Yiyun Li

My writing groups have been reading the work of the Chinese-American writer Yiyun Li since last fall — her two novels, The Vagrants and Kinder Than Solitude, and her short-story collections, A Thousand Years of Good Prayers and Gold Boy Emerald Girl.

Yiyun Li

Yiyun Li

Last Saturday, we got to spend a good part of the day with Li, listening to her talk about her work. Fred Shafer teaches these amazing classes, and this is the third writer I have studied with these groups — the others were Kate Walbert and Colm Toibin. I have learned so much from reading all of them, and it has been a real joy to hear them talk about writing.

Li recently won the Sunday Times of London EFG Short Story Award for “A Sheltered Woman,” which first appeared in The New Yorker. The prize is £30,000, the world’s richest for a single short story. Li was named a MacArthur Fellow in 2010. Here is a passage from her story “The Princess of Nebraska”:

 He looked up at her, and she saw a strange light in his eyes. They reminded her of a wounded sparrow she had once kept during a cold Mongolian winter. Sparrows were an obstinate species that would never eat and drink once they were caged, her mother told her. Sasha did not believe it. She locked up the bird for days, and it kept bumping into the cage until its head started to go bald. Still she refused to release it, mesmerized by its eyes, wild but helplessly tender, too. She nudged the little bowl of soaked millet closer to the sparrow, but the bird was blind to her hospitality. Cheap birds, a neighbor told her; only cheap birds would be so stubborn. Have a canary, the neighbor said, and she would be singing for you every morning by now.

Photo Courtesy of the John D. and Catherine T. MacArthur Foundation and Wikimedia Commons

Aunt Marian, a dame and a writer

One thing I love about the Internet is the way new information sometimes bubbles up from sources that have lain quietly for decades and then are suddenly digitized. My mother’s sister’s name, Marian O’Hearn, popped up recently in a context I had never seen it in before.

Another Girl's BrandI never met Aunt Marian — she was a lot older than my mom, and I am the youngest in my family — but I knew she earned her living as a writer at a time when that was rare for a woman. She wrote for Rangeland Romances and other pulp magazines, and was a minor figure among the pioneering female noir writers.

But now it turns out Aunt Marian was also a “sporting editor” for the Denver Express newspaper, which was around from 1906 to 1926. Her “pithy comments on matters fistic, baseball, football and athletics in general appear under her writing name of Judy O’Hearn,” according to an item in a 1918 publication of Editor & Publisher. That seems amazing to me, given the times.

Everybody in my mom’s poor, immigrant family in north Denver, Colorado, wanted to be a writer, but Marian actually did it. Mom was a terrific writer, but she never published much. She was always sniffy about Aunt Marian’s work in western pulps, but I thought she might have been a little jealous, too. If she knew you could buy one of Aunt Marian’s stories on iTunes today, like “Another Girl’s Brand,” pictured here, I think Mom would be very jealous indeed.

Aunt Marian was born in western Massachusetts, probably Williamstown. I’m not sure when. The family moved to Denver before my mom, Eileen O’Hearn, the youngest of seven children, was born in 1911. One of Mom’s  brothers, Charles O’Hearn, was dangerously asthmatic, and doctors at the time often prescribed the dry Colorado climate for lung diseases.

I should say, we have long generations in my family. If you get a few forebears having children into their 40s, and you happen to be at the tail end of the family yourself, in no time you get a long telescope of living memory going back into some interesting history.

“Marian O’Hearn” is sometimes listed as a pseudonym for a writer named “Anita Allen.” I have no idea what that’s about. Maybe one of these days the Internet will kick up some more information that will clear up that mystery.

The gift of awareness

It’s getting to be the end of graduation season, and I have been checking out this year’s speeches, thinking I would post my favorite. But it turns out the one I want to post is nine years old, the late  David Foster Wallace at Kenyon College in 2005.

“It’s hard to stay alert and attentive,” Wallace tells the audience.

Twenty years after my own graduation, I have come gradually to understand that the liberal arts cliché about teaching you how to think is actually shorthand for a much deeper, more serious idea: learning how to think really means learning how to exercise some control over how and what you think. It means being conscious and aware enough to choose what you pay attention to and to choose how you construct meaning from experience. Because if you cannot exercise this kind of choice in adult life, you will be totally hosed.

The gift of a liberal arts education is “simple awareness,” Wallace says, “awareness of what is so real and essential, so hidden in plain sight all around us.…”

My role model, Gidget

When my older sister Maryann was a teenager, she used to hide books she thought our mother wouldn’t approve of between her mattress and box spring. For me, that little space, which I discovered looking for something under Maryann’s bed one day, became my private cache of contraband. I found some of the most memorable books of my life there.

One I filched  to read was Gidget, by Frederick Kohner. I must have been about 10 at the time. Perhaps you have seen the 1959 movie, with Sandra Dee, or the TV series, with Sally Field. Gidget, the book and the movie, exposed mainstream America for the first time  to the surf culture of Southern California.

Kathy Kohner was pictured on the cover of this early copy of her dad's book

Kathy Kohner was pictured on the cover of this early copy of her dad’s book

The book was edgier than the movie, and the TV show was a wraith of the original story (though it did resurrect some characters from the novel). But even in the book, Gidget was a nice, middle-class girl. In fact, that was part of the story’s tension.

Gidget, subtitled The Little Girl With the Big Ideas, gave me some big ideas as well. The title character was an inspiration at a time when girls like me were growing up without many assertive role models.

Gidget was spunky and intense, and she made me want to get out there and pursue my dreams, which at the time I had yet to formulate. She hung out with the much older male surfers in Malibu, a pretty edgy crowd in the 1950s, because even though she was tiny, and a girl, she wanted to learn to surf. Gidget is a love story, yes, but for me, it was a thrilling coming-of-age tale about a young woman pursuing her passion for a sport and the bohemian lifestyle that surrounded it.

I learned recently Gidget is a real person, Kathy Kohner Zuckerman. “Gidget” really was her surfer nickname, combined from “girl” and “midget,” because she was short.

Frederick Kohner was a Hollywood screenwriter, a Czechoslovakian Jew who had begun his film  career in Germany and fled the Nazis in the early 1930s. Kathy, his daughter, started surfing in Malibu in 1956, when she was 15. She wanted to write about the exotic characters she was meeting, their lives and attitudes, and their distinctive jargon. Frederick Kohner told Kathy that, since he was a writer, he would tell her story for her, and he knocked out the book in six weeks. The Gidget books, all told, sold 3 million copies. At one time, Gidget was No. 8 on the best-seller list, just ahead of Jack Kerouac’s On the Road, Kathy Kohner recalled in a 2011 interview with 27east.com.

Kathy Kohner started surfing to escape the disconnect she was feeling at her high school at the time, but soon enough, she said, “I got crazy about the boys.” There were a few other girls at the beach, she said, but “basically there weren’t a lot of surfers, period.”

Surfing was a brief phase in Kohner’s life. After the first summer, her interest waned. By the time somebody pinched her board in Hawaii in 1959, she thought  “Well, I lost my board, but there are other things to do,” Kohner told interviewer Caillin Riley of 27east.com.

But Kohner, who in 1999 was No. 7 on Surfer Magazine’s “25 most influential surfers of all time,” had already had a huge impact on the sport. Wannabe surfers flocked to the beach, and the relatively few young women among them could say that they had a right to be there, enjoying a male-dominated sport, because Gidget had gone before them. In 2005, “One City, One Book — Malibu,” the local chapter of a popular national literacy program, selected Gidget as its book of the year. In 2011, a documentary called Accidental Icon told “the real Gidget story.”

Kathy Kohner Zuckerman is in her 70s now and still lives in southern California. She has been married for more than 40 years, she has two children, and grandchildren, but she still understands the siren call of Malibu. As for me, I think often of the simple but exotic world she found there, which I got to enter, too, because of her, and because her dad wrote a book.

Meet the muse

Murphy the museThis is my muse, Murphy, if a muse can be male, a dog, and asleep most of the time. Murphy, a four-year-old Maltese, is many things. Yesterday he was a field zoologist. He spent the afternoon observing the feeding habits of the rabbits in our yard. If he had opposable thumbs, I believe he would have been taking notes.

Photo by Maeve Mindell