Summerland by Michael Chabon is sitting on a nightstand beside my bed where I sit typing away at this very moment. It resides there in a spot that it has dominated for over two years collecting dust in between the rare moments that I pick it up, read a few pages, then toss it back. I don't understand why I just can't seem to invest myself enough in the book to ever finish it. I bought it while on my honeymoon, read the first few chapters, and loved it. However, once back from the trip I just never could get into it.
Maybe it's the length. For a children's book this thing is massive. Or the focus on baseball, a sport I've never liked, mostly because I flat out suck at it. Or the weird fact that the story somehow throws Norse thunder gods and Sasquatches and talking foxes and tiny native Americans into the mix. Or maybe I just don't like it.
There are well written books out there that I just can not, for the life of me, ever get finished. We're talking classics here like the Iliad and War and Peace. But then I'll turn around and pour through Jurassic Park like it holds the meaning of life. I guess it just comes down to magic. Some things for some people hold a certain something that just grabs them. Maybe it's a connection to a character or a fascination with a period setting or sometimes it's just magic. Summerland doesn't have that magic so it sits on my night stand alone and forgotten till the next time I pick it up in a moment of boredom. Maybe by then I'll be in the right place to get into it. I hope so, otherwise I wasted fifteen bucks.
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