The Pain of Addiction

There are some authors who, whenever I happen to notice a new book of theirs in the store, I will purchase without a second’s thought, knowing that their work is inevitably excellent, solid storytelling and that I won’t be disappointed.

But then there a few authors whose work I wait for with bated breath. When the latest book finally hits the shelves, I go buy it immediately, get a 256 oz. glass of iced tea, catheterize myself, and install myself in the recliner for the duration, devouring the tome in as close to one great literary swallow as I can.

One such author is Neil Gaiman, to whom [Ross->] introduced me several years ago, when Neil was still sticking to graphic novels and short stories as his forms of choice. His third novel, American Gods, has just hit the street, and I’m agonizing that I’m in the office instead of reading now. In the interests of economy, I’ve ordered it from, but have been sliding down to Barnes & Noble during my lunchtime on the days I’m in Austin to sit in their big comfy chairs and read their big comfy hardback. So far, it does not disappoint, though the returning to the office suffers a bit in comparison. My protestant work ethic has thus far won out, and I remain employed, with only about 60 pages under my belt to date.

Darn it.