Zibby Mag

By Kim Hooper

When I was in my early twenties, I once spoke to my dad about the workings of my sensitive, deep-thinking mind and he said, not cruelly, “Sometimes I wonder if you’re my kid.” I was hurt by his bewilderment. We all know the clichés — chip off the old block, apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. I wanted my dad to look at me and see himself. I wasn’t sure how he could love me otherwise.

I doubt my dad ever imagined that he would have a writer for a daughter. He was a Minor League baseball pitcher, then worked for years as a physical therapist. He was fun-loving, science-minded, logical. He took life at face value. There were hints of interest in the arts — he loved musicals and I have fond memories of listening to the soundtrack of Les Misérables in his car — but he showed little interest in artists.

I started writing stories in elementary school, but I don’t recall him asking me questions about them — what inspired me, where I got ideas. He wasn’t discouraging; it just wasn’t his realm.

My dad considered himself a light reader, preferring the likes of James Patterson and John Grisham. It took him months to read a “page-turner.” As I got older and started writing novels, I felt compelled to share them with my parents. Perhaps, like many kids, I wanted their approval. Perhaps, like many kids, I wanted them to see me — Look at this! Look at this thing I created! It will give you secrets to who I am! Do you love me?

I wanted my dad to look at me and see himself. I wasn’t sure how he could love me otherwise.

The novels I wrote were nothing like the crime dramas my dad liked. What I had to share with him were character-based stories, dramas rooted in the emotional lives of fictional people. Sharing these stories with him was a risk. What if he didn’t read them? What if he did, but didn’t like them? What if he didn’t really “get” me?

He did read them, though. Every single one. Without fail, he scribbled notes in the margins of my first drafts with his beloved mechanical pencils. He was particularly adept at identifying inconsistencies in the narrative, pointing out how I had described a character’s hair as “sandy blonde” in one place and “light brown” in another. He’d often text me his progress: About halfway, good so far. He liked my books. Sometimes, surprisingly, they brought him to tears.

Nineteenth century novelist Franny Fern wrote, “To her, the name of father was another name for love.” I’ve always liked this quote as it’s reminded me of my dad, his warmth, his faithful offering of a safe place to fall. He may not have understood the workings of my mind, but we both came to an unspoken agreement that it’s possible to love what we cannot understand.

In my first five novels, I did little exploration of the father-daughter relationship, something that struck me as strange when I took note of it. Perhaps I didn’t write much of it because it hadn’t been a source of angst or strife (and I tend to write about subjects that cause me angst and strife). When approaching my sixth novel, Ways the World Could End, I decided to delve into the father-daughter dynamic. Little did I know when I began this journey that my dad would die before getting to read the first draft.

In Ways the World Could End, Dave is a dad on the autism spectrum. He sees the world differently than most, and he feels like he has no idea what he’s doing when it comes to raising his 15-year-old daughter, Cleo. She also feels like he has no idea what he’s doing, especially now that her mom is gone.

He may not have understood the workings of my mind, but we both came to an unspoken agreement that it’s possible to love what we cannot understand.

While the characters are very different from my dad and me, there is truth in the dynamic. Dave, like my dad, is somewhat baffled by his daughter (and she by him). They exist in such different worlds and spend their lives building bridges between these worlds, proving the constructive power of father-daughter love.

As I put the finishing touches on this story, my dad was diagnosed with a one-in-a-million brain disease called Creutzfeldt-Jakob Disease. He started to have memory issues and difficulty walking. When I got an article assignment with the New York Times, he was able to raise his eyebrows in impressed pride. By the time I could tell him about the book I was working on, he couldn’t even do that. Three months after his diagnosis, he died.

Ways the World Could End allowed me to reflect on the father-daughter relationship, on the uniqueness of it, on what makes it unlike any other. Because of gender and age differences, most fathers and daughters are somewhat mystified by each other. I imagine most fathers, upon holding their daughters for the first time, feel simultaneously clueless and awestruck, both worrying and marveling at how they will raise this human. The father-daughter relationship is rooted in discovery. It mandates curiosity about a person so different than oneself. It demands exploration, expansion, empathy. It can be marked as much by bemused irritation as by fierce loyalty.

I dedicated this book to my dad. He would have liked it. He would have liked how the lessons between father and daughter go both ways. He would have liked the humor, the teasing between Dave and Cleo. He would have laughed, and probably cried.

I like to think we would have had conversations about our relationship, the ups and downs of it, the hits and misses. I like to think that in the midst of these conversations, we would have discovered more commonalities than differences. I wish I could thank him for all the ways he tried to understand me, for all the times he read my books and thereby accepted my invitations into my inner life.

I can only do that now and hope he will receive the message.

Thank you, Dad. For everything.

Kim Hooper’s writing has been described by the Wall Street Journal as “refreshingly raw and honest.” Ways the World Could End is her sixth novel. Her previous titles include People Who Knew Me, Cherry Blossoms, Tiny, All the Acorns on the Forest Floor, and No Hiding in Boise. Kim lives in Southern California with her daughter and a collection of pets.