Andy and I went to the Newberry Library last night to see Armistead Maupin read the first chapter of Michael Tolliver Lives. It was a joyous event even though I arrived at the reading to find Andy in tears as he read the last chapter. Andy's reaction seemed natural to those in the room who'd already finished and to me, who has not even started it, since I witnessed Andy nearly throw the book away after the death of a character mid-way through the book.
I will not spoil this particular death for you (as it was for me -- which was only done because Andy had to explain why he was such a basketcase); however, when Andy, shortly before the cozy picture to the right was taken, nearly damned the author on the tragic turn he'd written, Mr. Maupin's response was "Ian McKellan called me up when he read it and said the same thing." While Andy still did not forgive Maupin for what he'd penned, I don't think he minded as much after learning he shared the same opinion as "the greatest living Shakespearean actor" and/or "OMG Magneto!" (depending on who in the picture you asked)
I adore Maupin's style and stories, but the ugly too-personal truth is that the true testament to his charm and talent is that my adoration is able to overcome the overwhelming jealousy his very existance inspires. I still have no idea what I want to be when I grow up, but I've got to say that "successful serial writer, beloved author, Hitchcock-homager, celebrity namedropper, and social historian and activist" would be quite a lovely title. But like I said, he deserves it, so he inspires, rather than infuriates, me.
