How much do you care about what people write and say about your work?
[New York Times book critic] Janet Maslin eviscerated me on the last book and I didn't get over it for days, until I reminded myself that it was on the bottom of a bird cage somewhere. I think Janet was trying to show she could be Michiko [Kakutani, the New York Times' Pulitzer-winning lead book critic]. But when you reach a certain age, and a certain level of success, you can tell yourself you must be doing something right because people are still interested in what you have to say. And of course it feels good when you get praise. It feels like heaven. Especially if it's thoughtful, analytical praise.
There must be infinite possibilities to read about yourself on the Internet.
I Google myself all the time. I hate to admit it but I do. I'm a flagrant self-Googler. I think that's unhealthy after a point, especially if you're a people-pleaser like me because you obsess about the one person in the blogosphere who doesn't like you.
To what extent do you draw from your personal experience for your fiction?
I have a lot in common with all of my characters because I channel their personalities through my own emotional experience. Every writer I know works that way. But I do tend to lean heavily on my own experience to give my writing the ring of truth. If I can say it about myself, I can almost always say it about someone else, and the more shocking the revelation the more universal the experience. A remarkable number of people come up to me and say, I didn't know anyone else who did that!
When I was reading Anne Lamott's book Operating Instructions, she revealed the shocking fact that in the rigors of childbirth she delivered not only a baby but a small turd on the delivery table. I thought that was the boldest thing I'd ever heard anyone say and it made me love her more than I already did. It's also very clever in the end: You think this woman would not lie to me! I adore Annie. She's the only Christian I'll listen to.
A centerpiece of Michael Tolliver Lives is Michael's trip with his much younger partner to visit his conservative family in the South. Did you base the interlude on personal experience?
A few years ago, I got the news that my father was very close to death and it would probably be good if I came home. So I went with Christopher to North Carolina and my father was marvelously sweet and took a real shine to Christopher, which took some doing, I'm sure, given the fact that there's a 28-year age gap between us. But it was all in all a pretty lovely time and I was very glad my father had a chance to meet my new love. It's odd that that it should matter to you when you're over 60, that you're looking for approval from your 90-year-old father for your 30-something boyfriend. But amazingly he gave it to me. And even more amazingly we missed Jesse Helms by about half an hour. If that doesn't show you the convergence of the old and new South, I don't know what does.
You are very identified with San Francisco's gay Castro district, but you no longer live there. Do you miss it?
Well, it's five minutes away and I go almost every day. I like the Gayberry experience, as I call it. It really is a small town. I know the folks at the post office, the movie theater, the ice cream parlor, and it gives me a real sense of community. It gives me, in essence, the small-town family values that Red State America is so fond of talking about but doesn't really enjoy anymore.
Do you keep to a strict writing schedule?
I don't write continually. I'm the anti-Joyce Carol Oates, if you know what I mean. I've heard she actually writes novels in the backs of cars when she's on book tours. I find that completely reprehensible!
Could you imagine moving away from San Francisco?
No. Everything is better in San Francisco. Even our rich people.
What's next?
Another book about the Tales characters. I've lived in that world for 30 years, even when I was writing non-Tales books. Whatever I have to offer seems to come through those characters, and I see no reason to abandon them.
