Port City put on its fourth annual Literary Festival this weekend, and this year I roused myself to attend the opening night “dinner with the authors.” My friend J. was the co-director of the festival this year, and I thought it would be a good opportunity to hobnob with the local literati.

I was especially eager to meet three writers: Julia Glass, because I just finished The Whole World Over on the plane back from Miami, and I really enjoyed it; Elinor Lipman, because The Inn at Lake Devine is one of my favorite books; and Andre Dubus III, not just because of The House of Sand and Fog but also because he is a local luminary, Port City’s unofficial writer-in-residence.

Dubus was not at the dinner, which was disappointing. I spotted Glass and Lipman right away, but felt odd about approaching them. Is there ever any point to having any kind of conversation with a celebrity? He or she has heard it all before and certainly isn’t going to be charmed senseless by meeting YOU; the real point of such an encounter is to gratify the fan, which is so one-sided it feels silly. Still, the whole point of the dinner was to garner such a cheap thrill, and I was really touched when Husband corralled Julia Glass and dragged her over to meet me.

She was quite gracious and asked specifically why I liked the book. I asked her what authors she read and she became a bit flustered and said, “Oh, I always forget what I read when people ask me that.” She waved her hand at another festival author and said, “Margot Livesey is one of my favorites,” and then excused herself. This is why I have carefully pre-selected and memorized a short list of powerful but slightly obscure Literary Influences to rattle off in case I’m ever asked that question during an interview or on a red carpet. Julia, I’m surprised that you, at this point in your career, haven’t done the same.

Although Andre Dubus III was not at the dinner, he did give a reading the next day that I was lucky enough to attend. He spoke in the same white, sun-filled Unitarian church in which I heard Richard Russo a few years ago. Russo had made a few jokes about lecturing from the elevated pulpit, but ended up giving his lecture from the floor. Dubus also joked about it but then said, “Oh, what the hell,” and ran up the stairs.

He read from a memoir-in-progress; the piece he gave started with his move to Port City as a teenager. I have heard stories about how this picturesque vacation spot was on the brink of collapse in the ’70s, but I don’t think I ever really understood how bad it was until I heard listened to his descriptions of weed-choked lots and front yards filled with rusted cars on the same street where my son now attends kindergarten. (As another friend of mine who grew up across the border in New Hampshire tells it, “Port City was where you went for heroin and hookers.”)

What I found fascinating was a theme he didn’t explore in the reading, but which I hope will come out in the book: He stayed. Most people who endure a miserable childhood in a lousy backwater need to get out to find success. But he stayed and prospered, and the town prospered around him.

Dubus was a charming and charismatic speaker, and as I sat there taking in the pulpit and the hair and all the women in attendance, it came to me: My gods! This man is Port City’s very own Gaius Baltar.

You be the judge:

Dubus.

Baltar.

Separated at birth?