In which I feel badly for not loving The Graveyard Book

“Who in the world am I? Ah, that’s the great puzzle.”

--Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland

I read Neil Gaiman’s The Graveyard Book this week. A while back, my book club read Stardust and most everyone loved it. I liked it, pretty much. I couldn’t tell you a thing about it now, only that it brought to mind A Midsummer Night’s Dream—weren’t there fairies and such? Oh, and a wall. I remember that.

It’s something to do with my attention span, I think. I start to zone out if someone is telling me about their information technology job, or the many steps required to make perfect spaghetti sauce, or really anything, I guess, that doesn’t interest me. As I writer, I can certainly appreciate the imagination and planning it takes to create an entire world; other worlds just don’t call to me. I’m completely obsessed and preoccupied with this one.

So it’s my shortcoming, I fully acknowledge this. I have an easier time with fantasy in films (special effects help a lot), but it’s not as though I’ve NEVER appreciated a novel with other-worldly elements. I loved Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell, I like time-traveling in books (The Time-Traveler’s Wife—an all-time favorite), and I recently read Observatory Mansions, which is set in a “normal” world but everyone is crazy so it felt like another world. It’s just, most of the time, I don’t read fantasy. I never seem to care about what’s happening; it doesn’t hold my attention.

Why did I bother, then? Well, my oldest son is reading The Graveyard Book for school and I thought it would be nice to read along with him. Besides, everyone’s read this book and everyone LOVES it. Eyes glaze over when you mention it; people press hands to hearts. Certainly, I believed, this would be one I’d like.

Fast forward, day one.

Son: “How far along are you in the book? I’m on page 30.”

Me (reading on Kindle): “I’m at 25%.”

Son: “I have no idea what’s going on.”

Me: “Me either, but let’s stick with it.”

Next day…

Me: “How’s the book coming along?”

Son: “I’m on page 40.”

Me: “Ten pages?”

Son: “I just don’t get it. What’s the point? They’re in a cave or something.”

Me: “There are just people who are dead, ghosts.”

Son: “I know but what are they doing?”

Me: “It doesn't matter. Have you gotten to the part with the girl?”

Son: “No.”
Me: “Don’t they go to the cave together?”

Son: “Mom! Don’t spoil it.”

Apparently, this son inherited my imagination deficiency. But, I finished the book and I will say, I warmed to it. That is to say, I was able to pay attention for longer periods. Mr. Gaiman doesn’t need my support; the world knows he’s a fabulous writer. There was a broad cast of almost Dickensian characters and moments of cheeky humor. I appreciated that. And I did find myself wanting to find out why what had happened had happened. But I never did feel like these were real people and I suppose, in general, that’s the element that makes fiction linger, at least with me. And I trust Mr. Gaiman and his millions of fans couldn’t care less about what I think.