"HOW TO WRITE AN AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL novel" is a disarming title for an essay collection by Alexander Chee, given that he's fresh from the success of a novel that on the face of it was anything but autobiographical. That book, the justly celebrated epic "The Queen of the Night" (2016), was an operatic drama that followed a fictional 19th-century soprano as she rises to fame in Paris and navigates Second Empire intrigue on a scale to make Victor Hugo proud. What could be farther from Chee's own life? But one of the things you learn in this collection is that, for most writers, "novels are accidents at their start," an answer to questions the author never knew to ask. In Chee's telling, the writer's life always lurks just beyond the page, and not only in the way that Gustave Flaubert was Madame Bovary or Henry James the prepubescent heroine of "What Maisie Knew." In a revealing essay called "Girl," Chee recalls his first time in drag, on Halloween in the Castro in 1990. The cosmetic transformation allowed him to collapse his identities as a gay man, a Korean-American and a New England transplant into a pleasing totality: "This beauty I find when I put on drag, then: It is made up of these talismans of power, a balancing act of the self-hatreds of at least two cultures, an act I've engaged in my whole life, here on the fulcrum I make of my face." If writing, too, is a form of drag for Chee, it is also an act of mystic invocation and transference. In an essay recounting his career as a professional Tarot reader, he asks of the cards what readers ask of stories: "the feeling of something coming true." Still, few books fit the bill of "autobiographical novel" better than this collection, which is arranged in rough coming-of-age chronology, from the author's sexual awakening as an exchange student in Mexico ("a summer of wanting impossible things") to the death of his father at 43, following a car accident, when Chee was 15; his beginnings as a writer at Wesleyan University, where he studied under Annie Dillard; his tenure in San Francisco at the height of the AIDS crisis; the publication of his (explicitly autobiographical) first novel, "Edinburgh," in 2001; and his maturity as a reader, writer and instructor who longs, in the aftermath of the 2016 presidential election, to lead his students "to another world, one where people value writing and art more than war." The book ends with the beautiful sentiment, cribbed from an email Chee wrote his students after the election of Donald Trump, that "a novel, should it survive, protects what a missile can't." Chee leavens his heaviest topics - the decimation of the gay community in the late 1980s and early '90s, the repressed memory of sexual abuse that inspired "Edinburgh" - with charming episodes like his stint as a waiter at William and Pat Buckley's Park Avenue maisonette, a job that prompted a crisis of conscience given Buckley's infamous proposal to brand AIDS patients on their wrists and buttocks. (On another catering assignment, this one at the Buckleys' home in Connecticut, he glimpses Buckley heading to the pool to skinny-dip with a male staffer.) There is also an account of his worshipful, nigh-religious encounter with Chloe Sevigny in the elevator of a building both are subletting; a chummy reminiscence of the Iowa Writers' Workshop, which he attends against his better judgment only to wind up a convert who readily defends M.F.A. programs against their critics ("It is not an escape from the real world, to my mind, but a confrontation with it"); and an essay about planting a rose garden outside his Brooklyn apartment that affords him the opportunity to discuss the writing process under the guise of horticulturist. Other essays have the kind of grandiose titles you'd expect from a more traditional book on craft: "The Writing Life," "The Autobiography of My Novel," "On Becoming an American Writer." And, really, why write a book about writing if you can't occasionally hold forth with such injunctions as "Think of a dream with the outer surface of a storm"? Yet even at his most mystical, Chee is generous; these pieces are personal, never pedagogical. They bespeak an unguarded sincerity and curiosity. Chee is refreshingly open about his sometimes liberating, sometimes claustrophobic sense of exceptionality. As a child he reads X-Men comics and wishes for psychic powers; as an adult he finds his ambitious first efforts as a writer at odds with prevailing literary trends. Throughout, Chee endeavors to catch himself at a distance and reckon, ever humble and bracingly honest, with the slippery terrain of memory, identity and love. "We are not what we think we are," he writes. "The stories we tell of ourselves are like thin trails across something that is more like the ocean. A mask afloat on the open sea." Of the stories Chee tells, one deserves special attention: "After Peter," a memorialization of a lover and mentor who died of AIDS in 1994. Chee chronicles their involvement with activist organizations like Act Up/SF and Queer Nation in the long years before the advent of protease inhibitors. "Why am I telling this story?" he asks rhetorically. "The men I wanted to follow into the future are dead.... I feel I owe them my survival." He reminds us that whomever a writer pictures as his audience, he is also writing into absence, standing in testimony for the sake of the dead. Like most of the essays here, "After Peter" pulses with urgency, one piece from a life in restless motion. It is not necessary to agree that " How to Write an Autobiographical Novel" is itself a kind of novel in order to appreciate that Chee has written a moving and personal tribute to impermanence, a wise and transgressive meditation on a life lived both because of and in spite of America, a place where, he writes, "you are allowed to speak the truth as long as nothing changes." ? Chee is open about his sometimes liberating, sometimes claustrophobic sense of exceptionality. J. w. MCCORMACK is the digital media editor of The Believer. His reviews have appeared in The New York Review of Books Daily, The Baffler, Bomb and Vice.

"To write is to sell a ticket to escape, not from the truth, but into it," short story writer and novelist Chee (The Queen of the Night) alerts readers here. In the 16 essays assembled, he reflects on a breadth of experiences that, collectively viewed, offer a portrait of the developing writer. In Chee's hands, varied subjects, however disparate they may seem, coalesce-a summer in Mexico as an exchange student, a stint as a Tarot-deck reader, a writing course with Annie Dillard, an AIDS march, performing in drag, meeting William F. Buckley on a catering job, tending a garden. Chee's aphoristic pieces "100 Things About Writing a Novel" and "How to Write an Autobiographical Novel" implicitly counter the notion of a direct memoir. "The memoir [is] a kind of mask too, but one that insists you are only one person," Chee asserts. Chee's collection is, at its core, about writing itself: about how writing happens and writers are formed. A duller, less evocative title along the lines of How I Became a Writer might have been more accurate, but that would have failed to convey Chee's marvelously oblique style as an essayist-his capacity to inform and educate readers while they're too enraptured to notice. Agent: Jin Auh, Wylie Agency. (Apr.) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

*Starred Review* When Chee (The Queen of the Night, 2016) was once asked why his first novel, Edinburgh (2001), wasn't a memoir, he was confused by the question; had he even consciously made the choice? This collection of Chee's essays explores this and many other questions while cataloging the lessons and experiences that shaped him as a person and a writer. From Annie Dillard, his professor at Wesleyan, who leaps from the page in his descriptions, Chee learned that writing is work anyone can learn to do. At the Iowa Writer's Workshop, Deborah Eisenberg taught him how what we invent, we control, and how what we don't, we don't and that it shows. Though Chee, who now teaches at Dartmouth, in a very welcome way makes students of readers, his audience is in no way limited to writers. His quotable, pristine essays consider Chee's family's struggles, his AIDS activism and related losses, his tarot obsession, the labor of writing, the legacies of trauma, and the essentiality of making and having art. Hand to readers searching for something to follow 2017's incredible parade of writers' memoirs, including Roxane Gay's Hunger and Amy Tan's Where the Past Begins.--Bostrom, Annie Copyright 2018 Booklist

A former literary agent once told Chee (English & creative writing, Dartmouth Coll.; The Queen of the Night) that reviewers would have a hard time writing about his work. They weren't lying. It's not easy to sum up this collection of essays: the subjects range from boyhood summers, encounters with tarot, gardening, writing, seemingly innocuous themes that introduce memories of loss, struggle, activism, abuse, the list goes on. Chee considers the design of a rose garden with the same regard as his first cup of coffee in the aftermath of tragedy (because a rose is never just a rose and that cup of coffee is the only thing certain). Chee's writing has a storylike quality that reads like short fiction. The content is heavy but never hopeless-the work here isn't happy, yet it never leaves readers feeling broken. Each essay is compulsively engaging, despite the dark themes (or, perhaps, because of them). VERDICT This is a beautiful book-hard to sum up, sometimes hard to digest, but a delight to read. A must for anyone interested in the craft of writing, politics, LGBTQA+ rights, AIDS activism, family, tarot, even roses.-Gricel Dominguez, Florida International Univ. Lib., Miami © Copyright 2018. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

A precise and candid set of essays from the novelist Chee (English and Creative Writing/Dartmouth Coll.; The Queen of the Night, 2016, etc.) about life, writing, and how each sustains the other.This collection wasn't planned as a conventional memoir. However, arranged to cover the author's life from adolescence to the present day, it possesses a loose arc and consistent set of throughlines. One is Chee's status as a gay Amerasian man, which has energized him as a pro-LGBT activist and liberated him as a person; the counterweights, though, are the friends lost to AIDS and the professional doors closed to him. (His first gay-themed novel had a hard time selling due to its subject matter.) Another throughline is Chee's struggle to launch his writing career, and he's engagingly blunt about the labor that serious writing demands and the money that's often lacking anyway. At his most spirited, in "My Parade," he rebuts the dismissive clichs about MFA programs and how they're often born of a writer's fear of confronting the emotional honesty the job requires. "The only things you must have to become a writer," he writes, "are the stamina to continue and a wily, cagey heart in the face of extremity, failure, and success." Even Chee's detours don't stray far from his core concerns: working as a cater-waiter for William F. Buckley and his wife demanded emotionally balancing a certain jealousy of their lifestyle and contempt for his homophobia, while tending a rose garden in his dreary Brooklyn apartment serves as a metaphor for the ordered disorder of writing a novel. What truly unifies these pieces, though, is the author's consistent care with words and open-hearted tone; having been through emotional and artistic wars, he's produced a guidebook to help others survive them too.Deserving of a place among other modern classic writers' memoirs like Stephen King's On Writing and Chee's mentor Annie Dillard's The Writing Life. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.