Bleeding Fiction

Or: A Tale Of The Frightfully Weak

Neil Gaiman's new book, Anansi Boys, came out yesterday.

As I've mentioned before, Mr. Gaiman will be at the Wash in about two weeks to read from and sign said book. I'd planned, of course, to go to the reading and pick up a copy of the book then. There would be many of them on hand, after all, and that seemed to make much more sense than walking down to the bookstore, buying a copy, carrying it home, carrying it back down to the signing and then carrying it home again.

Besides, I have plenty to do to keep me busy right now. Three short stories to re-draft, two new ones to write, the Fables, dear God the Fables, the first season of Fraggle Rock to watch, a seemingly infinite amount of books already owned to read and of course Dynasty Warriors 5 to play.

But Neil Gaiman's new book, Anansi Boys, came out yesterday.

I wasn't, strictly speaking, surprised when I left my apartment for roll of quarters yesterday, around noon, and walked right past the bank, headed, instead, for the bookstore. It wasn't a shock to me that I picked a copy of Anansi Boys up off the shelf, paid for it and headed back home again. I wasn't even amazed that when I got home I began to read the book and continued on until I was halfway through and had to leave the house for a previous and regular Tuesday night obligation.

It's just that I hadn't actually planned any of that.

As I said, I didn't read the book straight through. I put it down to go out last night, to sleep, to watch Gilmore Girls on tape this morning and to go to the bank this afternoon. But I still finished it tonight. It's not particularly long.

Not that it's short, either. It's as long as it needs to be and also, I'm convinced, pretty much as long as most books should be. Much longer than this and, even with the best of books, I usually start thinking that it really has gone on long enough and maybe should have ended by now.

So, Anansi Boys. Neither too short nor too long, and also really good and mostly funny although often (intentionally) quite the opposite. There's a sort of effortlessness of voice and tone that makes the book both very easy and fun to read and also makes it seem like it was very easy to write. It's sort of enviable, actually; there was a point in there, early on, where I found myself saying "hhm, I wish I wrote more like Gaiman." Much as I love Gaiman's writing, that's not something I've ever wished before, so maybe that tells you something.

The inevitable question, I suppose, from other Gaiman fans, is where I'd rate this one vis-a-vis his other books. I'm not sure that I like it more than American Gods but, then, I'm not sure that I like it less. I don't like it as much as Neverwhere or Stardust but, then again, maybe I do.