly, and hung up.

I kept the column that appeared as the North Village Notes of the newspaper the next day. Several people remarked on it to me. It was on the last page of the four:

North Village Notes

Mrs. Royal Jones of Main Street is ill.

Miss Mary Randall of Waite Street is confined to her home with chicken pox.

One of the hooked rug classes met last evening with Mrs. Ruth Harris.

Hurlbut Lang of Troy spent the weekend with his parents in North Village.

The food sale of the Baptist Church has been postponed indefinitely.

Mrs. Stanley Hyman has moved into the old Thatcher place on Prospect Street. She and her family are visiting Mr. and Mrs. Farrarstraus of New York City this week.

The Fame of Edgar Rice Burroughs:

Ah, but Shirley Jackson’s fame was still before her, one might say. Her most famous short story, “The Lottery,” was published in “The New Yorker” the same year as her first novel, 1948. And her two most famous novels were “The Haunting of Hill House” (1959) and “We Have Always Lived in the Castle” (1962). But other, more well-known, authors also have a problem with fame, or the lack thereof. Take the case of Edgar Rice Burroughs, surely a world-famous author. Consider the story told by David Morrell, creator of Rambo, from his book, “Lessons from a Lifetime of Writing”:

John Whalen wrote an article for “The Washington Time”s in which he described his visit to Tarzana, California. That town, 20 miles north of Los Angeles, got its name because Burroughs, the creator of Tarzan, owned a large ranch there. In the 1920s Burroughs began subdividing the property into residential lots until finally the community of Tarzana was created. In a bizarre odyssey, John wandered the streets of the town, trying to find someone who knew where Burroughs had lived. “Edgar who?” and “I don’t read books” were typical of the answers he received. Few people knew that Tarzana had been named after Tarzan, and some didn’t even know who Tarzan was. After repeated efforts, John came to a small low house concealed behind a big tree, crammed between a furniture store and a transmission shop. The house was where Burroughs had written his Tarzan stories. The urn containing the author’s ashes had been buried under the tree, but no one knew exactly where. After taking some photographs, John paused at the gate and peered back at the obscured house. “I felt very strange standing in the middle of a town named after the fictional creation of a man whose name was totally unknown to most of the people living there.”

Sic transit gloria.