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Sometimes when I read famous essays or books that have been deemed literature, I question my intelligence. I feel the need to read a literary critique after to tell me why it is such an important work. I worry this might be the case with this essay. The writing style reminds me a bit of Joyce, very stream of consciousness but in a more accessible way.

I have walked around the edges of Neil Gaiman’s literary worlds for over a decade without committing to enter. He always comes up, on a list of best books or from the lips of a friend. I don’t know why I have tread so lightly.

As the first chapter unfolds, I kept thinking about the logistics. About how I have always wanted to wake up and get on a plane with only the clothes on my back, but I kept worrying about her leaving without telling her work or, more importantly, her cat. That was until the big reveal and then, I was mostly just worried about the cat.