I’m not sure how to write about this book. It’s Gary Schmidt’s first novel, and just like everything else of his I’ve read, it’s beautifully written. I love “Okay for Now” and “The Wednesday Wars” with complete abandon, and it’s true that they plumb the same well that Schmidt seems irresistibly drawn to—how in the midst of life, we are in death. Joy and sorrow, the little losses and victories of ordinary days, grief and triumph, they are all mingled together such that they can never be teased apart in his books.
He writes about life in a way that isn’t saccharine or sentimental, that doesn’t give easy answers to questions, and I like that a great deal. But I think I can’t take it as a steady diet, perhaps because this is life as I live it—as we all live it—and every once in a while, I want books to be my escape, not to hold my head down in it.
So maybe today simply wasn’t a good day for me to be reading this particular story about a young boy whose mother dies of cancer and whose father is mired in grief, no matter how lyrically Schmidt wrote about the Norman Rockwell town in New Hampshire where they live.
And I miss the lively voice of the boys “Okay for Now” and “The Wednesday Wars.” They sounded like real boys to me, whereas the young narrator of this book sounded older, slower—perhaps because he was so sad?
This is a superbly-written, powerful, moving book—that failed to move me. I forced myself to finish it, and I skimmed many pages at that. But the fault may be mine, not Schmidt’s. He is one of the best children’s writers of our generation.