I Touched Neil Gaiman in a Professional Capacity…and I liked it. February 24, 2010

In my latest and most daring foray into faking a career as a freelancer, I got to cover Neil Gaiman’s recent reading for my local paper. Which meant that I attended the event, took notes, asked a question during the Q&A session, and afterwards, proceeded to shake his hand and take his picture for the paper.

Let’s review that, shall we?

I’ve seen Mr. Gaiman read on numerous occasion. From the time I was in high school, several times throughout college, and now as a recent grad. His work…well, it really doesn’t need any description, does it? It’s lyrical and painful and perfect, and it’s got me through some tough times with honesty, laughter, and joy. The man’s a rock star, there’s no denying that, and as a fan, it’s always a pleasure to go to an event.

 Now obviously Neil Gaiman, while having met me several times at these said events, has also meet hundreds and thousands and probably millions of others. I have no illusions about sticking out in his memory. I try to be polite and brief, understanding that his time is more valuable than the entire sum of my life thus far. He’s written my name twice in the covers of two different books at signings, and we’ve chatted about weather and my unusal middle name. But this is the first time I was able to meet him without a line of rabid fangirls dressed as Death standing behind me. I spoke to the bookstore owner putting on the event, who introduced me to his publicist, Elise, who then introduced me to Neil.

It has been said, in the past, that I am, at heart, an Englishwoman, born by some cosmic glitch in America. As a firm believer in the relative awesomeness of the US, social problems notwithstanding, I used to scoff at this notion. As I sipped my Lady Grey tea and daydreamed about how I can get back to the UK as soon as possible. The truth, it hurst sometimes. It’s a facet of my personality that I fully embrace now, like wavy hair or my inability to finish the first Twilight book. A touch inconvenient, perhaps, but it’s who I am. I say all this because in my entire covertly British life, I have never been more English than when I touched Neil Gaiman.

No, I didn’t spontaneously develop an accent. No, I did not magically garner an appreciation for the Beatles. But at the moment of contact, I tapped into that perfectly self-depricating, reserved, calm resevoir of emotions that only the English can express. He posed for the picture. I snapped a shot. I thanked him. He smiled. Smooth, confident, professional.

Then, of course, once he was out of ear shot, I proceeded to freak out like the fangirl I am, but for that moment: Halfpenny, freelance reporter and Englishwoman, existed on the same stage as Neil Gaiman. And that’s pretty cool.
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