Prelude Partway through the writing of this book, I called my father to ask if he and I could have a cup of tea together and talk about a few things. "Sure, that would be terrific!" he replied, his voice bouncing with enthusiasm, so I travelled into Toronto a few days later with a notebook in my bag. My dad knew I was writing a book about growing up witha gay father. I had sent him early drafts of the first chapters, and while he had squirmed initially, asking if I wouldn't mind waiting until he had gone dotty before I published anything, he agreed that it was indeed an important story and would do well to be out in the world. He just wished it didn't have to focus so much on him . I arranged for us to talk because I had reached a bit of an impasse, having written all the scenes that I knew were important to telling my side of the story and feeling the need to broaden the narrative's perspective. I knew little about my father's early adulthood, except what one gleans from passing mentions of university days and commentary on old photos, so I had questions about that period of his life. And I knew that he had comeout during the vanguard of the gay revolution in Canada and I wondered if tying his story into that cultural and political history would give the book the wider vision I was seeking. So we had tea. Earl Grey, I believe, with milk. And toast with Marmite. Between sips and bites, I asked him about his childhood-- when did he first have the hots for a boy?-- about his years at university --did his time at Oxford, the stomping grounds of Oscar Wilde (among others), give him the freedom to consider the possibility that he might be gay? --and about the gay revolution in Canada-- was he at the famous Toronto bathhouse raids protest and what was it like? We talked for hours, our conversation spilling over into all sorts of other topics along the way. I made a few pages of notes. "Ultimately, this is your story, Dad," I said towards the end. "So is there anything else that you feel would be important to include?" My father mentioned a few books I might read--academic treatises on gay social and political movements, the odd novel--and I jotted them down. Then he looked away pensively, inhaled sharply and opened his mouth, as if to add something. But instead of speaking, he simply held both posture and breath. Without explanation, he then got up and disappeared to his basement, reappearing a few minutes later with a small box, which he placed on the kitchen table. "You might want to look through this," he said, and walked over to the counter to begin preparing dinner. I asked the obvious. "Oh, just a few papers," he replied. Casual as could be. I peered inside: newspapers, magazine clippings, notebooks and loose papers. The first page I pulled out was filled with my father's inimitable scrawl. It was a diary entry dated January 31, 1980. I read the opening sentence aloud: "'Last night I made it with a Roman Catholic priest.'" My dad shrieked and turned around. But instead of running over and tearing the page from my hands, he melted into a coy posture and cooed, "Oooh, I remember him. He was so cute . . ." Then he giggled and returned to the task of making dinner. Duck à l'orange. I looked back at the collection of yellowing pages and realized what it was: a writer's dream. The Mythical Box, the treasure trove containing priceless original documents, the journals, the letters, clues and confessions. Everything necessary to inspire and inform a literary portrait. Or, in this case, finish one. Excerpted from Confessions of a Fairy's Daughter: Growing up with a Gay Dad by Alison Wearing All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.