As the author of two novels, Nancy Peacock was used to seeing her name in print. However, she didn’t expect her name to be in The National Enquirer, along with the headline: “Here’s One for the Books: Cleaning Lady is an Acclaimed Author.” After she got over the shock of seeing herself depicted as a “writing maid,” she knew she had to write about it. In the essays that make up A Broom of One’s Own, Peacock explores what it means to be a writer, and provides advice on subjects such as inspiration, craft, and criticism. Through hilarious anecdotes about the houses she cleans, Peacock also offers insight into issues of class and stereotypes, and describes how her job affects her acceptance of herself as a writer. With its warmth and wit, A Broom of One’s Own is an encouragement to all artists–however they make a living.
My Review of A Broom of One’s Own
I absolutely enjoyed this humorous yet wise book. It was so unique not just with regard to the author’s decision to continue working as a house cleaner while being a published author. Her stories about the houses she worked in are hilarious – and yet they provided her with fodder for characters (read excerpt below)!
Apart from the essays on her experiences, there’s wonderful writing advice and her rebuttal to writing advice as well!
Altogether a great read for anyone thinking of going into writing full time and dealing with imposter syndrome.
#WritersWednesday Writing Prompt
Excerpt from the book
Mrs. Clark kept the pictures arranged in albums. They marched in neat chronological parade along one of the built-in shelves in the living room.
At Christmas she got cards from everyone who had ever rented the apartment above the garage or the attic bedrooms that were now closed off. She taped the cards to the doorframe between the kitchen and the living room. This was when Mrs. Clark was most likely to take her picture albums out and point to a card and then the picture of the person who had sent the card.
That she had pictures from every tenant they’d ever had amazed me. It amazed me even more that Mrs. Clark knew their names, and still got cards from them. Sometimes she pointed to photos of the kids, or the couple she and Clark went out with every Friday night. Once she pointed to a picture of their maid, a smiling black woman named Real.
I asked Mrs. Clark about it several times when she first showed me Real’s picture. “Real? Her name was Real?”
“Yep. Real.”
“That’s a great name,” I said, cataloging it in my mind for a future character.
“She was a great woman,” Mrs. Clark said. “She was with us seventeen years. Came in every day. Got sick and had to quit and we miss her.”
I tried to imagine Real. She probably dusted many of the same things I was dusting and she probably got along with the Clark family pretty well. They were a happy bunch. They weren’t mean and they worked hard and they didn’t expect miracles and there were certainly worse white people to work for. But I bet it was hard on her too. Real must have had her own children to tend to. I’m sure there were meals to fix at home, floors that needed sweeping and mopping, dishes that needed washing, and sheets that needed changing. I could sympathize with Real regarding that, because for me this has always been one of the toughest things about working as a housecleaner. I scrubbed and dusted and mopped all day long and then came home to a dirty house. I imagine the irony was not lost on Real.
