Neil Gaiman has won 23 awards for his works – including three Hugos and two Nebulas – and somehow I still had no idea who he was when I picked up “Anansi Boys.” I wish I’d heard of him sooner.

Gaiman’s latest novel is about Fat Charlie and his brother Spider, both sons of the trickster god Anansi. Although explained later on, the two oddly don’t meet until after their father’s death. From there, both manage to wreak havoc on each other’s lives. The other gods, who all had been tricked at least once by Anansi, turn their heads as Anansi’s greatest enemy uses Fat Charlie’s animosity toward Spider to destroy them both.

Gaiman is known chiefly for his graphic novels such as the “Sandman” series. One of the difficult things in switching genres is not bringing old habits with you, yet Gaiman does. In doing so, he actually has strengthened his novel and illuminated some of the weaknesses in other writers.

In most novels, writers use a hook at the beginning and figure the readers will keep reading, so as not to waste the money they spent on the book. With comic books and graphic novels, however, every beginning and ending of every section must have a hook. If readers aren’t constantly wondering what comes next, chances are they won’t buy the next issue.

Gaiman has applied that to “Anansi Boys” – no chapter or section is without a hook at both the beginning and end. Some are more gripping than others, but, regardless, they are all there.

When I read the first section’s ending hook, I nearly shouted in joy (had I not been on the bus, I probably would have). All writers – even those writing theses on the creation and development of the paper clip – would do well to follow Gaiman’s example.

“Anansi Boys” is a character story, switching from viewpoint to viewpoint. This is difficult to do well, and Gaiman did not work the method as deftly as I would have liked.

As the story begins, there’s not much reason to care about Charlie other than hearing about Anansi’s exploits from his point of view. It was the hooks that kept me reading, the promise that, somewhere on a page I hadn’t read yet, there would be a justification for the slow beginning.

This is not to say the writing was bad at any point. I’d rather wear my shoes on the wrong feet for a month than say that. Gaiman writes with the wit and tongue-in-cheek humor with which only the British seem endowed.

One of the things I enjoyed most in “Anansi Boys” was Gaiman’s subtle use of details. I’ve found few authors who use understated information and later reference it in order to show a character’s growth or give foreshadowing and then resolve it. It seems slightly more common in films, but no matter the medium, it should be used more often.

Anansi himself is more enjoyable than most gods in literature. Gaiman gave him real personality and motives, far more than lounging on a mountain eating grapes, drinking ambrosia and demanding sacrifices. He combines Brer Rabbit, El-ahrairah and Bugs Bunny – every character of every story where mind thwarts might.

Fortunately, Gaiman only brings Anansi into the story when absolutely necessary. As entertaining as he may be, a story about a god is a boring read.

Gaiman also captures the parent-child dichotomy, the torturous embarrassment all parents manage to put their children through. Of course, when one parent is a god, it is exponentially worse.

“Anansi Boys,” more than anything else, is a story about what can happen if one plumbs the depths of oneself, and what dimension and personality can be found in those depths. Read it, or I’ll tell your mother and give you disapproving looks.