So imagine the author's dismay at visiting her hometown of Los Angeles and finding not a single one of her titles in her mother's neighborhood bookstore in Pacific Palisades. "It was weird to be such a major children's book author in England and never to see my books there," she said on the telephone from London recently. "I mean, it's Jacqueline Wilson, J.K. Rowling, Stephenie Meyer … I'm definitely in the top five!"
Henry is not called "Horrid" for nothing. When Simon introduced him to the world, her first lines went like this:
Henry was horrid.
Everyone said so, even his mother.
Henry threw food, Henry grabbed, Henry pushed and shoved and pinched. Even his teddy bear, Mr. Kill, avoided him when possible.
In a telephone interview with Simon from her home in London, we cut right to the chase.
Sonja Bolle: Why did it take 15 years to sell Henry to a U.S. publisher?
Francesca Simon: It's a mysterious question to me. I think there was a certain amount of resistance and anxiety about Horrid Henry for years. Maybe because of the mood of the country when George Bush was president? A lot of American children's books have a soft glow, a sort of "I don't like my brother, but I wouldn't trade him for anything." Henry is not that. Horrid Henry tries to sell his brother, Perfect Peter.
But since the books have been published in the U.S., I have only seen 100% glowing reviews, so all those fears proved wrong. It may be hard to explain to people who haven't read the books, but children understand instantly what the joke is. Kids know that Henry is the part of you that screams, "It's not fair! He got more than me!" It's that anxiety and anger children are always being told to repress. Books are a good way to vent feelings that aren't acceptable. "I hate that present! I want to go home!" As a child, you're always being told not to say things like that. But Henry does!
As a parent, when you read books like this with kids, you're sending an important message: "I am big enough to take this. I know you have these feelings."
When I go on school visits, I always ask about the worst school trips they've ever had. There's always the kid who got lost or the kid who fell in the fountain. Those are the stories that go into these books. But it's played for laughter. There aren't enough funny books. Horrid Henry gives the illusion of terrible wickedness. He's the imp inside everyone.
SB: Your author note on each book says you spent your childhood on the beach in California.
FS: I was born in St. Louis, but the family came to California when I was a baby and settled in Brentwood. My father was a screenwriter [he wrote Judy Garland's last film, "I Could Go on Singing" (1963)]. I started school at Kenter Canyon Elementary, but then we went off and spent some years in England and France — we were a little peripatetic — before moving back to California. When I was 8 we settled in Malibu Colony [the beach town's most famous celebrity enclave].
The thing about the Colony in the early 1960s is that it was very much a beach-shack community, nothing like what it became. We had a small house, with one bathroom. With three children, it was quite a squish. Lana Turner lived across the street. I had no idea she was anyone famous. She was just a lady who seemed to have a lot of husbands. I remember her hanging wedding bells outside her gate. She was magnificent at Halloween; she would always dress up. She would sweep down stairs and lead you to these two enormous shallow glass dishes filled with candy and say the two sweetest words in the English language: "Help yourself!"
There were so many movie people in the Colony that to a child it seemed perfectly normal that no one worked at an office. One day I came home from school and told my parents in amazement that other parents actually worked away from home!
After three years in the Colony, we moved to Pacific Palisades, and I went to Palisades High School [class of 1973].
SB (upon discovering that Simon studied French with legendary Palisades High teacher Frederick Johnson, a touchstone for generations of graduates, who gave everyone extraordinary nicknames): What did Mr. Johnson call you?