A year or so ago, while preparing this book, I had the good fortune to see Edward Albee’s latest work The Play About the Baby at London’s Almeida Theatre. In one typically surreal monologue, Albee’s character “Woman” talks of her youthful dreams of becoming a journalist, and of a project she undertook toward that end:
“My assignment was to interview a writer—to try to comprehend the creative mind, as they call it. [Pause] Don’t try. Don’t even give it a thought. There seems to be some sort of cabal going on, on the part of these so-called creative people to keep the process a secret; a deep, dark secret from the rest of the world.
“I mean, really, what’s the matter with these people? Do they think we’re trying to steal their tricks—would even want to? All I want to do is understand, and, let me tell you, getting through to them, these ‘creative’ types, isn’t easy. I mean even getting through to them. I wrote politely to seven or eight of them: one biographer; two short-story writers; there were a couple of poets; one ‘female creator of theater pieces’—and not one of them answered. Silence. Too busy creating, I suppose.”
I joined in the audience’s laughter at “Woman’s” monologue, partly because of its brilliant rendition by Frances de la Tour, but also because of the way Albee made me reconsider the objectives of Gay Fiction Speaks. Did my status as a tenured academic, I asked, give me any greater right than “Woman” to take on the task of “comprehend[ing] the creative mind”? I felt not. Like her, I’d embarked upon the whole thing rather naively—as a fan more than anything else. It would have made little sense to approach these writers from a critical standpoint. In any case, I did not feel inclined to do so. Now that the interviews were completed, did I feel any better informed as to how they should be done? Not much—though I did feel I’d learned quite a lot about how to interview writers of fiction, specifically. Was I confident my results could help others to “comprehend the creative mind”? Well, I felt—and feel—that there’s compelling material here. Some of it, certainly, concerns the creative process; things which writers invariably don’t reflect upon, or at least aren’t publicly encouraged to. But I hope readers find more in them too. On occasion, these writers reflect on long, distinguished careers. Other moments see them digress on enthusiasms, literary and otherwise, one never would have anticipated. There’s the odd comment, frankly, that’s nothing more than good gossip—and there’s nothing wrong in that.
Unlike Albee’s “Woman,” I should point out, I had nothing but good fortune in my dealings with the twelve authors featured in this book—and with a further twenty-four novelists (interviews with whom will appear in subsequent volumes). Not one writer declined to be interviewed, or to collaborate afterwards in the time-consuming exchanges necessary for the shaping and updating of transcribed text. Auden claimed that, for a writer to stick to literature and make a living, he or she must be in love with the “drudgery” of the profession. If what he meant by that was dealing with the kind of endless spin-off requests and inquiries I made of this dozen, I’m sure he’s right. Everyone featured in Gay Fiction Speaks responded at every stage with diligence, speed, insight—and, vitally, considerable wit and humor. I am greatly indebted to all.
Gay Fiction Speaks began with a research award for travel granted by Sheffield University—to which institution I owe many thanks. The proposal, swiftly improvised into being (as such things often are), named the thirty-six gay novelists writing in English whom I felt were the most celebrated, prominent, and promising subjects. I’ve long enjoyed reading in-depth interviews with writers: in the everyday press, certainly, but, more relevant to this project, the pioneering pieces in the Paris Review, and in books such as those of my colleague at Sheffield, Professor John Haffenden, whose collections of interviews with British poets and novelists were an important influence.
I should note that there have already been at least four books of interviews with gay writers. Though these could not help but be full of compelling comment and revelation, the organization and origin of these works were, to me, unsatisfactory. The first, put out by Gay Sunshine Press long ago, featured authors of great talent—many of whom, sadly, could never become part of this project: William Burroughs, Christopher Isherwood, Tennessee Williams. The pieces feel uneven, though, and often of rather “local” interest. Written for a specific issue of a magazine, they read very much as of their time and place. Later, a second Gay Sunshine Press volume appeared, featuring writers of (to me) less interest. The other two precedents are Talking To by Peter Burton, a talented British journalist, and Something Inside by the American writer Philip Gambone. Talking To appeared in the early 1900s—and soon disappeared. The role call was impressively varied but, once again, the pieces—republications from the monthly Gay Times—were merely thumbnail sketches or snapshots (some a bit dated) rather than in-depth pieces. Gambone’s line of questioning in Something Inside was captivatingly led by his own priorities as a fiction writer, but there was, I felt, for all the great moments, a sense of the book being less of an integrated whole than a sum of impressive parts. This I put down to the interviews being commissioned for journals and magazines, and undertaken over a period of years.
I thought about these precedents when drawing up my proposal for funding. I was always clear that I’d insist on interviewing authors in person: at their homes or, when it was more convenient, where I was staying; otherwise (rarely) over lunch or dinner. I was suspicious about interviewing at a distance. The telephone or e-mail may be fine for fact-checking or for the quick soundbite, but I wanted my work not only to come out of a relaxed atmosphere, but to read as if it did. Generally, the sessions ran for between two and four hours; often considerable time was spent—usefully, in my view—“warming up” the conversation.
To some extent, I wanted the peculiar patterns of everyday speech to be retained too, with their moments of friction, contradiction, and tangentiality. Equally, it was vital that my interviewees did not feel “on guard”—potential victims of a journalistic setup, that is, for we live in such times. I knew I wanted the interviews to be presented as transcripts—that is, without substantial embellishment or interpretation from me. Readers could feel they were being given the material from which to draw their own conclusions. I soon realized the interviews would not “close” after the tape was turned off. A further stage would be necessary, where the interviewee and I consulted over the transcript: checking for accuracy and, yes, removing the odd indiscretion, but also adding to and improving (upon reflection) what had come to mind in the moment.
I knew the interviews would need some thematic coherence. The fact that all the interviewees were gay would not be enough. Some discussion of issues concerning sexual politics and the representation of gay men in culture would doubtless be interesting. I thought, though, that these weren’t likely to be the only things my interviewees, as writers, could or would want to talk about. To some extent, writers are readily tapped by the media for their views on such matters—in some cases, pretty exhaustively. My hunch was that my interviewees would have as much in common as writers as they would as gay men—and that discovering the links and contrasts in this respect would probably make my venture fresher. Wherever possible, I wanted the direction of conversation to remain open to the interviewee’s suggestion, not my own, so that the interview as published would come to reflect his enthusiasms, or some of them at least. I determined not to have an agenda as such, though I did keep in the back of my mind a brief list of general questions—on writing methods especially—that I invariably found an opportunity to ask.
I sketched out a travel itinerary for the States that was to be conducted during October and November of 1997, in the middle of a semester’s sabbatical from Sheffield. Britain and elsewhere I decided to handle later. The schedule was characterized by an absurdly optimistic faith in two things: first, the professionalism and reliability of U.S. airlines (no further comment); second, my capacity for rereading about two hundred novels in the evenings and—as it transpired—long nights between interviews. Still, all went smoothly enough—barring the odd hundred or so major mishaps en route. If transcribing hundreds of hours of tape and then editing for sense and conciseness sounds like hell, it is—though having the good fortune to do much of this work in sunny Cape Town over the “winter” (their summer) of 1997–98 did help.
Something must be said about the selection of authors. This was based entirely on merit. I felt—and feel—confident about this, in the sense that I knew I’d feel more dishonest using any other criteria. Nevertheless, I’ve identified six questions in particular which arose out of my deliberations and which have nagged at me, to greater or lesser extent, since. I’ve reproduced them here in the hope that they illustrate my intentions in this volume.
The first question: why choose novelists, as opposed to writers generally? My own doctoral research had predominantly concerned gay fiction. I’ve always been a keen devourer of novels and stories first and foremost. That’s a personal disposition. But it’s also true, I think, that many—if not most—of the advances in gay literary self-representation since the war have taken place either first or most influentially in fiction. The last half of the twentieth century witnessed the most profound struggles and changes in gay people’s sense of their place and role in society. It’s not surprising that the novel—the literary form commonly understood as best equipped to deal with relations between the individual and society—should be so privileged.
My second thought was more one of regret than a question. I was struck by the obvious sad truth that so many fine writers of gay fiction had been lost during recent years—many, though not all, to AIDS-related illnesses. A ghost volume of Gay Fiction Speaks haunted me, featuring people such as Allen Barnett, Christopher Coe, David Feinberg, Robert Ferro, Michael Grumley, Peter McGehee, Paul Monette, and George Whitmore. William Burroughs, obviously slated for inclusion, died shortly before the project got under way. Two things mitigated my disappointment over these absences: first, clearly, nothing could be done to change this cold fact; and, second, came the consolation that tributes to such writers and their legacies might feature in the interviews I could undertake. I’m glad to say that this generally happened.
My third concern was over how many non-American writers to include. It didn’t surprise me that most of my chosen number were American, nor do I feel apologetic about that. It’s a straightforward tribute, I’d say, to the quality of gay fiction-writing currently emerging from the United States. Still, research for another forthcoming book on contemporary gay fiction and AIDS has led me to much fine international gay fiction. I’ve come across writers from Australia, Canada, and South Africa whose work I’ve found interesting and accomplished, but who haven’t yet had too much published compared to those on my list. Reluctantly, I crossed these off—for now. I had five or six names from Britain and Ireland whom I strongly felt merited inclusion; interviews with two of these, Alan Hollinghurst and Patrick Gale, are gathered here.
The fourth consideration was the extent to which my list could reflect the ethnic and cultural diversity of gay fictional voices that is today’s reality (and thank God for it). This was—and has been—my biggest headache. There are scores of gay fiction writers from ethnic minorities whose work I have loved. Several have died; most others are only now making a name for themselves. Should I set aside the general principle of including only the most-established and prominent writers in order to reflect the still-developing ethnic range of gay writing more fully? I decided not to do this—in the first volume, at least. The structure and size of each interview required a considerable body of published work to discuss. I also determined, for the coherence of the project, to keep with “literary fiction”—a nebulous construct, admittedly, but one that excluded certain popular literary genres, such as the detective novel, romance, and science fiction. Each of these categories describes the output of several possible nonwhite interviewees.
Let me be first to acknowledge, then, that in consequence Gay Fiction Speaks represents an almost entirely white tradition (though John Rechy is Mexican-American). Nonetheless, the two planned subsequent volumes of interviews now in process do feature a greater variety of ethnic voices. Stick with me.
My fifth worry arose in response to the realization early on that the interviewees were extremely interested in the list of names I’d proposed. They’d frequently ask about people they felt I’d overlooked. You’d probably challenge me similarly if you could. It’s therefore worth explaining a couple of further criteria that affected my choice. The first relates to genre. Some prominent gay writers, unsurprisingly, are known for both prose and nonprose work. I judged each case distinctly, but my rule of thumb here related to my keen awareness that, after the fiction-based books were done, a further volume of interviews with gay playwrights and scriptwriters might appear. Though I propose that interviews with dramatist-novelists, say, would range across the genres in which they’ve written, these pieces would sit better in a volume dedicated to drama and performance texts.
Another thought in this regard concerned the issue of “gayness” itself. Many—if not most—of the writers in Gay Fiction Speaks healthily sought to question the very idea of categorizing fiction as “gay.” In discussing such reservations, I admit occasionally resorting to fancy intellectual footwork—though it was based on my own views. I understand the awkwardness that the labels gay fiction or gay novelist instill in writers, who commonly aspire to the universal. Even where they don’t, writers nevertheless often resent the “separate shelving” of so-called gay and lesbian titles in bookstores, as this can put their works out of the reach—or minds, anyway—of most readers. Many authors abhor the routine ghettoization of gay-themed work by the mainstream press.
Still, the post-Stonewall phenomenon of “gay fiction” is, for gay male readers and others, a reality—hence the viability of this book. In selecting authors, the matter of “gayness” presented a substantial problem and led to certain contentious exclusions.
I decided against including a number of esteemed, openly gay fiction writers precisely because their relationship to what is commonly considered “gay fiction” remains tangential, notwithstanding the occasional venture into gay themes. It’s often argued that the late 1970s—the year 1978 in particular—saw the development in America of a distinct and unapologetic gay fiction tradition. I’m proud to see featured in this book many of the most important contributors to that development: Edmund White, Felice Picano, Armistead Maupin, Andrew Holleran, Ethan Mordden.
Clearly, I could have featured substantially more gay novelists who began writing prior to this period than the two I finally decided upon: James Purdy and John Rechy. What led me to include these, however, is pretty simple. The two bodies of work speak volumes. It’s obvious that the five novelists just mentioned above are all, to some extent, in the debt of Purdy and Rechy, while the more recently established Gurganus, Cooper, Hollinghurst, Leavitt, and Gale have written not so much in the shadow of these, their predecessors, as in the literary and cultural space created and legitimated by them. This doesn’t mean that relations between individuals will be straightforward or harmonious, naturally. (Which relationships ever are?) One last point about Purdy and Rechy: both continue to publish prolifically. Recent works, like earlier ones, sometimes engage directly with gay themes and characters; at other times, they reflect a “queer,” indirect, or sardonic take on nongay life.
The last question was actually the first to be answered in planning Gay Fiction Speaks. Why only men? Ultimately, as most critics of contemporary gay and lesbian literatures have acknowledged, these literatures spring from different sources, and refer to distinct traditions. Indeed, the differences in literary tradition between male- and female-authored texts are as real as the contrasting origins and emphases of gay male and lesbian experience, social organization, and subcultural life. I’m a great fan and avid reader of works by many gifted lesbian novelists. Their inclusion in this volume, though, would widen its scope to its overall detriment. A “lesbian sister” volume to this book is what’s needed—among whose contributors, inevitably, would be Jeanette Winterson.
In May 1998, I attended a reading given by Winterson at the Hay-on-Wye literary festival. At the outset, the redoubtable author sought to forestall questions she found most irritating and commonplace by anticipating them all. Her checklist went: “Yes, I work in the morning. No, I do not write straight onto machine,” and so on. Winterson expressed amazement—perhaps tongue-in-cheek?—that anyone would find the answers to such questions compelling: “They’re not the first questions I would ask if I had the chance to meet one of my literary heroes,” she commented. You could hear mental cogs whirring as people wondered: “What would I ask?”; or, for Winterson’s many fans, “What do I ask?” In my case, I thought of this book: “Well, what did I ask? Was it what I’d want to ask?” More to the point was this: “Was it what I’d want to have asked if I were reading a book like Gay Fiction Speaks?”
As with the experience of watching Albee’s The Play About the Baby, the moment caused some doubt. Perhaps questions on writing practice, literary traditions, and influences, on the relationship between sexuality, writing, and culture and so on were rather rarified? The enthusiasm toward this book expressed by many friends, colleagues, and acquaintances, however, has restored my confidence in this regard—and made Gay Fiction Speaks all the more pleasurable to complete.
This is the place to record the thanks I owe, first of all, to the writers included here, all of whom generously devoted their time and energy to this project. The result is, above all, a tribute to their earnestness, enthusiasm, and kindness.
Of the many others who helped with practical arrangements, I’m especially indebted to David Bergman, Terry Bird and Clark Lemon, Michael Bronski, Ron Caldwell, Nicole Campbell, Harlan Greene, Allen Gurganus, Andrew Holleran, Keith Kahla, Patrick Merla, Felice Picano, and Edmund White. Max Manin and Tarani Chandola offered vital personal support and friendship over a difficult couple of years. Jason Ray was, for some time, prime inspiration for all I did, and remains a loved and close friend. Craig Fraser and James Davidson were both inspiring friends and academic examples at Oxford whose influence can be traced here. At Columbia University Press, a great debt is owed to Ann Miller, a dedicated and formidable editor, her efficient erstwhile assistant, Alex Thorp, and to Roy Thomas, a superb manuscript editor. Sincere apologies to anyone I have omitted.