I… don’t know how to describe it. The cover compared the author to J.K. Rowling, Douglas Adams, Shel Silverstein, Monty Python and Terry Pratchett so how could I resist? But it started out strangely, so strangely that I wondered if this was an adult or young adult book, and then I thought it was a children's book and then changed my mind again, because it teetered back and forth.

Then there were the illustrations. They were black and white and looked like a cross between Sandra Boynton and Edward Gorey. I kept thinking over and over ‘What IS this?’ After a few false starts, I finally settled in to read it and ended up staying up later than intended. It reminded me of those little snippets that you can sometimes write that might be something good if you had a whole story to go with it (I can’t be the only one that does that) only this is a whole story, 456 pages worth, made of all those snippets grafted together.

Was it good? Of course it was. In fact it was about good writing. I could say it was about a dinosaur that wanted to be a writer, but by the time that becomes an issue, I had glossed it over. Fine, dinosour. In a city made of and revolving around books and their authors.

The only thing I can really say about it is that it is a book for readers who love books. Anybody who has ever savored the smell of a bookstore, new or used, or found a book they treasured in a box at a yardsale or the dust of a secondhand store, or lost hours and days to a gifted storyteller, or has felt the compulsion to tell a story of their own will feel familiar chords being struck all through this book.