Dressed casually in an Atari T-shirt, jeans and an Oakland "The Town" ball cap, Tommy Orange exuded a thoughtful, kind and almost sleepy demeanor — with just a slight spice of self-amusement. He might well have been wondering, "Why am I here and why are all these people hanging on my every word?"

It was late Friday afternoon and Orange, 36, was appearing at the Mashantucket Pequot Museum & Research Center as the inaugural guest in its Indigenous Voices Series, a joint venture between the tribe and Bank Square Books. Traveling in support of his debut novel, "There There," just out from the prestigious Alfred A. Knopf publishing house, Orange still was getting used to (and admittedly ambivalent about) the publicity duties of the "published author" gig — particularly in the context that advance critical reaction to "There There" has been heavyweight and the sort that foretells massive literary stardom.

"I don't like being in the spotlight," Orange said, responding to an audience member's observation that the writer is now a rock star after being recently interviewed on National Public Radio. "I was impressed that it was NPR and I was flattered, but the truth is I also thought, 'I don't want to do this.'" He laughed. "I very much appreciate attention to the book and what I'm writing about, and I appreciate what it means (to have prestigious publications or programs seek him out), but it's an awkward experience."

He'll get used to it. "There There," a polyphonic narrative blending the voices and experiences of 13 different characters from Oakland's Native American community on the eve of a big Powwow, is a rich, raw, ambitious, often bleak and frequently funny work. Each character struggles to understand the degrees and meaning of his or her "Indian-ness" in the context of American history as well as the daily realities of urban existence. Reviews have been uniformly enthusiastic — from prestigious periodicals like the New York Times, the Los Angeles Times, Booklist, Kirkus as well as from literary giants like Margaret Atwood and two of Orange's literary heroes, Louise Erdrich and Marlon Burns.

It's all perhaps taken Orange by surprise. "I don't know how to answer questions about (what this new fame and success) means," Orange admitted. "I never dreamed of this. I wanted a career where I could write. Everything that's happening ..." he trailed off, trying to express his thoughts. Finally, he said, "I guess I just believed in the book I wrote and this happened."

A native of Oakland with Cheyenne, Arapaho and Caucasian ancestry, Orange came to reading and writing relatively late, he said, after first learning guitar and then getting a degree in engineering. But once he discovered the sorcery of literature, he dove in with a workmanlike devotion to craft and with the focus that he wanted to write about contemporary, urban Native American experience. He's a graduate of the Institute of American Indian Arts MFA program, a 2014 MacDowell Fellow and a 2016 Writing by Writers Fellow. Orange lives in Angels Camp, Calif., with his wife and young son — both of whom were at the well-attended event, the latter waving at his dad from the back row.

Orange started by softly reading short excerpts from the matter-of-fact but devastating essay he wrote that prefaces the novel. He also excerpted a subtly effective chapter wherein a character explains the origin of the phrase "Teddy Bear," its connection to a distorted and white-endorsed image of a paternal Theodore Roosevelt, and the harsh and conveniently ignored reality of the situation.

Orange was then insightfully interviewed by Breanna Nunn, the museum's services manager, before the session was opened up to questions from the audience. It was an astonishing and wide-ranging conversation. Among the topics:

On how the structure and scope of the novel developed: "My wife, who was pregnant at the time, and I were driving to Los Angeles, and it all just dropped — the idea of a whole bunch of characters converging. In that singular moment, I know it might have lasting power."

On the emergence of feminine, Native and other minority voices in literature and whether Orange regards himself an urban literary role model: "The default power in literature, forever, has been the white male writing about white experiences. It's been frustrating but we're seeing a lot of voices emerge. As for being a role model? I don't know about that. I hope that my book can be ... well, I'm trying to do good and honest work."

On the degree of autobiographical elements in "There There": "I definitely pulled from my own life. It's one of the ways you can get in touch with a character. It's hard to write another perspective if you haven't experienced it, but the characters have to stand on their own, too. It's a complex thing."

In the wake of the recurrent and increasing accounts of longtime sexual harassment (and more) by prominent artists — including Orange's one-time instructor, the National Book Award-winning Native American novelist Sherman Alexie — whether it's possible to overlook character flaws in artists such as Alexie, Woody Allen and Junot Diaz in the appreciation of great work: "I'm not totally convinced we can separate the work from the person. There's a lot of great work from (expletive) people. (Alexie and I) cut ties. What happened was heartbreaking and painful. Do we need to keep teaching him? I'm not convinced we should because we need to dig harder; there's a lot of deserving artists and art that haven't been discovered."