Advice from a Nobody

You may have read that I met Neil Gaiman recently. What you don’t know is that I did so by being a ninja.

Neil Gaiman was recently here in the good ol’ Chicago attending the Printers Row Lit Fest and being (get this) honored by the Chicago Tribune as a children’s author. You can bet your sweet grandmother’s medication money that I was there, in the front row… watching Dave Eggers. It was Dave Eggers, how could I not go see Dave Eggers? He’s the man. Besides, Neil Gaiman’s “honoring” was immediately after Dave Eggers and in the same auditorium. As I sat and watched Dave Eggers up on stage doing his nicest guy in the world routine (which he is) an idea occurred to me… I should give Neil Gaiman my comics (left in my bag from S.P.A.C.E.). But how?

Neil Gaiman was no doubt back stage somewhere in a comfortable room where beautiful women fed him fruit and I was determined to find that room. After Dave Eggers’ panel ended I put the black hood of my zip-up sweater over my head and ran past security through the door that took me backstage. I crept the hallways next to the stage like a ninja… a sexy little ninja (because I’m sexy and a ninja). I hid in the shadows, clung to walls, and round house kicked imaginary enemies with Chuck Norris-like grace…

Then security found me.

“I’m supposed to give a message to Mr. Gaiman,” I lied to them in a ninja-like manner, spitting my words out like darts from a blow gun.

“Get the hell outta here,” the large, female, African American security guard told me. She was good at her job and wore her light grey security guard uniform well. A formidable opponent.

I got kicked out of the library. Not literally. No one’s foot met my behind as I exited, but the fact remained, I had failed. Ninja… I was not.

(The imposing Harold Washington Library… Image stolen from here)

I ate lunch, gathered my pride and walked right back into the Harold Washington library. I still had my ticket for Neil Gaiman’s “honoring” and I was able to slip into the auditorium without anyone objecting. The auditorium was a dimly lit – in an almost romantic kinda way - space with these beautiful, wooden, red-brown walls and curtains coming down from the ceiling. The crowd was a unique mix of hipsters, stereotypical nerds (of both the overweight and super skinny varieties) and parents with their young children, all clutching The Graveyard Book in their hands. All of these people went absolutely ape-shit, kids and nerds alike, when Neil took the stage. I’ve always known Neil Gaiman was a big deal, but never did I realize he was some sort of messiah to the masses, young and old alike.

He jabbered a bit, read a bit from The Graveyard Book and answered questions from the crowd. I could go into what he said, but I’m not going to. That’s not what this story is about. If you really want to, you can (supposedly) go listen to it at the Chicago Public Radio website (I have yet to see it show up).

Right as the shindig was winding down I got out of my seat and walked to the far wall near stage right, which was where I saw Dave Eggers exit earlier. With my three issues of Zoir (my Zombie-Detective-Noir comic) I waited for the end. Neil eventually did say goodbye, to monstrous applause, and then exited the stage via stage right, where I was, with a big, white dude in a t-shirt. I waited a moment for a small security guard next to the stage to turn away from the door and then I launched myself through it, finding myself in a large, concrete corridor.

Neil’s footsteps echoed to my right and I saw him going through a set of metal exit doors. I power walked after him, going through the same doors and looking left to see him going around a corner… a corner with a security guard, a woman that was surprisingly similar to the woman who had kicked me out earlier. Playing it cool I walked past her at a normal pace, holding my head up, and pretending as if I didn’t even notice her. I must have been momentarily invisible because she didn’t even look at me. See, I told you I was a ninja!

I turned the corner, walked to the end of the hall and found myself standing behind the one and only Neil Gaiman… And then I froze.

I’ve never had any problem talking to creators I look up to. I’ve never had any problem talking to celebrities. I once met Christina Aguilera in a situation where it seemed, I kid you not, that I had farted (that’s a story for another day) and I was barely phased. Standing behind Neil Gaiman though… shit, I was shaking.

Eventually, in a voice I imagine Jimmy Olsen uses when talking to Mr. Kent, I said, “’scuse me, Mr. Gaiman?”

He turned around and smiled, immediately noticing the comics in my hand. We shook hands, and I was caught off guard by his grasp. It was a good, hardy handshake that I’d expect from a working class Midwestern, not a British born writer.

“I’m a big fan,” I explained, then started to ask, I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind taking some of my comics, but was cut off by him asking, “whose are these?”

Before I could answer him he had gently taken the comics from my hand.

As he examined the comics, my comics, as Neil mother fuckin’ Gaiman thumbed through my comics, I said, “those are mine, I wrote them.”

“Brilliant!” He said with genuine enthusiasm.

We talked momentarily as Neil waited for the elevator. After explaining my books to him I was at a loss for words, and turned into a nervous, fidgeting wreck and then said the only thing that came to mind to say, the one thing I probably shouldn’t have said: “I feel awkward standing here.”

“Isn’t it just awful,” he said smiling and tilting his head.

Bringing the conversation back to my comics he admitted, “You’ll probably never get a reply from me,” which is understandable, and then he said, “but I will read them,” and, you know, I believe him.

Alright, kids, story time is over. Now to look at what I did from a more objective point of view. Basically, I did exactly what I shouldn’t. I broke the rules. Having previously getting kicked out for going where I wasn’t allowed I snuck backstage, followed Neil Gaiman like some sort of creepy, weirdo stalker and then I shoved my comics in his face. The situation ended surprisingly well, but there was a very good chance it could have gone very wrong. By all rights I deserved to get tackled by a team of elite, library security guards and crushed under their weight. Or, if not that, rejected by Neil Gaiman. He could have said, “get the fuck out of my face you bloody loser! Who do you think you are?! Do you know who I am? I’m Neil fucking Gaiman, super star at large…”

But he didn’t say that! The whole ordeal went well. Better than I imagined. So what’s the advice for this, the very first Advice from a Nobody? Well, I have two pieces of advice actually.

First: do whatever you can to get your work into good hands. Keyword there is good. Good as in appropriate. Don’t go to a publisher who exclusively does westerns and hand them your futuristic, sci-fi adventure. I gave Neil Gaiman my comic Zoir, a zombie-detective-noir. It’s kind of bizarre and quirky and has a sense of humor and feel that I would say is similar to the sense of humor and feel found in Neil’s work – from his BBC television series Neverwhere to his recent all ages The Graveyard Book. I feel bad because I didn’t give him Bang, my western with Kieron O’Gorman, but Bang has no resemblance to anything he’s ever done so it simply wouldn’t have made sense.

Second bit of advice: don’t be an asshole. Be as respectful as humanly possible. If you act like you’re — what’s the phrase — “the shit” then you’ll probably be treated like shit. This can be pretty hard since none of us can be objective about ourselves. I’d rather overdo the whole “nice guy” thing and come off as a wuss fanboy than try to act confidently and seem like a jerk-off. And, whatever you do, NEVER follow a creator into the washroom and attempt to bother him as he takes a piss.

Approaching those you look up to and giving them your book, whether you’re hoping for some constructive criticism or expert promotion, is always risky. It’s a gamble. You have to realize that more often than not it won’t work and that, on occasion, it will blow up in your face. I was lucky, I doubled down and didn’t bust, but did I get blackjack? Doubtful. Maybe Neil Gaiman will read my comics, maybe he’ll throw them away, maybe they’ll disappear forever in a bag that Delta Airlines lost on his flight to Toronto… who knows. Regardless of the outcome I’m glad I made the risk and isn’t that what being a creator is about? One giant fucking risk? You put your all into some work and then you put it out there, in all of its naked glory, for all the public to see, exposing yourself to rejection and criticism, risking everything. Or, at the very least, that’s how it feels. You’d think you’d get used to it, but, personally, I haven’t. Hopefully you do.