Living amid the ghosts of all the writers whose tales haunt you is a bit like being in the meshed worlds of Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s Yellow Wallpaper and Shirley Jackson’s Savages. At once, trapped in the contagion, imagination, which forever puts you outside the norm papered into the worlds you have yet to create. Then, bursting free to watch, in amusement, the standoff in your living room between the sofa which is furiously angry at the oven for overheating the home and the oven who believes that the sofa is a lazy mooch that is always resting. The washer and dryer have tried to negotiate the truce but have only gotten to an armistice. In either world, the domestic partner is never going to believe this is the reason nothing got done today.