So he had the story all along
New York — AS he nursed his second gin martini of the night, minutes before dinner was served at Elaine's, Gay Talese gently grabbed a friend's arm and began outlining his idea for a new book: It would focus on working-class people behind the scenes, he said, the kind of people who aren't celebrities but live fascinating lives. "Sounds great," sportswriter Bill Madden answered. "So what's the hook?" Talese looked offended, as if someone had stolen his drink when he wasn't looking. "I don't need a hook," he said confidently. "I've never had to worry much about that."
It was early in the evening, hours before the literary hangout would fill up, and visitors had already begun straggling by Talese's table to greet him. The dapper, gray-haired man who looks younger than his 74 years was in his element -- shaking hands, trading wisecracks and flirting gallantly with the ladies on his right and left. When six large platters of grilled veal chops arrived -- Talese had ordered for all of his dining companions -- the friendly banter continued. And the drinks kept on coming.
With four consecutive bestsellers under his belt, the man whom David Halberstam once called "the most important nonfiction writer of his generation," has reason to feel cocky. He's just finished "A Writer's Life" (Alfred A. Knopf), a semiautobiographical work spanning the last 60 years, and early reviews have been generally good.
But underneath his genial bravado, Talese has been a man deeply in need of reassurance. His latest book, due in 1995, was delivered 10 years late. During the last 13 years, he grew despondent that his work had no focus, lacked a compelling voice. He fretted that he had faded from view and would be forgotten. Time after time, his ideas about how to write the book -- or parts of it -- were shot down by editors. He worried that the publisher would lose patience with his delays.
In memos to himself, Talese was unforgiving: "Where are we going? Just completed no progress for one month!" he said in one note. Despairing, he confessed: "I continue asking myself, as I have before, what am I doing here? Where's the story? What's the point? Does it matter?" Echoing a writer's worst fear in yet another memo, he asked himself: "When are you going to get back into print???"
