Gaiman

The signed copy of Neil Gaiman’s book arrived on my doorstep yesterday.  I didn’t get a ghost, scrawled around ink blots on the ivory page, but I wasn’t disappointed after all.  There was just something about the shiny gold-ness of the sticker on the front proclaiming “Signed First Edition.” I opened up the front cover to see Neil’s scribble in blue, and I just felt warm gladness.  It is a slimmer volume than I thought it would be from the pictures online. 

I have nothing more to say about it, because I’m afraid to read it.  It’s been lauded as his best book yet, and I don’t know what will happen to me if I don’t love it too.  Loss of the title ‘Fervent Fan’ is probably one of the things.  The other reason I’m afraid to read it is because I read so terribly fast.  On average, I get through 100 pages an hour.  The book is so slim.  If I finish it, then it will all be over and done.  It’s a terrible catch-22. 

Brian said to me the other night, “you know, I really think I would like Neil Gaiman’s stuff, but I feel like you’re such a fan that it’s spoiled it for me.  What if it turned out I didn’t like a book of his?  You’d be so disappointed.”

Evidently, I’m even spoiling it for myself now.  That’s me: Casey Hamilton, Ruiner of all things Neil Gaiman.  I’m going to read it soon.  Probably.