An Evening with Neil Gaiman

My wife knows me well. For Christmas last year, she got us two tickets for An Evening With Neil Gaiman at the Palace Theatre in downtown Columbus. That was the good news. The bad news was The Evening wasn’t happening until May 18 – five whole months away.

I don’t like waiting.

On his website, Neil wrote he was excited to resume his Evenings with all his fans. Those performances were a regular part of his year until Covid hit and put everyone’s lives on a two-year hiatus. He was just as excited to see us, it seemed, as we were to see him, and that was a pleasant thought.

New Years gave way to Valentines and Mother’s Day, and my excitement grew.

“Five weeks to go!” I told everyone.

“It’s next month!”

“This is the month!”

“Guys, it’s next week!”

“Tomorrow’s the BIG DAY!”

I tried really hard not to fan-boy geek myself out, but I couldn’t help it. I came to Gaiman’s stories later in my life. Sure, I knew about Stardust (the movie) from back in 2007 and Coraline (the movie) a couple years later. But I wasn’t into Gaiman back then and didn’t realize those were his books. I really liked Stardust with Claire Danes and Robert DeNiro and Michelle Pfeiffer. Coraline…? Not so much. It just looked weird. That was the point, I know, but I didn’t know that back then.

About a decade ago, I discovered Neil Gaiman the author, mostly because all the writer people I know wouldn’t shut up talking about him. So I picked up Ocean at the End of the Lane. And then I picked up Neverwhere. And then I picked up Good Omens and Anansi Boys and The Graveyard Book and American Gods and Art Matters and, yes, even Coraline. And then I took his Master Class. All the writer people I knew were right about not shutting up about him and I marveled how I had never come across all this great stuff before.

Columbus is only about an hour from my house, but I took two days off work anyway. The day of because I was just too excited to head into the office, obviously. And the day after because, originally, we had planned to stay the night in Columbus and drive back home the next morning. That part of the trip – the staying the night part – didn’t work out for several reasons. But that was okay. The event didn’t go as late as I had thought, so we got back home at a reasonable hour, and I still had the next day off work.

We arrived at 6PM and stood in line waiting for the theatre doors to open. I got the time wrong and thought it started at 7:00. It didn’t start until 7:30, and the ushers refused to open the doors until 6:30. I know, right? Pffft. Freaking gestapo. They’re lucky we didn’t rush the doors and bust the windows. But we are Gaiman fans, patient and civilized. This wasn’t a MAGA rally.

We had lots of time, and that was perfectly okay. I had never been to the Palace before, and it gave us a chance to walk around and see the place. We also had time to buy autographed Gaimandise. I picked up a copy of Ocean at the End of the Lane. I asked if they had Neverwhere, which is my absolute favorite of all time Neil Gaiman story. “They’re all in the back,” the cashier told me. “Mister Gaiman is signing them right now, and they’ll be available after the show.”

Did I mention I don’t like waiting? Mumble grumble groan fine okay whatever.

The Palace holds just under three thousand people. We had our tickets, and I wasn’t in a rush to go sit down. We wandered the basement and saw autographed posters on the walls, people who had played the Palace: Sammy Davis, Jr., Anne Murray, John Denver, Jay Leno, others I had never heard of. We visited the restrooms, bought overpriced bottles of water, stared at the chandeliers and architecture, and wondered how plaster could just peel off the ceiling like that.

Finally, we wandered into the auditorium and found our seats, left of the stage, and a mere seven rows back! “You did good, babe!” I told my wife. These were great seats. There was a giant balcony behind us. There were several sections of box seats looking down over the stage. I thought it would be cool to sit up there, then recalled something about Abraham Lincoln dying in one of those. And didn’t those two grumpy old guys heckle The Muppets from those seats?

I spotted a familiar face as I looked around the theatre.

Could that be…?

Yes, I think it is…

Is she with…?

Ohmygawdohmygawdohmygawd it is it is it is! Eeeeek!

I leaned over and told Wendy I’d be right back. I left my seat and cut across the middle section and walked up to John and Krissy Scalzi, both seated in the next section over. John Scalzi is another one of my favorite authors. I first discovered his novel, Fuzzy Nation, and then Old Man’s War and Redshirts. I also follow his articles on his website whatever.scalzi.com. I was trying really hard not to geek out, but it was hard. My heart was thundering. I smiled and tried to sound friendly as I said, “I thought that was John and Krissy over here!” I hoped I didn’t sound like an idiot. “I just wanted to stop over and say hello. I’m a big fan.” I don’t know if it was working. They smiled back and thanked me and said that was very kind. You know, the way you talk to a barking dog and stall for time while you look for the highest object to climb. In my head I kept hearing, Get a picture, get a picture, get a picture. But I thought that would be really weird. Just be cool. Act like a respectful adult. He’s just a guy, bro! So I didn’t ask for a picture. I didn’t even shake hands (Covid protocols, you know, grrr). I just said I hope they have a great night, and then I walked back to my seat. At least I think I walked. I must have. I don’t remember actually how I got back to my seat. But I didn’t fall down, and I didn’t injure anyone on the way back, so that was good.

Wendy asked who that was, and I told her. Then I cringed. It hadn’t even occurred to me to take her with me and just introduce ourselves. I didn’t even tell him my name! Maaaan! I really didn’t want to freak them out or embarrass them or anything. But I got to see two authors for the price of one that night! And I actually got to say hello to Scalzi. It’s still debatable who I was more excited to see that night, Neil or John. I just hope John and Krissy aren’t eating dinner somewhere going, “Who was that weird guy at the Palace?”

The announcer came on and introduced Neil Gaiman. Neil walked to the podium and the lights died down. No flash photography allowed inside the theatre. I tried snapping a picture with my phone, but the lighting was poor. I didn’t capture Neil at all, but I DID catch a stalker sneaking behind the curtains to get a backstage booty pic of Neil! Lemonade from lemons, that picture, and at least a thousand words behind whatever story that is.

Neil intermingled answering questions from the audience (previously submitted, he told us) and reading poetry and short stories. He talked about writing. He talked about filming Good Omens. Someone asked about writer’s block. Neil made fun of writer’s block, said it was a concept that writers developed to blame the Writing Gods for their inability to get work done. “I can’t write now, I have writer’s block,” they tell people, and said people usually tsk and nod as if they understand completely. Neil said he prefers to think of it simply as getting stuck. “I can’t write now, I’m stuck.” This puts ownership back on the writer, who then must come up with a way of getting the story unstuck.

The most insightful question of the evening, at least for me, was this one: How do I write a story that people will want to read? Answer from Neil: You write a story that you want to read, because you are also people. He went on to explain that you are not alone in the world. There are other people just like you out there. They want to hear from you, because what you have to say helps them feel not so alone in the world.

I thought that was lovely.

Neil Gaiman has an amazing voice for storytelling, and the stories he read were wonderful: Chivalry, Professor Bananas, Click Clack the Rattle Bag, Watching from the Shadows (a poem about Batman), What You Need to Be Warm, I Will Write in Words of Fire.

We could have listened to that rich British accent speak to us all night, but all good things must come to an end. After about ninety minutes, Neil read his last story and wished us all good night and we clapped him off the stage.

Wendy and I rushed out to the lobby to snag a signed copy of Neverwhere before we left. It was shoulder-to-shoulder as we waded through all the people and pushed our way to the counter. “Have the copies of Neverwhere come out from the back yet?” I asked the cashier. He nodded, then informed me they were all sold out. I sighed and we left the theatre without my signed copy of Neverwhere. I have Ocean at the End of the Lane though. I have my memories of the evening and saying hello to John Scalzi. I also have a washed-out photo of Neil Gaiman’s face. And somewhere in Ohio, one brave girl and her friends are passing around her cell phone, giggling uncontrollably as they take turns zooming in on Neil Gaiman’s butt.