My mom is a librarian, and so from an early age it was distilled in me that reading was comparable to television, if not better. And so, instead of spending the morning watching reruns with glazed eyes, I sat down with Bobbed Hair and Bathtub Gin, a collective biography of "woman writers running wild in the twenties." It emphasized Zelda Fitzgerald (who apparently wrote a collection of short stories), Edna St. Vincent Millay (the poet extraordinaire), Dororthy Parker (the Oscar Wilde of her time), and Edna Ferber (novelist and playwright from my hometown).
I would not recommend the book, as the author has a problem with distinguishing between the four, and they all kind of blur together after a while.
As of right now, in my mind, there was one woman who wrote during the nineteen twenties: a sarcastic flapper slut who gave her name to my elementary school.
And I remember none of the sordid details from when I gave a report on our school's namesake in sixth grade.