Susan Glaspell Journal

August 5, 1916



It was a restless night. I was tired, in body, no doubt. But my thoughts were jittery as birds. I was up fully before dawn. Jig (1) slept like a stone as usual. He is the type of person who is not kept awake by problems. When troubled by something, he takes action against it. He would rather work through the night (and he often does) than lie awake filled with nervousness. When he sleeps, it is deep and untroubled.

The gray light of dawn leaked through the edges of our curtains. I rose and dressed quietly, careful not to wake Jig. In the kitchen, I found I could not write, I could not make tea, I could not stand or sit. I was filled with an energy, equal parts terror and excitement. My hands trembled like a struck church bell.  Tuesday my play would be staged. What a thrill! What a horror! I am confident, of course, but would the audience be [illegible].

The walls of the room were too much. I went outside, onto Commercial Street.  A dense fog filled the world. It swirled briskly from the Ocean towards the land, bearing a briny scent. Despite the early hour, the streets were busy. The day started early in a fishing town. Shops were opening, wagons were being unloaded, the clip-clop of horses could be heard on the cobblestones. This business, this work, this activity soothed me. I walked a fast pace, toward the wharves, trying to stay just ahead of my jumbled thoughts. To the East, the [illegible] of sunrise could be seen between the shifting mist. It was going to be a fine day.

By the time I reached the wharves, the fog was strung out in faint lines, and the [illegible] warm in the east. The sounds of men's voices, ropes, oars dipping in water. And before me, out of wispy fog, our theater. How I love it. It is perfect.  I could not have made Trifles without it.

Sitting in the theater, looking at the table, the rocking chair, the kitchen items, I felt a certain power and pleasure. But now my worries began to catch up with me. What would the audience think? After all, the central character was not even in the play. My mind drifted back to that winter and early spring, covering the trial in Des Moines. Margaret, of course, was the central character of all my articles. Her every word and action was studied and analyzed. In my play, her character is completely absent. Well, not completely absent. It is my greatest fear and hope: can the audience follow my clues? Will my message, my homage to the power of women, be clear? It is my chance at some small redemption for Margaret, that the silent sympathies of women from Indianola will be given a voice through Trifles.

The next few days will be busy indeed. But I will make time for this journal. It has done my mind well to record my thoughts. Now my mind is empty, and a rest will do me good.