(no subject)
I have a secret. In the world of the modern fantasy and horror literary geek, it's a bit of a dirty secret, too. You may be shocked to learn of it, but I'll share it with you anyway.
Ready?
Here goes.
I've never read any of Neil Gaiman's books.
While you're recovering from your collective gasp of shock, allow me to assure you that this is not because I don't like Neil Gaiman's work. It's not because I haven't wanted to. It's for one very, very simple reason.
I can never find a copy.
Or I couldn't, that is, until this past weekend, when hubby and I were wandering through chapters with Brooke and Nyron, after having gone to see Corpse Bride, Moncton being notably bereft of anything constituting a tourist attraction. Browsing through the science-fiction section, I found a hardcover copy of Gaiman's newest book, Anansi Boys. "Ah-hah!" I thought. I read the back of the jacket, then the excerpt on the inside of the jacket, then I read the price. Then I read the Canadian price, and, lying against my hip, my shoulder bag twitched a little as my wallet laughed at me. My bank account -- still on the mend from wedding-itis -- held enough to cover the withdrawal of interest on my student debt. My VISA balance was a thing not to be spoken of. While only mentally banging my head against the shelf in frustration, I put the book back on the shelf, sighed mightily, and left, entirely book-free, and wishing once again that I hadn't wasted a year of my life and an ungodly amount of money on a school that not only did not get me a job I might actually like, but which ceased to exist within six months of my graduation.
The next day, I had an eight-hour shift at work, thus entitling me to a half-hour break, that I usually don't take. That day, though, not only was I ahead by a couple of hours from the moment I walked in the door, the right earbud for my .mp3 player had stopped working, so I took my half-hour and jaunted over to a nearby Zeller's to buy new ones. On my way out, having paid for the headphones in the electronics department to soothe the suspicions of the floorwalkers, I paused by their book section, being somewhat attracted to books in the same way iron filings are somewhat attracted to large electromagnets. As I paused, the thought "Man, I wish I could have gotten that copy of Gaiman's new book yesterday. I'd really like to read one of his novels. Too bad the local library bites like Unicron when it comes to science fiction." floated through my head. As it floated, I happened to pause, and glance down.
There.
There it was. There, amidst the rows of chick-lit, biographies, romances, and copious helpings of chicken soup for various kinds of souls, a single, shining copy of Smoke and Mirrors, a collection of short stories by Neil Gaiman. Just one. Nothing else even remotely connected to the same genre seemed to be in the entire store.
Apparently, while The Infinite does not always answer prayers, it sometimes listens in on random thoughts.
Gaiman's writing is like fine wine, or truly high-quality European chocolate. It's like something you can't really afford, but buy anyway and apportion out to yourself with a glass on the weekend, or a peice only on days you get non-telemarketer phone calls. It's too good to have all at once, read all at once; you have to make it last.
Ready?
Here goes.
I've never read any of Neil Gaiman's books.
While you're recovering from your collective gasp of shock, allow me to assure you that this is not because I don't like Neil Gaiman's work. It's not because I haven't wanted to. It's for one very, very simple reason.
I can never find a copy.
Or I couldn't, that is, until this past weekend, when hubby and I were wandering through chapters with Brooke and Nyron, after having gone to see Corpse Bride, Moncton being notably bereft of anything constituting a tourist attraction. Browsing through the science-fiction section, I found a hardcover copy of Gaiman's newest book, Anansi Boys. "Ah-hah!" I thought. I read the back of the jacket, then the excerpt on the inside of the jacket, then I read the price. Then I read the Canadian price, and, lying against my hip, my shoulder bag twitched a little as my wallet laughed at me. My bank account -- still on the mend from wedding-itis -- held enough to cover the withdrawal of interest on my student debt. My VISA balance was a thing not to be spoken of. While only mentally banging my head against the shelf in frustration, I put the book back on the shelf, sighed mightily, and left, entirely book-free, and wishing once again that I hadn't wasted a year of my life and an ungodly amount of money on a school that not only did not get me a job I might actually like, but which ceased to exist within six months of my graduation.
The next day, I had an eight-hour shift at work, thus entitling me to a half-hour break, that I usually don't take. That day, though, not only was I ahead by a couple of hours from the moment I walked in the door, the right earbud for my .mp3 player had stopped working, so I took my half-hour and jaunted over to a nearby Zeller's to buy new ones. On my way out, having paid for the headphones in the electronics department to soothe the suspicions of the floorwalkers, I paused by their book section, being somewhat attracted to books in the same way iron filings are somewhat attracted to large electromagnets. As I paused, the thought "Man, I wish I could have gotten that copy of Gaiman's new book yesterday. I'd really like to read one of his novels. Too bad the local library bites like Unicron when it comes to science fiction." floated through my head. As it floated, I happened to pause, and glance down.
There.
There it was. There, amidst the rows of chick-lit, biographies, romances, and copious helpings of chicken soup for various kinds of souls, a single, shining copy of Smoke and Mirrors, a collection of short stories by Neil Gaiman. Just one. Nothing else even remotely connected to the same genre seemed to be in the entire store.
Apparently, while The Infinite does not always answer prayers, it sometimes listens in on random thoughts.
Gaiman's writing is like fine wine, or truly high-quality European chocolate. It's like something you can't really afford, but buy anyway and apportion out to yourself with a glass on the weekend, or a peice only on days you get non-telemarketer phone calls. It's too good to have all at once, read all at once; you have to make it last.