In the past, Richmond had a way of spinning off its creative talent. A former Richmond writer friend of mine now living in Connecticut has a theory about the former Richmond writer Tom Wolfe, who grew up here. Wolfe, he says, is the toast of the literary world in New York City, but all he ever really wanted to do was make it in West End Richmond.

There may be a grain of truth to this. It’s not easy for any newcomer (i.e., someone whose great-grandparents weren’t raised here) to get a firm grip on the place. And might there not be some deep reason that the preeminent social observer of our time seems obsessed by white suits and social status? In any event, Wolfe is in good company. Edgar Allan Poe, Tom Robbins, and Patricia Cornwell all took to their heels too. (And what of this fixation with death and horror?)

Nevertheless, Jessica and I took the plunge. There may be something in the water here. We’re now raising our four daughters in the same house that I grew up in with my four sisters. In this history-obsessed town, it all seems right.

The answer to the question posed above—Can you go home again?—crystallized for me on a fall Friday night in 2003, six years after we moved here, during the James River Writers Conference, a three-day lit fest that attracts the likes of Edward P. Jones, Jeannette Walls, and David Simon to the Library of Virginia downtown. After the day’s sessions, a bunch of us yakked it up over catfish, grits, and bourbon at Comfort, a hip down-home Southern joint in the midst of the urban campus of Virginia Commonwealth University. We then headed out onto the streets to First Fridays, the monthly art gallery schlep, which is a scene. VCU’s top-ranked art department brings it. Art lovers were spilling out of gallery doors with glasses of wine in their hands and smiles on their faces. After jostling for glimpses of the dernier cri, we headed out to a MacArthur Avenue honky-tonk on the North Side, where we danced to the fusion bluegrass of the legendary (sadly, recently departed) Page Wilson and his band, Reckless Abandon. By the end of the show, my friend Jim, a New York City editor, was onstage with the band, jamming on the harmonica. I’ll never forget the look of amazement he had given me earlier, when he exclaimed, “Wow, this is Richmond?”

Well, yes, this is Richmond. And it has only gotten better since.

In fact, it would not be an exaggeration to say that the city is on the verge of a new cultural heyday. The only place I’ve seen transformed faster was NYC after Rudy Giuliani was elected mayor and swept all the squeegee guys off the streets.