It takes a village to write a book about a village. I’m indebted to the many people who confided in me. Some had known me for decades. To others, I was a toddler in diapers suddenly morphed into a grown woman with a lot of questions. I hope I’ve done right by the memories entrusted to my care. I owe an extra hug to my parents and my godmother for putting up with countless hours of interrogation. I treasured our long conversations, and I believe they did, too—though probably not all my harping about chronology.
I could kiss the feet of the archivists and librarians at the San Francisco Public Library, GLBT Historical Society, the Bay Area Television Archive at San Francisco State University, and the Internet Archive. Not only have they kept the good stuff safe, they’ve also made much of it available online, almost completely obviating the hell out of microfiche. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
Independent bookstores keep the literary world spinning. I’m especially fortunate to feel at home at Green Apple Books with its creaky stairs, packed shelves, and passionate staff. You’re beautiful, don’t ever change.
Writing can be a grind; I never expected publishing to be a gas. My sharpshooting agent, Farley Chase, nailed the bull’s-eye every time (especially on Mother’s Day). Writers fantasize about editors with the grace and acuity of Lauren Wein and Pilar Garcia-Brown; how did I get so lucky in real life? This feeling extends to everyone at Houghton Mifflin Harcourt. It’s astounding how many people have to care about a book to bring it to life. I’ve been fortunate to work with sharp editors, second readers, third readers (eagle-eye Conor!), a design team that knocked my socks off, a production team that got everyone on the bus on time, a quick and careful legal team, a copy editor (David Hough!) who killed 85 percent of my commas so kindly that it barely hurt. Marketing and publicity mavens Hannah Harlow, Emma Gordon, and Lori Glazer got the motor revving. Helen Atsma offered words of encouragement before I knew I needed them. If I seem to glide, it’s only because the folks at HMH are carrying me on their fingertips.
Support for this project has come in many forms, and I’ve needed them all. I’m grateful to Dana Spector for leading the way to Hollywoodland and to Ben Stephenson and Rachel Rusch for the warm welcome; to the MacDowell Colony, the Ucross Foundation, and the Community of Writers at Squaw Valley for time and space in which to work, encouragement, and fairy dust; to everyone at Litquake—especially Jack Boulware—for keeping me in the mix every year (I sometimes think of the day Jack asked if I’d be into dressing up as Slick Ric Flair to read at Bob Calhoun’s WWF memoir night as the true beginning of my literary career); to Rod and Sandee Crisp, Robert Mailer Anderson, and Kim Wong-Keltner for the proverbial “cabin in the woods” when I needed it; to the brilliant writers of the Leporine Conspiracy past and present (too many to name here, but especially Jacqueline Doyle, without whom I would sink like a cinder block); to Janice Volz, Rebecca Skloot, Frances Lefkowitz, Laura Lent, Caitlin Myer, Bob Calhoun, Juniper Nichols, Joe Loya, David Talbot, Olga Zilberbourg, Matthew James Decoster, Olivia Griffin, Emily Florence Maloney, Joey and Rachel Tobener, Diane Glazman, Dawn Oberg, Danyka Kosturak, Marie Mutsuki Mockett, and the online community of women and nonbinary writers for friendship, cheerleading, and commiseration on tough days; to Dennis Hearne for the dreamy photographs and to Janet Clyde for the annual celebration at Vesuvio, my favorite night of every year; to Gregory Crouch for the Lyft ride that changed my life; to Karl Soehnlein, Ronnie Johnson, Kyle Sund, and Anastasia Selby for valuable feedback; to the S.F. Elks Lodge No. 3 and the New Eritrea Café for nourishment and relaxation during line edits; to Ron Turner for being nasty and Carol Stevenson for being nice; to Michelle Wildgen for insisting I find the heart; and to Dana Christopher Clarke—who adamantly disbelieved in consciousness after death and won’t be able to read this unless he was wrong—for looking at a punk-ass fifteen-year-old and seeing an intellectual.
For daily inspiration, I treasure my partner in crime, Kevin Hunsanger, who cheerfully shared his wife with this book for a decade. Writers are not easy people to live with; we’re obsessive, cranky, messy, often solitary, and sometimes terrible at the basic stuff of life. He has picked up the slack and kissed away the frustration. More importantly, he’s reminded me time and again to have my own adventures. I can’t wait to see what we do next.
Finally, at the end of this road, a blown kiss to the City that once was.