I went camping this past week. It wasn’t bad, apart from the rain, and I did get to indulge in all those manly stereotypes that are often associated with the great outdoors. Hell, I didn’t even shave, and I may have wrestled a bear or two. All around, good times.

But one advantage of the unusually wet weather was the ability to burn through but another book on my list of things to read, the latest being Neil Gaiman’s American Gods. If you haven’t read any Gaiman yet, you most definitely should. He’s done some superb fantasy work with the likes of Stardust and Coraline, and is also responsible for the critically acclaimed Sandman series of graphic novels, which I’ve yet to get to as of yet. But if anything, read American Gods.

The concept is unique, and surprised me with the amount of depth and research Gaiman put into this particular tale. Think of all the old Gods, from Hindu traditions, to Norse mythology, brought to America by some of its earliest settlers. Now, imagine these same deities, struggling to exist in a modern day America, confronted by the so-called “new” Gods – television, media, and the rampant materialism so seemingly worshiped today. Naturally, there is conflict. And while it’s neat to see this conflict play out between the old beliefs and the new, what truly steals the show is Gaiman’s detailed, winding narrative, turning conventional religious idols into something far more familiar, as mortal faces in a human world. It’s an interesting manner of portraying religious traditions, and one that’s far less religious than you may think, focusing instead upon the ideas of beliefs and followers in a more abstract, and less-distinct fashion.

But the coolest thing about reading this on a wet, wilderness weekend? “A storm is coming”, says Wednesday, one of the novel’s main characters – a storm that the text steadily builds towards at its climax. Lying in my tent, just a little past midnight, a storm came as well – rolling clouds and skies of thunder. And as pages turned, and the climax neared, the storm that raged above the trees was what really made American Gods for me. Indeed, a storm was coming, and boy, did it ever rain.

I have a great deal of respect for author Neil Gaiman. While I was first introduced to him through his Terry Pratchett collaboration, Good Omens, other works like American Gods and Stardust have made me quite a big fan. Now that I’ve acquired a growing interest in graphic novels, hopefully I can add Sandman to the list of Gaiman works which I’ve read.

Now, for a bit of a tangent. Authors, particularly big ones, don’t typically have a very many personal interactions with their fans. Of course, there are books signings, and the occasional meet and greets, but otherwise, communication is kept fairly minimal, or sporadic. Personally, I think the advent of the internet is probably one of the greatest things that could ever happen for the relationship between authors and their readers, responsible for breaking down the walled garden that separates ourselves from our literary idols, and giving us something tangible, and much more personal to reach out to.

I remember reading about how, in the early 90′s, British author Terry Pratchett was one of the first to embrace the internet as a forum for communication with readers and fans. Think, for a moment, about just how archaic internet message boards and group-based communication were at the time. Usenet, one of the precursors to our modern day message boards, was in its infancy. And yet, almost 20 years ago, some authors were beginning to realize the merits that the internet had for communicating with their readers.

Today, it amazes me just how close one can get to some of their favourite authors and writers. Twitter, the short-message internet service, seems to have become a haven for literates and creative types, where every fleeting thought and whim can be unleashed upon the web for whoever happens to listen. Having finally been convinced into getting a Twitter account of my own, it’s amazed me just how many of my favourite authors and individuals have taken to the service. Neil Gaiman, whom I spoke fondly of before, was one of the first authors I noticed on Twitter – it was with him that Pandora’s Box was opened. Warren Ellis, Ryan North, Richard Stevens, and a number of other journalists, websites and individuals have all started their own tweets as well.

It may not seem like a whole lot, at first – short, web-based communications that never exceed 140 characters. The messages – or tweets – usually delve into the mundane, and might not necessarily contain anything of substance; nothing makes me smile more than seeing Gaiman having trouble with an Android phone, or Warren Ellis ramble drunk. Yet, the point of all this is, it’s a personal part of their lives that they’ve chosen to share with the world. And while it may be mundane, it sure helps to know there’s a real, tangible, person that we can identify with, behind the books and stories.

I’ll be the first to admit that I entered the graphic novel game far later than everyone else I know. Sure, I indulged in all the old superhero comics of old as a child, from Batman to Green Lantern, but never really got into them with the same fervor as my friends. With Watchmen, my curiosity was piqued – and now, I’m hooked.

In all honesty, my interest was partly driven by the soon-to-be-released movie adaptation. That seems to have given the story some legs, making it far more accessible to the general public; from what I can tell, everyone and their mother has a copy of Watchmen these days. I’m not normally one to jump onto these sort of bandwagons, but I was ultimately convinced by my friends that this was no ordinary graphic novel.

Going in, I had low expectations, most likely jaded by my childhood comic experiences. But it took very little time for me to realize just how wrong I was. Alan Moore’s narrative is absolutely amazing. The amount of depth he can fit in to each panel is constantly surprising. This is partly due to his parallel style of narration, which drives the novel. At many points in the novel, Moore follows multiple characters in multiple locations, intertwining all their experiences together through dialogue that curiously fits each and everyone at the same time. I’d go so far to say that this is what made the book for me; it’s just so damn well written.

What really confirm this are the documents Moore includes at the end of each of Watchmen’s 12 chapters. Each document generally consist of a few pages or clippings from some sort of publication or book in the Watchmen universe. Oftentimes, they supply a bit of backstory, enhancing what’s been conveyed within the chapter, and giving it a context. Other times, the documents serve to foreshadow future chapters. But what makes these documents so necessary and so intriguing is the amount of detail Moore puts into them. It doesn’t just seem as if Moore is including a number of different documents to further his tale – instead, he acts as a literary chameleon, adopting a new style – a new persona – for each of the documents he includes. It’s just so well done that one might actually believe these were written by someone else entirely; it means Moore’s doing his job as a storyteller. And it means he’s doing it damn well.

More so, the plot is equally as captivating. These aren’t your mum and dad’s classic superheroes – these are heroes with crushed dreams, mid-life crises, and countless moral struggles. This isn’t to say they don’t still kick some ass; instead, all these things add another layer of depth and meaning behind the action. It’s definitely a welcome change, and makes readers so much more involved – and oftentimes, sympathetic – with the characters Moore creates. While I’m looking forward to the movie, if there’s one thing I can suggest, it’s read this first. There’s just so much in Moore’s writing that can’t be conveyed on film, you’d be doing yourself a disservice not to read this first.

I really can’t stress enough how much I loved Watchmen. Everything about it was just so well executed, especially considering the limited experience I’ve had with the medium thus far. I think I’ve found my new hobby over the Christmas break.

Now, being a huge James Bond junkie, the release of Devil May Care had me incredibly excited. The series isn’t quite literary genius, but the laughable puns and engaging action always make me smile – albeit, a little guiltily. Thus, you could say I jumped at the release with enough fervour to make even the most slanderous Fox News anchor envious. Meanwhile, the small portion of my mind which usually tries to convey reason (and occasionally, tasty recipes involving dairy) was brushed aside.

You see, I’ve never quite understood the concept of one writing under the guise of a long-dead author; immediately, I noticed that Devil May Care was, in fact, not a creation of the late Sir Ian Fleming, but written, instead, by one Sebastian Faulks. With the abundance of unfinished material left after his death, I’d hoped his estate might have pulled a Tolkein and worked something from that; but alas, my hopes were quickly dashed.

I’d like to think that the whole point of being a writer is bringing your own personal perspective to a piece, as opposed to emulating a past one. If anything, this notion of an author “writing” as a person from the past seems like nothing more than a way to raise one’s profile – riding on the coattails of another’s success, if you will. That being said, I felt a little dubious, but purchased it anyways.

Now, who is Sebastian Faulks? In all honesty, I still don’t know, just as I don’t know who Kingsley Amis or Christopher Wood is – both former sanctioned Bond writers. Mind you, in no way am I trying to discount their takes upon the Bond franchise; instead, like with anything, I just can’t help but feel that the products are but palatable facsimiles of the source material.

…Which brings us to Devil May Care. In most respects, the book is standard Bond fare. You’ve got James Bond, of Her Majesty’s secret service, women, and a number of fancy, 60s oriented cars. But it’s the few instances in which Faulks tries to deviate from the standards that didn’t impress me. The one thing that makes the Bond franchise so enduring is that, in a sense, so is the character himself. The amount of havoc and chaos which Bond is often subject to never quite wears him down; it’s this simple notion that connects each book so expertly.

So, you can probably imagine my displeasure when Faulks began to transform Bond into more of an aging legend – a has-been whose time in the service is nearing its end.The result is that Devil May Care often feels a little more like a journey into the soul for Bond, and not into the Soviet homeland. At other times, the wanton disregard for authority reader’s have come to love seems absent; following an accident, Bond dutifully obeys the doctor’s orders, insofar as to avoid Martinis for almost half the book.

My biggest gripe with Faulk’s re-interpretation of the classic Bond comes in the novel’s structure. One of Fleming’s more striking qualities was his ability to advance the action at a pace that drew reader’s in, but didn’t lose them in the process. Faulks, while capable of building the action, doesn’t seem to know what to do once he’s gotten there. Bond’s escape from mastermind Julius Gorner’s drug-producing facility is executed in an appropriately grandeur fashion; it’s when the time comes to dispose of the antagonistic adversary that Faulk’s seems to run out of steam. In fact, Gorner’s death is probably one of the most anti-climactic disposals I’ve read in years – he commits suicide in the gargantuan paddles of an American steamboat. Yawn.

Despite its occasionally annoying flaws, I couldn’t bring myself to quite hate the book. What many critics agree on is Faulk’s strength at tapping into the nostalgia of the Bond franchise. In that sense, I was happy enough to be reminded of my Bond-filled youth – all the normal fare was, indeed, present. But a reminder was all it really proved to be, lacking a great deal of the edginess and flair which Sir Ian Fleming commanded so many years ago.