It struck me that the form of a champagne cork is very similar to the minimalist shapes of Japanese kokeshi dolls. I had plenty of corks to work with. I cut them into various sizes and then gessoed them. They sat like that for a couple months as I worked on other projects. Then in a few free moments this past week finished them with paint and paint pens. I love how the placement of a dot or line gives each doll a unique personality. Now what to do with them?
spirals of snakes
Snakes!
After a very full 2024 of bringing 4 books into the world (my graphic novel Fake Chinese, the picture book Seven Samosas, Counting at the Market and the board books Kaiona Guides the Lost and Lea, Goddess of Canoe Builders), relishing the experience of starting anew.
This Lunar New Year is the Year of the Snake. I am finding inspiration in these scaled reptiles as a metaphor for creative growth—embracing change and expansion and shedding old skin that no longer serves.
Right now, my studio is full of joyful messes. Hello, paints, printing supplies, pens and inks and pencils, I’ve missed you so much! And Hello typewriter! Relishing the click clack of you as I play with words.
Cheers to new beginnings and remembering the “play” part of creative “work”.
Kabocha Memories
(photos taken in 10 day increments)
Several summers ago, I had a bumper crop of kabocha squash. The vines tangled all over the vegetable garden yielding many heavy, dark, green squash. The orange flesh inside, starchy and firm, roasted to sweet perfection with brown carmel crisped edges. Several times when visiting my parents, I brought roasted kabocha. Mom and Dad relished produce from my garden, but especially the kabocha.
Though I had little to do with the abundance (thank you sun, rain, bees and soil), Mom was thrilled with my “talent” as a gardener and for months whenever talking with my two younger sisters, would repeatedly mention “Jing Jing’s oishii (Japanese slang for super delicious) kabocha”. It became a joke between us sisters, asking each other if Mom had mentioned the kabocha.
While savoring the kabocha, Mom frequently reminisced about “kuri” or “chestnut” kabocha she ate as a child. She always smiled at this recollection and the memory of her sharing, still makes me smile.
After two seasons of failed kabocha vines, I swore I would never try again—it felt like my vegetable garden was mourning the passing of my parents, just like I was. But then this past spring, I found kuri kabocha seeds at Baker Seeds. I had to try, for Mom. With a colder than average spring and a cool summer, it seemed my kabocha vines were doomed. But one day, the familiar orangey yellow blossoms appeared. I held my breath as I watched the bees pollinating and to my delight, little yellow orbs eventually formed.
Some of the orbs rotted off. But at least 6 are making their way to maturity, from light yellow to orange and with luck and care, hopefully to the deep reddish orange of the mature squash. Every morning when I check on my little squash babies, I am filled with gratitude for the time I had with my parents in the last years of their life. And my heart warms knowing my garden holds not only Mom’s favorite “kuri” kabocha but also memories of her.
from Fake Chinese Sounds, original sketch and final
My Tree
It stood on a slight hill. Silhouetted against open skies, the pussy willow’s large gnarled branches seemed curled up in protest against the manicured grass lawns, pruned bushes and carefully tended beds of sticky peonies, tiger lilies and irises of our neighborhood.
On the other side of the island of wild ground the tree held, were miles and miles of cornfields. Because the low mountains farther in the distance were obscured by summer haze, it was easy to imagine the undulating rows of corn as ocean waves going on forever.
I don’t remember the exact day I tired of our bright green and orange swing set our parents had erected near the yard’s edge. I stepped off the green grass into the wild tangle guarding the tree. I picked my way through burdocks which left burrs on socks, clothing and even my hair. Tall blades of grass left cuts on tender, sunburned skin. A carroty perfume covered my hands as I pushed aside airy clumps of Queen Anne’s Lace. Dust from red clay coated everything on me, turning my white sneakers an earthy pink.
By tip-toeing, I could just wrap both hands around the lowest branch. I walked my feet up the trunk until I could swing my right leg up and hook it over the branch. Pulling transitioned to pushing up from the branch into a straddle, reaching for the next branch and climbing up higher. From there I perched in the crook where the branch met the trunk and looked out for miles and miles. Everything behind me, so far away, it was like looking out from the crow’s nest of my own ship.
In reality, I was about 7 feet high. I know this because Dad couldn’t reach me when I was in my perch. I know know he couldn’t reach me because once, after one of my childhood infractions he reacted harshly to, he tried.
I ran from him, burst out the screen door, letting it slam behind me. As I ran past the swing set, I heard the door open and slam again. Dad called, “Jing Jing, Jing Jing!”, as he ran after me. The tree’s branches seemed to gather me up and swoop me out of reach. I stood on my perch, pressed against the trunk, away from him. Looking down, I was relieved to see that I was beyond his reach.
His surprise apology sounded as small as he looked. When he saw me use the back of my hand to wipe away the blood from the crack in my lip, his voice became more gentle. He apologized again and asked me to come down. I did. We returned to the house, each covered in scratches. That night, as I washed the day off before going to bed, each scratch stung a reminder of that evening. I wondered if Dad would feel the same when he and Mom washed up later.
The pussy willow was “my” tree for just one summer.
On the second summer, instead of corn growing in the nearby fields, the frames of new homes grew amidst the buzzing of boards being cut and the pounding of nails being hammered. Soon, construction sounds were replaced with the voices of kids playing outside. One day, those voices were louder than usual. From the kitchen window, I saw my tree held 4 strangers! I rushed out and indignantly claimed the tree. They claimed the tree. For several mornings I would rush out to the tree, sometimes with my sisters or with my neighborhood friends. Sometimes we reached the tree first, sometimes they did. It was us against them, the tree in the middle. We threw rocks at each other, waved sticks threateningly. Each side yelling claim to the tree. It was exciting.
Then one afternoon, my parents returned home from shopping with an unexpected gift. A beautiful, lime green glittery bike. It had a white rimmed small wheel in the front and a larger wheel in the back. There was a silver horn with an orange bulb. The banana seat was covered in white vinyl embedded with silver sparkles. As if the bike were not already a dream come true, my parents attached a long orange pole holding a triangular fluorescent orange safety flag with a blue graphic of Evil Knievel flying through the air on his stunt motorcycle. The most amazing part of this gift—I wasn’t expected to share with my two younger sisters, it was just for me.
Suddenly, instead of putting my energy into claiming my tree, I was riding my bike through the neighborhood and the backroads dividing the cornfields.
But I’ve never forgotten “my” tree and that sense of freedom I had when it held me in it’s branches. In my graphic novel, Fake Chinese Sounds, I gave the protagonist, Mei Ying, her own tree, overlooking rolling cornfields. As I was drawing, I liked to think that Mei Ying was imagining the ocean horizon and the possibilities her future holds.
Happy AANHPI Heritage Month
What a thrill, my graphic novel, Fake Chinese Sounds is out in the world!!! A joy to share the creative process and conceptual development of Fake Chinese Sounds with a kind and enthusiastic group of book lovers at my book launch. Thank you Third Place Books in Lake Forest Park for hosting!
And to hear more about Fake Chinese Sounds:
My conversation with Keiana Mayfield for her Diversity in Kid Lit series on IG.
In conversation with Steve McCarron, on KOMO ARC Seattle.
Truly honored that people are reading, listening, connecting with and sharing Fake Chinese Sounds. Lots of happy dancing these past few days, thanks for celebrating with me!
If you’ve read Fake Chinese Sounds and feel it will be meaningful for other readers, I truly appreciate comments and reviews on GoodReads and Amazon—these really make books more visible to people looking for diverse voices!
photo of platinum atoms: Tien Tzou Tsong
One of the Saddest Things I Have Ever Heard
At a local pub’s live music event, struck up a conversation with the person next to me. We realized that we were both connected by a friendship with the musician on stage. Guessing that my new friend might be a fellow musician, I shared that I sometimes played cello with the evening’s performer.
“I used to play cello.“ my new friend who I was sure, I’d soon be playing music with, replied. But then he added, “I quit because I’ll never play like Yo Yo Ma.”
This was 7 years ago and I’ve never stopped thinking about this person.
I wish I had responded, “Would you stop singing, because you can’t sing like Joanie Mitchell? Would you stop writing, because you can’t write like Maya Angelou? Would you stop cooking because you can’t cook like David Chang? Would you stop drawing because you can’t draw like Andrew Wyeth?”
Why deny yourself the joy of creating and sharing and building community? Play, explore, embrace the idea of being an “amateur”, doing things for the love of it. I have been illustrating picture books for 20 years and still think of myself as a beginner. Each project is a new adventure. The writers and illustrators I have connected with, a community full of interesting and empathetic beings.
With my author debut, the graphic novel, Fake Chinese Sounds—I was definitely exploring unknown territories in my own creativity. In the process, it took me a long time to follow my own advice. But when I stopped comparing my work to the brilliant work of many colleagues, I was set free to find my voice.
Comparison is toxic. Give yourself the freedom to enjoy and savor the practice of whatever you are practicing (music, art, dance, writing, drawing, surfing, yoga, etc). And if you don’t mind a cellist who doesn’t play like Yo Yo Ma, let’s play!
An early cover concept for Fake Chinese Sounds
Eating Bitter
In college, I was lucky to study with a well-respected design professor.
On the day before Thanksgiving break, I was up in the design studio gathering things to take home.
He was also in the studio, organizing before the break. The large empty space amplified every piece of paper shuffling, every foot step. It had a lonely feeling.
I tried to sneak out but he stepped in front of me, “Aren’t you going to ask me to join your family for Thanksgiving dinner?”
Taken aback, I stuttered, “Nn-no.”
A slow smile spread across his face, “I wouldn’t want to eat dinner with a bunch of yellow people anyway.”
There is a Chinese saying, “吃苦”, literally translated, “eat bitter”.
As a young person, I understood it as, “Shut up and deal with it”. This was one of the times that eating bitter felt safer than saying anything. So I left without responding.
Isn’t life funny, that I learned so much from this person in terms of conceptual development and design. And then have taken those skills and the bad taste in my mouth to create Fake Chinese Sounds, my graphic novel for middle-grade readers.
I hope Mei Ying’s story in Fake Chinese Sounds will encourage young readers to feel safe having conversations with family, friends and teachers about racism and bullying.
Click here to see the final cover of Fake Chinese Sounds and a few sample images!
taking a break from the drawing table
Mooncakes, lots of mooncakes, but without the moon.
Been spending a lot of time in the kitchen trying different mooncake recipes. In Chinese culture, mooncakes are traditionally a treat for the Mid-Autumn Festival. The most popular version, a salted duck egg yolk (the moon), cradled in a sweet adzuki bean filling is wrapped in golden pastry. Special molds are then used to press the cakes into beautiful packages.
I’ve been in the kitchen experimenting with mooncake variations. A full moon and friend’s birthday is coming up and I am excited to share my latest variations at the celebration—pineapple in pastry and black sesame and matcha mung bean fillings in snowskins (mochi).
A peek into my studio 12 years ago, check out #6!
Decorating the case of my melodica with paint pens.
A doll my husband made for me out of his old clothes from when we were young.
Prudence napping under my drawing table, she’s all gray now as am I.
Experiments with pencils.
Textures rolled onto different papers.
Sketches for a comic (updated with link to Fake Chinese Sounds 10/27).
Sketches for a book cover.
Penny whistle fingering chart, something I didn’t stick with.
The hint of a photo with my niece, more book cover sketches.
I wished for a manual typewriter...
These images/ideas have been brewing in my brain for a long, long, time. There was one problem, I didn’t have a manual typewriter. So, I wished aloud on social media for one. That afternoon, walking through our small town, there it was, this Underwood, calling me from the thrift shop window. 5 minutes later, it was mine! I wonder, what stories this Underwood already holds from past owners. Did it write letters, complete forms or spit out school assignments?
I took down my post requesting the typewriter. Given how quickly my wish was granted, I need to be careful about my next two wishes!
Way Finding
Happy Asian American and Pacific Islander Heritage Month.
Long ocean journeys have always fascinated me, traveling by stars, wide open spaces, the drama between calm and turbulent. This is an illustration I did for Twinkle, Twinkle Small Hoku published by Beachhouse Publishing LLC.
You might be interested to know, that even for a small board book, I invest a lot of time in research. For this book, about a boy traveling by outrigger canoe, I read a lot about the Polynesian Voyaging Society, one of whose founders, Herb Kane influenced Nainoa Thompson, the captain of the double hulled canoe, Hōkūleʻa.
Captained by Thompson, Hōkūleʻa is about to embark on a 43,000 mile journey! As for me, I’ll be on my small island in the PNW looking up at the skies at all those twinkling stars.
Spirit Chairs
Finding my way through grief, these two empty chairs, taking so much space at my table.