My father was an artist, but my father is not Milt. I understand why people who didn’t know my father would be tempted to think so, but no one who knew him could: the character and the man are as different as they could be, both in their aesthetic and childrearing practices. Neither is Nina my mother (though I wished my own had long braids), nor Maude me. Or they’re all me. Of my friends, none is Weesie. Of boyfriends, none was Danny. I have no brother. If, however, people I’ve never met feel that they recognize something of themselves in my characters, then fiction is doing its job.