Yellowface and more

You know what’s most amusing about R.F. Kuang’s Yellowface? Imagining the legion of writers who, while reading the novel, would have felt they could have written Yellowface just by copy-pasting the conversations they’ve had on Whatsapp/ iMessage/ Telegram/ Slack etc with other authors.

A lot of Yellowface is about the frustrations authors feel while navigating the business of writing. Agents who don’t care enough for their work, publishers who don’t do enough to push the book, the exhaustion of literary Twitter/ TikTok/ insert-social-media-of-choice —  there’s not a published author whose phone doesn’t have chats about such things. However, few of us would have managed to strike the perfect balance of whiny, self-pitying yet justifiably frustrated that Kuang does for much of Yellowface. 

In Kuang’s novel, Juniper Hayward is the Salieri to the Mozart of American literature, Athena Liu. Athena checks all the boxes — she’s brilliant, beautiful and as a Chinese American, she’s also suitably exotic for all those in publishing who want show off how progressive and liberal they are. Juniper in contrast is boring and a failed author, who (for reasons that she can’t fathom) appears to be Athena’s only friend. When Athena suddenly dies, Juniper finds herself alone in a room with Athena’s new book, which no one knows about because Athena was notoriously secretive about her work. Juniper swipes the manuscript, edits and rewrites parts of it, and then passes it off as her own. To match the Chinese-American subjects of the book, the publishers urge Juniper to change her surname from Hayward to Song; the book is a massive success; and now Juniper is living Athena’s life.  

In case you’re wondering, that’s only about ⅓ of Yellowface. Success comes to Juniper, but it has its challenges — not the least of which is making sure no one figures out that Juniper’s meal ticket began its life in Athena’s notebooks. Then, one day, Juniper opens up Instagram to find herself tagged to a post by Athena Liu, in which there’s a photo of the now-dead Athena, posing with Juniper’s book.  

The premise of Yellowface is fantastic and catnip for anyone who is or dreams of being an author. Juniper’s joys and frustrations with the business of being a writer have all the feels of a good gossip session:

I miss writing before I met Athena Liu.

But enter professional publishing and suddenly writing is a matter of professional jealousies, obscure marketing budgets, and advances that don’t measure up to those of your peers. Editors go in and mess around with your words, your vision. Marketing and publicity make you distill hundreds of pages of careful, nuanced reflection into cute, tweet-size talking points. Readers inflict their own expectations, not just on the story, but on your politics, your philosophy, your stance on all things ethical. You, not your writing, become the product — your looks, your wit, your quippy clapbacks and factional alignments with online beefs that no one in the real world gives a shit about. 

And once you’re writing for the market, it doesn’t matter what stories are burning inside you. It matters what audiences want to see, and no one cares of about the inner musings of a plain, straight white girl from Philly. 

Kuang wants you to feel horrified at yourself for secretly agreeing with Juniper from time to time. She wants Juniper to make you introspect. If you’re a writer, the first half of Yellowface might make you think about why you write and what you hope it will do for you. (It definitely got me thinking.) Similarly, the novel makes some pointed (and much-repeated) observations about how editors can bring their biases to a manuscript in the process of editing it. Then again, you may just stay with the book because you want to know how far Juniper will go to make sure she remains in the literary spotlight.  

It helps that Kuang’s language is often beautiful. Whether it’s sharp, quick sentences like “Athena had a magpie’s eye for suffering” or rambling monologues that are actually carefully plotted, Kuang is a joy to read. You never stumble over her prose and if you re-read a sentence, it’s only because you want to savour it. Still, despite being immensely readable, Yellowface ultimately feels like a Mills & Boon of literary fiction. It’s got everything, but it’s also very basic and when you start thinking about it, there’s a lot that feels awkward and uncomfortable. 

For instance, Yellowface is dominated by women characters, most of whom are unlikable, which would be brilliant if the women didn’t also feel stereotypical. They’re constantly clawing at each other, fuelled by jealousy and hell-hath-no-fury energy. The friendships between women are calculated, rooted in either selfishness or insecurity (or both). All this feels very 1990s. It’s 2023 and female friendships are here to stay, in both life and fiction. More disturbing is a section in which Kuang subtly suggests a parallel between Juniper being raped and her trauma being used by Athena as the basis of a short story. Just as a young man befriends Juniper, gets her drunk to the point of passing out, and then sexually abuses her, Athena becomes more friendly towards Juniper after she hears about Juniper’s experience, and then unbeknownst to Juniper, Athena uses the other woman’s words and memories in a short story. I found the comparison revolting. In its later chapters, Yellowface returns repeatedly to the question of who has ownership of a story and the idea of writing as a violation of sorts, a vampiric activity in which writers draw out stories from unsuspecting victims. “But that’s the fate of the storyteller,” writes Juniper at one point, “We become nodal points for the grotesque.” 

To Kuang’s credit, she’s raising questions that writers (and readers) should think about and she doesn’t preach answers through Yellowface. However, Athena’s ability to turn real life into fiction is something that’s treated with a palpable sense of hostility. Juniper is not the only one with memories of being used by Athena. During a confessional moment, Athena’s ex-boyfriend Geoff says, “And I never knew if she was really there during our relationship, or if the whole thing for her was some kind of ongoing story, if she did what she did just to document my reaction.” It seems Kuang wants us to feel bad for Geoff. Geoff who threatened to put up nude photos of Athena because she’d broken up with him. 

Ultimately, the problem with Yellowface is that it feels repetitive and predictable. Juniper’s fear of being discovered and publicly exposed for having stolen Athena’s writing gives rise to a pattern of a scare, followed by panic and ending with an outcome that actually ends up favouring Juniper. By the time Juniper plagiarises a second time and starts believing Athena’s ghost is a real thing, it feels like Kuang was just desperate to finish the book and reached for a random writing prompt rather than figuring out how to end Juniper’s story. I’m amazed Kuang’s editor didn’t gently suggest reworking the end. Or maybe she did and Kuang was one of the divas that the editor in Yellowface talks about? I would give an arm, leg and many other body parts to see how Robert Gottlieb would have edited Yellowface.  

At the heart of Yellowface is Athena’s novel (reworked by Juniper), which we hear about but never get to see for ourselves. (One of the foreign editions had a clever hardcover which brought the two books together like this:   

It’s the kind of effort that a publisher will only make for a bestselling author. But I digress.)

If Kuang had let the reader see some of Athena’s original writing and then shown how Juniper changes it, Yellowface may have felt more complex, interesting and literary. It would also have required Kuang to craft at least two distinct authorial voices, which is admittedly a lot of work. I don’t think the work involved was factor though. Yellowface seems to be keenly aware that it needs to be an easy, unchallenging read; a book that is able to walk the tightrope between commercial and literary, insightful and clichéd, much like what seems to have been Athena Liu’s brand. Kuang gives us only Juniper’s claims that she improved Athena’s writing, leaving us to decide whether or not we believe her. Relatable as she may feel from time to time, Juniper isn’t a reliable narrator. The candour that makes her endearing in the early chapters loses its sheen later on when it becomes clear we’re reading a confessional that is also a testimony (may it please the court of public opinion). Those chunks of beautifully-crafted prose about needing to write (“I need to create, it is a physical urge, a craving, like breathing, like eating…”), those truth bombs about the industry, everything suddenly feels less substantial and more performative. It’s obvious that Kuang wants the reader to understand that no one should be put on a pedestal and everyone has redeeming qualities, but by the end of Yellowface, the ambivalence feels more like a contrivance and less like nuance. 

Still, despite its unsatisfying and gormless conclusion, Yellowface is the kind of book I’d recommend to someone who’s going through a reading slump. It’s packed with ideas and feels readable even when Kuang’s actively losing the plot. Plus, it’ll make you think about what you expect from reading and writing.

I think what bothered me most about Yellowface is that the novel feels so disillusioned by storytelling. From finding them to writing them and then putting them out in the world, everything about stories seems to be tainted. As a reader, editor and writer (in that order), I feel the need to remind anyone who may need that nudge, that stories can be a whole lot more. So let me leave you with two examples that are powerful and — despite the despair and sadness they contain — somehow still hopeful. First, the story of Maurice Liu, the actor you’ve probably never heard of, who had to wear yellowface because he didn’t look Chinese enough for Hollywood (even though he was Chinese). Second, a fantastic episode from Rough Translation (I’m heartbroken that it’s one of the shows that NPR has been forced to cancel) about love, surviving solitary confinement, and Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina. Which I haven’t read. If you’re giving points for effort, I’ve tried to read the book four times, only to get distracted after the first few pages. I know, I’m a cretin. Maybe it’ll be fifth time lucky for me.

Thank you for reading and take care. Dear Reader will be back soon.