The far and wide of readerly reach is often rewarded with time to linger, camp out, even put down roots in that place where resides, writes, exists a favorite writer, a discovery, a prize, a locale in which things happen which further complicate, define, explain and challenge. Devotion to artists, writers in good times and bad is earned, surely, but finding an affinity with and an empathy for is the joy of being a fan, a disciple even. I am that way about the English novelist Penelope Lively, about the American novelist Meg Wolitzer, about the fabulist composer of alternative social studies in dreams Stanley Crawford, about my mentor Jim Krusoe. And they are just a few of the living ones. Among those gone, well, don't get me started: Vonnegut, Heller, Grace Paley, James Baldwin. Lucky for us (and for him) the Inland Empire's Gary Amdahl is alive and kicking, if gently and consistently and elegantly, at the expectations of readers and yet, always somehow meeting them and beyond, a reader's reader and a writer's writer and this reviewer's champion.