Or is it my kind of fiction? After all, I found myself wanting to respond more positively than I did to Matthew Hooton's wonderful, accomplished Deloume Road, which is similar enough to Greenslade's that if you read them both, you'd end up with a terrifically nuanced view of rural BC childhood that allowed you to compare the 70s and 90s, plus the interior and Vancouver Island. There's a high-quality thesis just begging to be written on these novels, and I'm confident that they would both support that degree of close reading.
I'm not sure how I've ended up jaded enough, if that's what it is, not to fall instantly in love with the very best writing you're going to read from the high-realist tradition of Alice Munro and Alistair MacLeod, but here I sit. Hmm.
Honestly, this might be the perfect novel for a Canadian book club. Not for mine, because you're a bunch of beer-drinking punks, but for every other Canadian book club!