A little about my hatred of Michael Chabon...
But first, a little about myself. I have an ego. Sure, it's a dark, withered thing that I mostly keep secreted away in some deep, dusty cabinet in the back of my mind, like some long forgotten, mummified half-sandwich that I was going to eat but forgot. This ego generally only rears its head when something is organized improperly (by my estimation), when challenged by the slavering yappings of a bigger, meaner ego, or when reading. Here's where it gets a little complicated, very contradictory, and a bit fascinating (to me and possibly only me).
I fancy myself a writer, though I refuse to call myself a writer. I thrill in finding mistakes but dread pointing them out unless asked. I love to read but have a knack for finding a multitude of flaws in just about everything. I've never finished any substantial piece of writing and am embarrassed and humbled by that fact, all the while believing wholeheartedly that I can do as well or better than most of what I read.
Michael Chabon, specifically his The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay, is so much better than I can even imagine trying to do that I may just be in love with him. Or hate him with a thousand daggers of burning hate. Or want to siphon off his magic and appropriate it for my own purposes. Or give up writing entirely. Or write for every second of my life from here forward in order to maybe come close to being almost as good.
The sensible side of me knows that he worked damned hard at getting that good and worked even harder polishing Kavalier & Clay to the near spotless glow that I see. And then I want to put on a gorilla costume, climb his house, and steal the muse that he has hidden in his attic.
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