I remember well how I first came to read Armistead Maupin. And I remember well that it was More Tales of the City that I read first. It was one of those pivotal moments, one of those steps on the way to coming out, to being myself.

It was in Saskatoon, at the library. It was Pride week, though in the early eighties, there was no such thing as a Pride celebration in Saskatoon. But there, in full view of everyone, there was a table of books on Gay and Lesbian subjects (back before the other letters joined in). All sorts of books by all sorts of writers.

That table was a banquet to me. And a crucible. Standing there, perusing those titles was a joy and an act of courage and a deliverance. There was no hiding from what that table was all about and why I was interested in the books there. Standing there was a decision, a commitment. The real me was not afraid to be seen.

I remember picking up More Tales. That edition was trade sized, with a vibrant cover. I can’t actually remember, but I think I read a bit of that first chapter: Michael and Mary Ann and the Valentine’s Day resolutions and was hooked. I think it was the first of that batch of books I read. There was nowhere to buy the books in Saskatoon, but on my next trip to Edmonton, I bought the ones that had, at that point, been released.

That series is in my deserted island reading material. I love them like I had been a tenant at 28 Barbary Lane. I wanted so much to know those people. And in a way, I’ve met many real world equivalents along my journey. I’ve been blessed with friends whom I have loved and who have loved me as much as Mrs. Madrigal’s clan loved each other.

I remember seeing a San Francisco phone book at the library several years later and finding Maupin’s name and number. To this day, I kick myself for not just dialing and telling him how much he’d meant to me. But, just after my first surgery, when I was moving around again, he came to town to promote The Night Listener, and I set out with my new cane and found him on the U of T campus. I even got to tell him the story of the phone call I never made. He told me that back then, he was still answering his own phone and would have been there. That memory is one I treasure.

I think I stole from him the short, punchy chapters that often hit and run right before the chapter break. I learned from him more about the invented or created family, a concept that has always resonate with me, making it’s way into my own work and especially into Chasing Cold.

And I think, most importantly, he gave me the love of storytelling above literary pretension. His prose is clean, straightforward and lovingly, brutally honest. He exemplifies to me what storytelling is all about: “Who are they? What happens to them? How does it affect them?”

And in case he sees this, I say again, thank you.