I’m reading Mary Ann in Autumn by Armistead Maupin.  I’m very into commitment, which means I have long term boyfriends, have fifteen identical pocket notebooks that I am slowly going through, and feel the compulsive need to finish series. 

This book isn’t very good.  Reading it, I feel dated.  I know that I’ll flip through this book in fifteen years and find references to iPhones, facebook, and vegans.  They feel forced, decorating the story like garish Christmas ornaments.  Oddly enough, I can’t put it down.  It’s my train book at the moment, but it’s leapt from cursory to obligatory that I finish it, even though I recognize I’m not fully behind it. 

Perhaps it’s graduate school, perhaps it’s because I’ve read over 100 children’s books this semester, perhaps it’s because it’s winter.  My head needs a break, and I’m going to enjoy it.  

An hour later, I’ve finished the book and changed my mind completely.  I loved the shock of it, the intertwining, everything.  Armistead Maupin is perpetually wonderful.