Teresa Miller

As a child, did you really believe your mother was the actress Jeanne Crain?

Need becomes its own reality. I was only two when my mother died, and my father decided that I was too young to fully comprehend death. His solution was to tell me that my mother had simply gone away and wouldn’t be coming back. As a result, I began to see her everywhere. Her maiden name was Jean Crane, so when I stayed up till all hours watching the late show, I became convinced that the glamorous Jeanne Crain I saw on screen was indeed my mother. And yes, even as a youngster, I stayed up till all hours watching unrestricted television. The only series off limits at our house was The Waltons. My grandmother believed we were such a quirky family ourselves that tuning into the well-balanced Walton clan might give us unrealistic expectations—plus put undue pressure on our more eccentric relatives.

You landed your first book contract with a New York publisher while you were still in your twenties and seemed destined for a major career. But then you developed a writer’s block that lasted for eighteen years. Did you simply run out of things to say?

Ironically I had too much to say and choked on my own convictions—a family weakness. My grandparents and father failed to speak out when my mother died under suspicious circumstances. Then later they couldn’t bring themselves to verbally acknowledge my stepmother’s child abuse. It was almost as if, by adhering to decorum and restricting themselves to social banter, they were trying to quietly disavow their own weaknesses. But you can’t write a good novel unless you’re willing to address these failings. I used to say that I was raised to be delightful, which often meant resorting to easy speak. As a writer, I’ve had to learn to own my words.

It was during your long dry spell that you established your literary center. Has working with noted writers such as Amy Tan, Isabel Allende, and Jim Lehrer offset your own writing ambitions?

First of all I’m a great admirer of other writers, so this alternate literary career came naturally to me. Even as a college student I once phoned Harper Lee to ask about To Kill a Mockingbird. Then another time I dropped by Eudora Welty’s home for a brief visit. So I was in awe of celebrity but not intimidated by it. That’s thanks to my father, who often spent time with prominent politicians and passed along a peculiar life lesson: almost anyone I could think of, no matter how famous, was more accessible to me than I realized—except for my father himself. Another reason I believe I became so enamored with celebrities was to counter my personal disillusionment. It was almost as if I was trying to replace the people I’d lost and might not see again with bigger than life personalities who would live forever—at least in our cultural memory. In other words, I began looking to those who cast larger shadows.

How does your terrifying history with a stalker fit within the overall context of this story?

Practically speaking the fact that I was threatened for over two years by someone I didn’t even know altered the everyday course of my life—for at least that time frame. I lived on the lam, so to speak, and learned to find safe havens in unexpected places. In a larger sense, though, this person I’ve decided not to call by name, became a dark sort of "Everyman," personifying all of my late-night suspicions about even the people closest to me, who frightened me sometimes by seeming like strangers.

You’ve chosen an interesting format for your memoir. How would you describe the mini-stories that appear throughout the narrative?

I think of them as interludes, junctures in my life journey that acknowledge the equally arduous trips of other travelers. Chaucer used a similar technique in The Cantebury Tales, alluding to a narrative tradition that celebrates our shared “on the road” experiences. In Means of Transit, the stories are all theme based, relating to flights of the imagination, the sacred places we find en route, and the strategies we rely on when we lose our way.