Last Wednesday night, I had the opportunity to hear Neil Gaiman speak as part of UCSB’s Arts & Lectures series. Anyone who has heard Neil give a public lecture knows how witty and entertaining he can be, and this particular night was no exception. He read two new stories; reflected on the upheavals, both good and bad, of his past year; and answered questions from the audience. It was a wonderful event that both my wife and I highly enjoyed.

Afterwards, there was a signing, and I was able to slip in line with my brother who had managed to luckily secure a spot only about 60 people back, out of literally hundreds of fans. I had brought along my out-of-print hardcover copy of Angels & Visitations, Neil’s first short story collection. Out of all the books by Neil that I own, this one has always remained a favorite, and it’s become a bit of a collector’s item now.

A little background here before I move on with the story at hand: I discovered Neil’s work during my freshman year in high school, via the fourth issue of Sandman, published in 1989. It was the stunning Dave McKean cover that compelled me to buy it:

I had never seen anything quite like it. McKean had painted a portrait in acrylic in his full Barron Storey-influenced style, set it up with shelving, and then set it on fire—those are actual burn marks on the piece. Talk about an image that jumped off the stands. And for my melancholy/fantasy-obsessed personality at that time, it drew me in like a magnet. I bought it, took it home and read it, and upon finishing it, did something I don’t think I had ever been interested enough by any comic to do before: I promptly re-read it on the spot. I distinctly remember then going to have dinner with my parents, and telling my mom how I had just read this really good story. And after dinner, I went back to my room, re-read it a third time, and stared at the cover forever. That was the beginning of my love for Gaiman’s work, as well as the massive stylistic influence that Dave McKean came to be on my artwork. I quickly bought up the previous three back issues. I was now a Sandman fan, and by extension, a Neil Gaiman fan.

So that summer, I attended my first full-length San Diego Comic-Con (Technically, I had first gone the previous year, but only for a day, so this was my first real immersive experience at the Con), and it turned out that it was also Neil’s first Comic-Con as well. After attending a panel at which he was a speaker, I was bold enough to go up to him and tell him how I much I liked his work, and was even bolder in asking if I could get my picture taken with him. Hey, I was fifteen and he was my favorite writer, so I guess it seemed like a logical thing to do at the time. I’ll likely come to regret this, but posted below are the two of us in all our youthful glory. I’m guessing Neil was in his late twenties at the time. Check out that sun tan on me—that’s what being on the high school swim team in Santa Barbara would do for you.

The author and me. Taken at the end of a writer's panel at the San Diego Comic-Con, 1989.

I was reflecting on this first encounter with Neil as I waited in his signing line last Wednesday. I remembered how he wasn’t accosted by anyone at that convention; after the panel, I had gone straight up to him with no one else vying for his time, and I remember seeing him later on the convention floor browsing books at one of the vendor booths, completely unnoticed. I had that special childish pride of feeling on “the inside,” of being a fan of someone that not a whole lot of people knew about yet. That level of secret fame was short-lived: nowadays, Neil often needs a security detail when he attends cons, such is his fame and legion of worshipful fans. And as I was waxing nostalgic on all of this, I realized that this all happened twenty years ago. At my present age of 35, I don’t tend to think of myself as old, but man, I’m sure not getting any younger.

Back to the present and to the point of this whole story. As I was waiting in line at UCSB to get my book signed by Neil, I was thinking in the back of my head of what I would say. Because every fan longs for the Meaningful Encounter; the quick exchange where you don’t just babble nonsensically about how much you love their work, but instead have some moment, however brief, of genuine conversation and connection. I’m smart enough to know that all fans want this to happen, and cynical enough to know that it pretty much never happens. When you have creators with a level of nova-like fame such as Neil Gaiman, the truth is that you’re only going to be one of many, many faces in a crowd and there’s little to nothing that he hasn’t already heard. But nonetheless, whether the interaction is remembered or not, any fan hopes that they’ll make some sort of personable comment that will go beyond mindless gushing praise, or, at worst, something completely incoherent.

So all the same, I resolved that I wanted to thank him, and even though he’s heard it hundreds of thousands of times, add my voice to the chorus that has said “your work has meant something to me. In its own small way, it has played a part in shaping my life.” So after about 45 minutes of waiting, it was my turn, and I could feel my wife’s eyes on me—I’m pretty sure she was silently praying that I wouldn’t make a total idiot of myself. Neil looked up, made quick eye contact and smiled, made a comment about how he doesn’t see this particular rare book very often anymore (which of course delighted me to no end—that’s right, Neil; I’m a true fan), and then he began drawing a nice little sketch in addition to the inscription. As he drew, I mentioned to him that his first Comic-Con and my first Comic-Con were the same one, and he recognized the year as having been 1989. I told him how I had a pretty funny photo of us from that time, and then quickly related how I had discovered his writing with Sandman #4 and had followed his work ever since. With literally hundreds of people waiting behind me, feeling the urgency to wrap up the conversation as fast as possible, I ended by simply saying “so all this to say, you’re the author who brought me through adolescence into adulthood, and I just wanted to say thanks.” It was one of those moments where you don’t really know what you’re saying until the words are actually coming out of your mouth.

And Neil stopped his drawing mid-stroke, looked up at me with a look of genuine pleasure (even mild astonishment, I think), offered his hand and said, “Well, that is absolutely wonderful. Thank you so much for saying that.”

I was completely taken aback. I had somehow stumbled into a Meaningful Encounter—I had managed to say what I wanted to say, and he had sincerely appreciated it. He finished his drawing and his signature, shook my hand again, and we walked off the stage and out to the parking lot. It wasn’t until we were in the car that I turned to my wife and told her how much that little but meaningful encounter had meant to me. Definitely a moment I’ll remember. I have no illusions that Neil would recall it, but nonetheless, it was a genuine, brief connection.

So thanks again, Neil. Your work did indeed walk through me through some pretty tumultuous adolescent years, and I love the fact that you’re still creating fiction that moves and inspires me.