Charlotte Perkins Gilman Listens to Her MFA Class Workshop

Fiction

By Caiti Quatmann

The room was silent except for the soft rustling of pages and the faint, persistent buzz of the fluorescent lights overhead. Eight students sat around a circle of mismatched tables, all eyes on the printed story in front of them. Olivia, a young woman with frizzy hair, shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Finally, she broke the silence.

“Um, sorry to ask, but…who’s Charlotte?”

Charlotte Perkins Gilman, seated quietly in the corner of the room, raised her hand slowly. “I’ve sat next to you all semester.” The fluorescent lights flickered once, buzzing louder for half a second before settling back into their usual, unrelenting hum.

The other students turned in her direction, startled. They had grown so used to her presence, an old-fashioned woman in a plain dress, that they had somehow forgotten she was even there.

Before anyone could respond, Regan, a tall, thin student cleared her throat and pointed a finger at Charlotte. “You’re not allowed to speak. Remember? You’re being workshopped.”

Charlotte blinked. “But—”

“Shh!” Regan cut her off. “MFA rules.” Charlotte’s mouth clamped shut, and she crossed her arms, leaning back in her chair with a sigh.

The professor, a pot-bellied man with a wild mess of gray hair, cleared his throat and gestured to the circle. “Alright, let’s start. Who has some thoughts on ‘The Yellow Wallpaper'?”

Olivia spoke up first. “I think the protagonist’s isolation is crucial. It mirrors the way society gaslights women into believing their autonomy is dangerous.”

The professor nodded, noncommittally. “Anyone else?”

Travers, seated to the right of Olivia, immediately jumped in. Travers always jumped in. “Right, right, but actually, what I was thinking—what’s really interesting—is how the protagonist’s isolation reflects the deeper psychological battle she’s facing. It’s not just about the wallpaper, it’s about society infantilizing her. Like, the ultimate gaslighting!”

The professor perked up, suddenly animated. “Great point, Travers! Let’s dive into that—how isolation catalyzes her psychological decline.”

Olivia’s jaw tightened. She exhaled through her nose, fingers tightening around her pen. Charlotte stared at the professor, waiting for him to acknowledge what had just occurred, but the only sound was the steady, droning buzz of the overhead lights. She said nothing. She’d been warned.

The discussion moved on, and Emma raised her hand. “I think the wallpaper is symbolic of the intersection between gender and environmental determinism. It could even be critiquing the industrial landscape of the 19th century. The fragmented pattern could represent the post-industrial psyche.”

Charlotte groaned quietly under her breath, but no one could hear her. The buzzing of the lights swallowed the sound whole.

The professor nodded sagely at Emma. “Interesting. Could you elaborate on that?”

Mark, the most pragmatic student in the class, flipped through his copy of the story, frowning. “I don’t know, I just couldn’t get into the protagonist. She seems a little flat to me. Not very… likable.”

Likable? Charlotte's eyes rolled.

“Right? Like, I think part of what makes her unlikable is that the story refuses to conform to expectations,” Lily, a soft-spoken student, offered. “It’s designed to make us uncomfortable. We’re inside her unraveling mind.”

Travers leaned back in his chair, arms crossed smugly. “Yeah, I was just thinking that! The story really wants us to feel uncomfortable. It’s the psychological unraveling, right? That’s the real power here.”

The professor beamed. “Exactly, Travers. Again, an excellent point.”

Lily’s face flushed slightly, and she glanced down at her notebook. Olivia rolled her eyes but kept quiet.

The conversation meandered on until the professor, eager to steer the discussion back to something useful, turned to Kai, the only Black student in the class. He shifted in his chair, adopting the tone of someone who believed they were about to make a necessary and important point. “Kai, what do you think about the racial implications of the story?” All eyes turned to Kai. Papers shuffled as a few students awkwardly looked down at their notebooks.

Emma chimed in. “Yeah, I mean, like, think about it,” she insisted, leaning forward, her voice more urgent now. “The way the protagonist is oppressed—there are clear parallels to, you know, systemic oppression. It’s all about her being trapped by a structure that’s against her. Don’t you think that mirrors... racial dynamics?”

The fluorescent lights buzzed. Too loud. Too loud.

Kai shifted, the sound pressing down on the pause between them all, filling the space where he hadn’t spoken yet.

Charlotte swallowed. The room felt tight, too bright, too full of voices that weren’t hers.

“I mean, I guess you could… stretch it that way? But I think the story is really about gender and mental health.”

Travers leaned over, gesturing broadly with his hands as if lecturing. “Yeah, but actually, if you look at it through a post-colonial lens, you could argue that the wallpaper symbolizes how white society imposes structure on marginalized bodies. Like, it’s a metaphor for racial assimilation, right? Kai, don’t you think?”

Kai blinked again, his expression increasingly bewildered.

Charlotte gripped the edge of the table. She wasn’t here. She wasn’t anywhere.

Lily, who had been quiet for most of the conversation, attempted to defuse the situation. “Maybe the story just doesn’t deal with race. Not every piece has to, you know?”

But Regan jumped in. “Well, we should always be thinking about race when we read a text. I mean, we can’t ignore how these historical narratives are steeped in whiteness. Kai, I think you could really help us understand that better.”

Charlotte’s breath was shallow.

Kai rubbed the back of his neck, clearly exasperated. “Uh… I just don’t think this story is about race. OK?”

Charlotte stared at the tabletop, her nails digging into the wood. What was it about, then? The wallpaper? The walls? The woman behind them?

Then, from the corner, Mark leaned back in his chair, a smirk tugging at his lips. “You know,” he said, tapping his pen against the table, “if we’re talking about oppression, wouldn’t the more obvious analogue be the Chinese immigrant experience?”

Kai blinked at him.

Mark shrugged. “You know. Because of the yellow.”

Charlotte flinched. The lights shrieked.

A slow, excruciating beat of silence followed. Olivia shut her eyes briefly, as if warding off a migraine. Lily let out the faintest exhale, half sigh, half laugh of disbelief. The professor pressed his fingers against his temple.

Charlotte, still silent in the corner, glanced at Kai, watching the way his jaw tensed, the way he inhaled slowly through his nose. She had a strong urge to slide a glass of whiskey across the table toward him.

Kai finally spoke. “Uh-huh.” His voice was flat. “Anyway.”

Awkward silence filled the room again, until the professor cleared his throat loudly. “Right, right, let’s move on.”

Charlotte had been observing with increasing incredulity. She shifted in her chair, her foot tapping impatiently under the table.

Regan raised her hand. “I think Charlotte should’ve made the wallpaper a metaphor for social media. Like, maybe the protagonist is being gaslit by her Instagram feed instead of by her husband.”

Travers raised his finger in the air. “I think you mean, gaslighted.”

“Yeah, right…” Regan said.

Charlotte stared, mouth slightly open. She had no idea what “Instagram” was, but she was certain it had nothing to do with her story.

“That could be very interesting,” the professor said thoughtfully. “A biting critique of modern media.”

The discussion dragged on for what felt like hours—with each comment more something… than the last and Charlotte’s patience wearing thinner and thinner.

Mark raised his hand again. “I think one of the big issues here is the tone. It’s, like, too dreary. The whole thing just feels… sad? Maybe it needs some lighter moments to balance it out, you know? Like, can we see the protagonist have some fun before she goes all crazy?”

Fun? The fluorescent lights whined. Not a steady hum this time, but a sharp, needling sound, like something slipping between the cracks of her skull. Charlotte’s eye twitched.

Regan chimed in. “I agree, Mark. It’s just so… heavy. I think if you cut some of the descriptions of the wallpaper, the pacing would be better. There’s just… too much wallpaper.”

Charlotte clenched her fists. The wallpaper is the point. She flexed her fingers, willing the tension out of them. They were still talking. Still dissecting her, cutting apart her words, rearranging them into something less.

And she just had to sit still, had to stay silent.

The professor, trying to steer the critique toward something positive, offered, “Maybe it just needs a little tightening up? Trim the fat, so to speak.”

Charlotte stared at him. The lights whined. A high, piercing sound, thin as a thread, pulling tight at the back of her skull. They kept insisting on cutting it down, trimming it away, but wasn’t that the point? Wasn’t it the wallpaper that made the story? Maybe even made it good? Maybe also made it… mine? And what is it if it is not that? What is anything, really?

She blinked hard. The buzzing didn't stop.

Olivia was scribbling furiously in her notebook before offering her take. “And the ending… it just feels unfinished. Like, she just goes mad and that’s it? I think there needs to be more closure, more resolution. Otherwise, it leaves the reader unsatisfied.”

The professor nodded. “Closure is important, yes. Readers like a sense of completion.”

The fluorescent lights drilled into Charlotte's skull, a high, insistent whine that had been there all along but was now deafening. Closure? She swallowed. It’s a descent.

The walls quivered at the edges of her vision, pattern in the brick shifting, stretching—too much, too far. The hum thickened, pressing against her ears, her thoughts, her breath. What kind of resolution are you expecting?

Charlotte’s eyes widened. The fluorescent lights shrieked. The sound wasn’t steady anymore—it lurched, cutting in and out, warping the edges of the room. The walls shuddered. Not much, just a flicker. A ripple. A breath.

Regan added, “Yeah, it’s really hard to connect with the protagonist when we’re stuck in her head the whole time. Maybe breaking it up with some scenes from the husband’s perspective would add more depth.”

Charlotte wanted to laugh, but the noise would probably sound more like a scream at this point. For the first time in the entire workshop, she was grateful for the "no talking” rule. If she had spoken, she might have told them all what she really thought about their suggestions. What she really—she frowned.             She might have told them… what? Something. Something, that’s sure as fuck. 

Something about Travers. Something about Oliver. Something about the wallpaper, about that pattern. About how it does not move, does not… about how the wallpaper is the wallpaper is the wallpaper… creeping and crawling and twisting itself into shapes that meant nothing and everything… But then what?

What had she been about to say? Her fingers twitched against the table. Her thoughts snagged, looping back on themselves, slipping before she could catch hold. There was something she meant to say, wasn’t there? Something obvious? Or was—

She exhaled sharply, rubbing at her temple. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead—no, inside her head. Too loud now. A thin, whining sound, stretching longer than it should, like a string pulled too tight.

Olivia glanced at the clock. Travers popped his knuckles. The sound made Charlotte’s teeth itch.

Something was off. Charlotte pressed her lips together, swallowing back the strange unease curling at the edge of her thoughts. Had she spoken? Had she ever?

Instead, she sat back, took a deep breath, and tried not to throw her copy of the manuscript across the room.

The critiques kept coming, each suggestion more absurd than the last:

“Maybe give the wallpaper a different color? Yellow is just so… drab. How about something more dynamic, like red? And then it could be an allegory for menstruation or something.”

“She’s just copying Dostoyevsky anyway. How Raskolnikov's yellow room drove him insane.”

“I think the language is too flowery. Just be more direct. Get to the point. There’s no need for all these metaphors.”

“There’s barely any dialogue,” someone said. “And we never get the husband’s side. Wouldn’t that add, like, objectivity?”

Charlotte’s nails bit crescents into her palms. The lights howled. Voices blurred—just noise now, thick and cloying. Trim the fat. Maybe if we got the husband’s perspective—the walls lurched. The bricks twisted. No. Not twisted. Crawled.

The wallpaper was the wallpaper was the wallpaper was the wallpaper—it moves.  Her breath hitched. The buzzing swallowed it whole. She could see something… someone now… some woman now. Behind the bricks. Trapped there. Scraping her nails against the inside, waiting, waiting, waiting.

Charlotte’s vision tunneled. Her fingers twitched against the table. The buzzing stretched the air thin. And then—

Charlotte’s hand shot up.

The students stared at her, startled again, as if she were a ghost. The professor hesitated, unsure if he should allow her to speak. But Charlotte wouldn’t wait for permission.

I think you’re all missing the point. Her voice was firm but calm. It’s not about the wallpaper. It’s about the slow, insidious erosion of a woman’s mind by those who claim to love her. It’s about isolation and madness forced upon her by a patriarchal society. You’re trying too hard to dissect it into pieces instead of seeing it for what it is. You’re trying to dissect her into pieces!

She exhaled, waiting for the inevitable pushback, for the defensive murmurs, the smug counterpoints, the way Travers would try to spin her words into his own. But no one spoke.

They were all staring at her.

The professor didn’t even blink. His face was too still, his head cocked just slightly, like a glitch in a video looping too smoothly. Olivia blinked, tilting her head like she was waiting for more. Lily’s pen hovered over her notebook, ready to jot something down. Even Travers, who never let a moment of silence go uninterrupted, sat back in his chair, arms crossed, watching her.

They were waiting for her to speak.

Charlotte frowned. Oh, you have got to be kidding me. This was some kind of game. They were playing with her. After spending the entire workshop dissecting her work like a frog etherized upon a table, after ignoring her presence all semester, now they were going to pretend she hadn’t just said anything? Just to see how long she’d squirm?

Her grip tightened on the table’s edge. Fine. I’ll wait you out.

The seconds stretched. But no one shifted uncomfortably. No one exchanged glances. No one reacted at all.

They weren’t playing.

Charlotte’s breath hitched. Her words had been real—hadn’t they? She could feel her own voice, sharp and certain in her throat, in her chest. She had spoken. I had spoken. 

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Not just overhead. Inside her head.

She folded her arms, raising her chin slightly, daring one of them to break first. But the silence stretched.

The professor shuffled his manuscript. Olivia shifted in her chair. Lily glanced at Mark, who shrugged slightly. Emma darted a look toward the professor, like she was waiting for him to step in. Travers furrowed his brow and opened his mouth, then shut it again, as if unsure whether he should be the one to break the silence.

Charlotte’s fingers twitched. Why did they all look so confused? Why were they glancing at each other, waiting? They weren’t smirking. They weren’t ignoring her. They were waiting for her to speak because—her stomach clenched. Had she said it out loud?

Her own voice echoed in her mind, just as sharp, just as certain. But suddenly, it felt distant. Untethered. Like a thought mistaken for sound.

She pressed her lips together, testing the silence. It was thick, heavy, absolute.

No. No, no, no. She had spoken. She knew she had. Didn’t she? A slow, creeping unease slid beneath her skin.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The clock ticked. Olivia adjusted her glasses. Emma scribbled something absently in the margins of her story draft. The professor exhaled sharply, as if preparing to move the discussion along.

Then, Travers stretched, cracking his knuckles, and flipped a page. “Yeah… well, ok…. But what if the wallpaper was purple instead of yellow?”

Charlotte flinched. The lights shrieked. The room lurched, like something unseen had just turned its head.

The discussion moved forward without her, as if she had never been part of it at all. As if she wasn’t even there.

Charlotte stood up, and then she flipped the damn table.

It wasn’t a calculated motion—not planned, not considered. It was instinct. One second her hands were at her sides, and the next, they were gripping the edge of the table, shoving with a force that sent papers flying, coffee spilling, notebooks slamming to the floor. Olivia yelped. The professor’s pen rolled off his desk. Travers’s smug expression finally broke into something resembling shock.

Charlotte exhaled, straightened her dress, and stepped over a copy of “The Yellow Wallpaper” lying facedown on the floor.

“I need a drink,” she muttered. And she turned toward the door. But—

Had she moved? She blinked. The table was still there. Papers were still neatly stacked. Olivia was still chewing on her pen. The professor was still nodding along, unaware.

Charlotte was still seated. Her hand still in the air, waiting.

Travers cracked his knuckles. The fluorescent lights buzzed—no, shrieked. The hum pressed into her skull, seeping under her skin, into the cracks of her thoughts. It wasn’t just a sound anymore; it was something else. Something moving.

She turned to him, gripping the back of his chair. “Do you hear that?”

He blinked at her, “Uh—”

“The buzzing,” she said, her voice just shy of a hiss. “It’s so loud, isn’t it?”

Travers opened his mouth, but the words never came out. The sound swallowed them whole. The fluorescent whine rose and rose until it was writhing under her skin, until the whole room—the workshop, the students, the papers, the tables, the chairs—peeled back like wallpaper revealing—

Charlotte shot to her feet so fast the chair skidded back and slammed against the wall. The buzzing was inside her skull now, the walls shifting at the edges of her vision. Too loud. Too much. The lights shrieked, the room pulsing in time with the noise. She had to get out.

The walls—no, the wallpaper, the wall… paper—shifted, rippling at the edges like heat rising off pavement. Something moved beneath it. No, someone. The woman behind it shakes.

No. No, no, no, no.

She backed away from the table, her breath ragged. The wallpaper—no, the walls, the walls, walls, walls—they crawled toward her, shifting like something breathing. She didn’t think. She ran. She had to get out. The air was too heavy, the room pressing in, the hum drilling into her bones. Her breath hitched. Her pulse pounded. And then—she ran. She ran because she had to get out, had to get out, had to get out.

She shoved back from the table, ignoring the startled gasps, the confused glances, bolting for the door. Footsteps sharp, heartbeat louder than the buzzing now, louder than anything—she reached for the handle, wrenched it open—

The door slammed shut behind her. And for a long, terrible moment, no one spoke.

Emma blinked at the empty space where Charlotte had just been. Olivia shifted in her chair. Mark let out a slow, baffled breath.

Then Kai swallowed. “What the fuck.”

No one disagreed.

Travers, never one to sit too long in discomfort, cleared his throat. “So, uh…” He glanced at the professor. “Should we, like… keep going?”

---

Caiti Quatmann (she/they) is a disabled and queer writer residing in St. Louis. She is the author of three poetry collections and Editor-in-Chief for HNDL Mag. Her work is forthcoming or appearing in McSweeney’s, Rattle, Neologism Poetry Journal, North Dakota Review, The Bitchin’ Kitsch, Thread, and others. Find her on social media @CaitiTalks.