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.

Junie B. Jones author Barbara Park has died

Sad news this week: Barbara Park, author of the Junie B Jones books, has died of ovarian cancer in Scottsdale, Ariz., at age 66.

Junie B. Jones and the Stupid Smelly BusI interviewed Park in 2005, when I had an eight-year-old daughter, and had read all of Junie B.’s adventures to date, aloud, at bedtime. Park didn’t like to do interviews, but I caught her during a period when she was thinking she should get out there more, she told me. Park wrote 28 Junie B. Jones books in all, a total of 55 million sold to date just in North America. We were contemporaries, and as girls we both had cats named Pudgy and loved Scrooge McDuck comic books. Park was a lovely, funny, down-to-earth woman. Even though we only talked an hour on the phone, she was one of my very favorite interviews ever.

Here is that story from the Chicago Sun-Times, June 5, 2005:

An Endearing Little Troublemaker

By Delia O’Hara

When neither you nor your publisher are confident you can write a a series of four books for children just beginning to read, even though you’re a successful writer for kids who already can, what do you do? You invent a new authorial persona: the irrepressible Junie B. Jones, originally 5, now 6.

Her linguistically adventurous accounts of everyday exploits have vaulted to the top of the children’s-series best seller lists with the likes of Harry Potter and Lemony Snicket. A series of four books? Try 24 and counting, with 25 million copies in print, hardcover and softcover.

Barbara Park had made her mark with humorous books for middle-school children in the early 1990s when Random House asked her to create a series of four chapter books for the finger-paint set. So began the career of Junie B. Jones. And what a career it is! Junie’s readers “would like her story to be their story,” Park said in a recent phone interview.

On its face Junie’s life is ordinary. She’s an energetic kid with two working parents and a baby brother. Her maternal grandparents watch the children before and after school. Still, an ordinary day of Junie B.’s is often worth a book of its own — and a very funny book at that — because any unexpected development can set her off.

“Her parents don’t know what to do with her half the time,” Park said. The same could be said for the occupants of the pleasant school that serves as the primary setting for most of the books.

Junie B.’s adventures began on her first day of kindergarten, when she hid in a cupboard rather than face the homeward journey on The Stupid Smelly Bus. So far the highjinks have carried her through Halloween of first grade, when a classmate convinced her that some of the scary-looking trick-or-treaters were real witches and monsters (Boo…and I Mean It).  Boo, which came out last August, has sold 350,000 copies at $11.95 in hardcover.

While it may be Junie B.’s voice we hear in the books, Park already had figured out how to distill her own youthful class-clown experiences into print for her pre-Junie books. The strategy that paid off quickly with the publication of Park’s first book, Operation: Dump the Chump.  (Her own favorite is Mick Harte Was Here, a seriocomic book that, she says, took all the skill she possessed to achieve the right balance.)

But the Junie books are high in her estimation. “I like her independence,” Park said. “She’s always just a little off-center.”

Denise Brunkus’ illustrations in all the books have established Junie B. as a wiry, exuberant girl with a strong fashion sense and a good number of cowlicks.

As young readers might hope, “Junie B. is a lot like me,” says Park, who grew up in New Jersey. “I was not a shy kid.  I always thought I was a lot funnier than the teachers did.” Her experience as a parent of two grown sons also informs the books, but obliquely.  “Subconsciously, this is the way I parent,” she says.

Like much popular children’s entertainment — think of Finding Nemo — the Junie B. books are written on two levels, and parents may find themselves laughing as hard as the children, although perhaps in different spots.  When, because of Junie’s antics, her kindergarten teacher “has to take an aspirin, parents get it on a different level,” Park says.

Not every parent loves Junie B., though.  Not only does she mangle the English language, but she’s also “not cherubic in any sense,” Park says.  In Cheater Pants, Junie B. cheats not once but twice before she finally learns that the rule against cheating is more than a suggestion. And when she doesn’t like something, she “hates” it and calls it “stupid.”

Some parents won’t buy the books because of this attitude, Park says.  The Junie books are “pretty high up on the challenged-book list, although most of the time, it’s by one parent.”

But when it comes to the way Junie B. talks, “The teachers get it and the kids get it. She’s 5. It would be ridiculous for her to speak the queen’s English.”

The bottom line for Park is that the books are supposed to be fun. If they’re fun, she reasons, they will encourage children to read. And Junie B. is always a decent kid. In first grade she has already become more mature, more self-aware than she was in kindergarten — and more adept at getting her verb tenses lined up correctly.

“She is a work in progress,”  Park says. “I am not an author who believes in a big, heavy moral.  I think it’s a little insulting.”

How old will Junie B. grow during the series?

“I don’t know,” Park says.  “What we love about her is that she is so silly and spontaneous.  Some of that would have to go.  Children start becoming ‘cool’ in 5th and 6th grades.  I don’t want her to be cool.”

Junie B. is a hit with girls, but she also has many fans who are boys, Park says.  “She’s not a girly girl.  I could change her to Johnny B. Jones and the stories would not change that much.”

Park, who lives in Arizona with her husband, typically writes two Junie B. books each year.  She doesn’t do promotion tours and allows few interviews.  She does write the scripts for the wildly successful “Stupid Smelly Bus Tour,” a live traveling performance with New York-based actors conducted out of a hot pink bus at bookstores all around the country. The tour kicked off its secondyear at Borders bookstore in Geneva last month.

Park says she leads a boring life, even now that Junie B. has “improved my bank account.”  She still cleans her own house and works in the yard.  “I work at home.  I have a few hours.  I can tidy up,” she says.

She does have one dream, though.  While she became a book reader fairly late, in high school, she grew up reading comic books — lots of them. Disney’s Scrooge McDuck was one of her favorites. That wealthy miser had a money room, a vault filled with all valuables — money, jewels, gold bullion — where he liked to swim in his riches.

That sounds good to Park.  “I’d like to build a money room,” she said, laughing.

Photo by Pamela Tidswell

Alice Munro’s stories ring the bell

It’s pretty terrific that the Canadian short-story writer Alice Munro has won the Nobel Prize in Literature, because she is a wonderful writer. The Nobel committee called her “master of the contemporary short story,” and a number of well-regarded writers responded to the news with glee.

Alice MunroIn The New Yorker, James Wood called the choice “deliriously incredible.” Wood wrote, “…Many of Munro’s readers had sadly concluded that she was not, somehow, the kind of writer that the Nobel committee seemed to like…. We were wrong, and for once it was wonderful to be wrong.”

Margaret Atwood, who might reasonably have hoped she would be the Canadian woman who would win the world’s most prestigious literary award, wrote a true and generous appreciation of Munro’s work in The Guardian.

“The road to the Nobel wasn’t an easy one for Munro,” Atwood wrote:

“Munro found herself referred to as ‘some housewife,’ and was told that her subject matter, being too ‘domestic,’ was boring. A male writer told her she wrote good stories, but he wouldn’t want to sleep with her. ‘Nobody invited him,’ said Munro tartly.”

The 82-year-old writer recently announced that she will retire, that her recent collection, Dear Life, will be her last. Here is a link to “Amundsen,” a story from that collection from The New Yorker, where many of Munro’s stories have run. If this is your first taste of Munro’s work, you are in for a treat.

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.

The Finkbeiner test

Longtime science writer Ann Finkbeiner wrote a terrific piece this year swearing off writing patronizing articles about female scientists, and it has been boiled down into what is being called “the Finkbeiner test.”

Finkbeiner advanced her manifesto in January in an article titled “What I’m Not Going to Do” on the blog The Last Word on Nothing*.

In March, Christie Aschwanden distilled Finkbeiner’s piece into a seven-point checklist on DoubleXScience, an online science magazine for women:

“To pass the Finkbeiner test, the story cannot mention

  • The fact that she’s a woman
  • Her husband’s job
  • Her child care arrangements
  • How she nurtures her underlings
  • How she was taken aback by the competitiveness in her field
  • How she’s such a role model for other women
  • How she’s the ‘first woman to…’

“Here’s another trick,” Aschwanden writes. “Take the things that are said about a female subject and flip them around as if they were said about a male. If they sound ridiculous, then chances are good they have no business in the story.”

I think it’s all about context. If you’re writing a breezy lifestyle story (or maybe even an obituary), the personal stuff is OK. But if you are writing essentially about your subject’s work, the Finkbeiner test should be pressed into service.

*“Science says the first word on everything, and the last word on nothing” – Victor Hugo

Of “witches,” books and rocket science

I enjoyed reading Nadezhda Popova’s recent obituary in the New York Times. Popova was one of the Russian “Night Witches,” female pilots who flew bombers, flimsy former crop dusters, during World War II.

And Quiet Flows the DonIt was a dangerous mission. German pilots who shot down one of the Night Witches, so called because of the “whooshing noise” their planes made, which evoked for the Germans the sound of a witch’s broomstick, received the Iron Cross, according to the story.

I loved that the writer, Douglas Martin, included the fact that Popova noticed a wounded fighter pilot, Semyon Kharlamov, who would become her husband, “in a horde of retreating troops and civilians,” because he was reading Mikhail Sholokhov’s And Quiet Flows the Don.

That book made a big impression on me when I read it. Its story reminded me of Boris Pasternak’s Dr. Zhivago, in that it centers on a man who is married to one woman but desperately in love with another. Instead of wealthy Russians whose lives are torn apart by World War I and the Russian revolution, though, it’s about Cossacks whose lives are torn apart by World War I and the Russian revolution. Sholokhov won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1965, though there is some controversy about his authorship.

I also liked that Martin, who got smacked around in the press for focusing on Yvonne Brill’s home life in his recent obituary of the rocket scientist who invented the propulsion system that maintains the orbit of the communication satellites we rely on on a daily basis, was confident enough in his own approach, even after that rumpus, to dwell on Popova’s private life in this story.

Though as a science writer, I am sensitive to the need to give women full credit for their professional accomplishments — usually the reason the obituary is written in the first place — the fiction writer in me believes that after 80 or 90 years, a person’s life is bound to add up to more than his or her work.