Yangsze Choo

In the intervening decade, I’ve written two more books, but I still have no idea what to wear to literary type events. This is a very sad state of affairs that I can only chalk up to my own horrible fashion sense. For instance, as I’m typing this right now I’m wearing one of my favourite t-shirts. It is navy blue and has a picture of a bear brandishing a baguette over its head. I call it my “Bakery Bear” t-shirt, though my children have forbidden me to wear it out of the house. 

As in, “By the way, for Back-to-School night, you cannot wear your Bakery Bear t-shirt,” hissed as child bikes off to school. 

Or, “My friend is coming over. Do not wear that Bakery Bear t-shirt!”

Thanks to these affirmations, I understand that under no conditions can I wear it to a (heaven forbid) literary event, where unsuspecting readers, librarians, and booksellers mill around with quiet, civilised banter. Never mind that two of my books have featured animals (The Night Tiger, the upcoming The Fox Wife in Feb 2024). It is simply not appropriate, and so once again, on the eve of a trip to Portland, Oregon for the Pacific Northwest Booksellers Association, I’m standing in front of my meagre wardrobe and wondering what on earth I should wear. 

I want to look friendly, reasonably entertaining, and most of all, sane. 

Or perhaps I’m wrong, and this is simply a hangover from my previous corporate day job where I pored over financial spreadsheets and tried to appear competent. I hated wearing high heels and must confess that I now mostly clomp around in Birkenstocks and other orthopaedic footwear. But from time to time, I get carried away and buy aspirational author clothing.

This past summer I spent time in South Korea, Malaysia, and Singapore to do research for my fourth novel. While I was there, I was hit by a wave of admiration for the overall higher fashion sense in Asia. Everyone, from young to old, was walking around looking well-coiffed and nicely dressed. We took subways and buses all over the place, and I particularly enjoyed people watching, marveling at how some folks were able to put together entire outfits that were both pleasing and interesting, even as a typhoon was flooding the streets of Seoul and the following week, 40,000 boy scouts at the World Scout Jamboree in South Korea apparently collapsed from heat stroke. 

While I was in Asia, I also went shopping in my own, rather limited fashion. Too shy to ask the shop assistants for help, I ambled around, admiring the mannequins. I also decided to buy “artistic” type clothing, meaning pieces that I would never wear in real life but that I fondly imagined would fit right in at a literary gathering.

To this end, I bought three items: 

1. A green vertically striped dress that looked like something from the Bloomsbury Artist Group.
2. An amazingly poofy geometric white blouse with sleeves that I still haven’t figured out.
3. A high-necked navy blouse with an undulating, wave-like bottom

I was extremely happy with these adventurous purchases, imagining that I was now all set for the next year. Today, I took them out to pack for my trip tomorrow and was appalled. The green dress makes me look like a herbicidal zebra, the white blouse with complicated sleeves is so puffy that I could pass for a loaf of bread, and the jellyfish navy blouse is simply…unspeakable. 

So I wimped out and packed a plain black top and some jeans. Not the elastic-waisted ones that are my favourites, but the normal kind. Then I added a long skirt and a striped top as backup (I’m regrettably fond of stripes, thanks to a steady diet of Sesame Street as a child). 

As a very last afterthought, I’m looking at my Bakery Bear t-shirt and wondering if I should squeeze it in. Just in case.

(you can read part 1 of this series here)