Okay, true confession. I'm reading Each Little Bird That Sings, and I admit it's quite delightful and charming and has some very funny/heart-warming parts.
The problem is me, not the book.
I'll put it into the same category as the Penderwicks. Let's call it "The Perfect Childhood" category.
In these worlds, every neighborhood is safe, and every adult is gentle, patient, warm, loving and wise. Of course, someone important has died, to remind us that life isn't actually perfect, but don't worry. There are wise, patient, loving adults around to reassure and explain everything so the grief never slips past bittersweet.
*sigh*
For me, it's so unreal that it pulls me out of the story. I find it easier to believe in Dementors or fallen angels who eat Chinese food than it is to believe in perfect, attentive, always-present parents. Couldn't somebody, anybody, in this wonderful little small Southern town be selfish, cruel, stupid or even distracted?
I'll finish it. I'll even like it. But afterwards, I'll feel like I ate nothing but cream puffs for dinner. I'll need to go on a diet of books with an edge, like Alabama Moon or Tangerine, to get my stomach settled again.
Anybody else ever feel this way?