One thing that I’ve discovered as a long-time San Franciscan is that most of us secretly think our city is better than Los Angeles. We’re prettier, we’re more refined, we’re certainly less preoccupied with image, and . . . well, the list can go on and on, depending on whom you’re talking to. For writers, this distinction can reach astonishing depths, as demonstrated by a recent talk with a writer friend.

This writer friend is successful, well-reviewed, and considered very literary. We’ve already had a few interesting clashes around literary versus genre, as in which is more deserving to be read and published, and which will survive the holocaust we human beings are busy brewing for ourselves as we cook up our planet. When I told him I was going down to Los Angeles for the West Hollywood Book Fair, to which I’d been invited to speak on a panel and do a signing through the efforts of my tireless publicist at Ballantine, my friend sniffed, “Honestly?” as if I’d said I was going to run to Tijuana in fishnets and a boa.

“Yes,” I replied. “It’s West Hollywood, a book fair. There’ll be gay readers there.”  I always use this one to disarm my friend, as he usually won’t object to anything related to being gay and reading. But then I made the unwitting mistake of adding, “Oh, and celebrities. Who knows?” I added airily. “Maybe they’ll love me and want to make a movie of The Last Queen.”

My friend pounced. “Ah, ha! So, that’s why you’re going. It’s not about books or readers: it’s the celebrities.  Chris, you’re a published author now. Celebrity isn’t something we should aspire to. That’s so LA, so Jackie Collins. It’s all about fame, not substance.”

Now, does it sound to you as if I’d skimmed a nerve? I thought so, too.

“Who says we shouldn’t aspire to celebrity?” I retorted. “Hell, I’d love to be a famous writer. It means sales.”

“And the loss of your soul,” he shot back. “Celebrity is eating away at our culture; it’s the antithesis of what we should be about. Nowadays, we’re expected to pander to the lowest common denominator in order to succeed. Forget writing about anything important, if you can make millions spewing bad prose about sex and money. Los Angeles is a pit; a cultural void. I’m surprised they have a book fair not entirely composed of movie stars’ ghost-written tell-alls. This is why I live in San Francisco. We have LitQuake. They have the West Hollywood whatever.”

“You’ve never even been to the West Hollywood whatever,” I exclaimed. “How can you judge it?”

“I don’t have to go. It’s LA. That’s all I need to know.”

Now, don’t get me wrong: I love San Francisco and I love LitQuake. I think it’s just great that we have such a unique literary festival that reflects who we are as a city. But I’d been asked a dozen times at least in the past month by different writers if I’d be “reading at LitQuake” and when I said I didn’t think so, I was inevitably treated to an aghast silence, as though my not reading at LitQuake had somehow invalidated whatever success I might have garnered as a writer.

And now, here was my friend telling me I’d sacrifice my soul if I went down to West Hollywood Book Fair, where I had been invited to sit on a panel with Emma Donaghue, David Fisher, and Cristina Garcia—each of whom, I believe, are fully anointed members of the Literary segment of the writing population. San Francisco might represent literary culture to him, but at that moment it just felt like snobbery to me.

So, I ignored him and I went. And I had a fabulous time. The organizers were wonderful and attentive; and the event was very well-planned. The panel was interesting and fun; and when I went to my assigned booth to sign my books, who should be sitting next to me signing her new book Hollywood Vampires but Adrienne Barbeau, star of John Carpenter’s B-classic The Fog and proud owner of a pair of considerably well-photographed assets? She looked great, and I basked in the fact that a celebrity sat within my reach. After her, a long queue began to form. It wasn’t for me, I quickly deducted; it was for Robert Wagner, who was coming to sign copies of his recently released tell-all, Pieces of My Heart.

My friend’s sardonic comments flitted through my mind but I mentally stamped them out like Pier 39 cockroaches. Okay, so it wasn’t Salman Rushdie. Who cares? This long queue of star-struck people clutching mint copies of Wagner’s book were filing past me and piles of my book. I sold several more as a result, and when Mr Wagner himself appeared I got a full view of one of Hollywood’s legendary leading men. And he looked great, too.

Sure, Los Angeles is sprawling and murky-aired and hot; sure, it’s star-obsessed and gaudy and just a little too much.  But I must say, when I’m there I’m never bored. And I always come back to San Francisco wishing we had a touch more of that fake glitter.

Maybe my writer’s soul is in jeopardy, after all.