The author at the end of the line

(Warning: very long and possibly not very interesting story ahead about inspiration and appreciation, plus a book recommendation.)

I do not consider myself a fangirl. There are actors, writers and musicians who I respect as human beings and whose work has moved me or made my life better when nothing else did, but I don't usually find myself lining up with anticipation to meet them. Our lives are separate and that's the way it should be. Sometimes, though, you have to make an exception.

I sat on the floor of a bookstore for nine hours to meet this man.

More than that, one week earlier, I got up at 4:55 am so that I could ride into town to catch a bus to Denver, where I would sit on the floor for two hours just to buy the new book that came with a numbered ticket that said I could meet him. I rarely buy new books and, even more rarely, hardcovers. And I don't do mornings.

A lifetime ago, a housemate introduced me to Neil Gaiman's work through American Gods and Good Omens. I later picked up both for myself and they've lived for years, on and off, at my bedside. The latter, co-written with Terry Pratchett, is the only book I willingly reread at any time. I keep certain pages of dialogue tucked away in my mind for amusement.

Neil is prolific and I have seen his films and television programs (best, saddest, most beautiful Doctor Who episode I've seen), read his children's books, adult short stories and poems and even got to hear the radio play of Neverwhere, which was fantastic. Had I read Neverwhere before I got to London, my view of the city would have been very different. I find it incredibly easy to slip into the worlds he builds and tend to linger there as long as I can. What cemented my regard for him, though, wasn't his own work, but this spring's online, collaborative effort that was A Calendar of Tales. It was, underneath, a promotional scheme for BlackBerry, but I think for most of us it was a rare opportunity to work, virtually, with someone we admired. For me, it was also a way back to something I thought I'd lost.

While I was still in school, I thought I might be a writer and an artist. When classes ended, I left both of those paths behind and stumbled into reality. I'd long given up on finding my way back. The only writing I do these days ends up on this screen and the only art comes in the form of an occasional Halloween costume or the photos on this blog. The calendar project gave me a gentle shove in the direction of those paths I had abandoned.

In the course of a day, Neil sent out twelve questions via Twitter and thousands of people answered. Twelve of the responses became the germs of the stories that he would write over the next few days. I attempted ten of them. My answers didn't result in any stories, but I didn't care because I'd gotten a chance to engage a part of my brain that's dormant at least forty hours a week. I had to think of ideas and these led me to still more ideas and reading other people's responses was just as much fun.

The second request was more difficult. We had inspired Neil to create stories and now he wanted his stories to inspire works of art to illustrate them. I psyched myself out for weeks. The stories themselves were at turns funny, thoughtful, exciting and all distinctly Neil's, but I didn't even know where to start. Watching other submissions arrive online, I was further discouraged. Many people had taken a great deal of time and care in their work and it showed. I flipped through some of my recent photos and eventually settled on one that seemed appropriate for January's tale. After a few minutes of resizing and cropping, I sent it in.

Two weeks later I received an email that said "Your art has been shortlisted for Neil Gaiman's January Tale." My first response was "No (insert appropriate expletive) way." My second response was guilt. Other people had clearly put in way more effort than I had. This was just a photo taken on a gloomy day in Paris. I felt like I had cheated by not creating something brand new. Still, I was a little giddy, so I wandered down the hall to share my news with a friend. When I expressed my misgivings about the photo and its value, she stated that I had understood what Neil was looking for and his selecting it confirmed that. He liked it, why couldn't I? Kathryn's smart that way.

My photo didn't make the final cut for A Calendar of Tales, but I didn't mind. Someone saw something that I made and liked it. Neil reminded me of possibilities. It doesn't mean that I've suddenly taken out all the paints and pencils and gone on a creative tear. I think I've managed just one drawing and that was only last week. But ideas are slowly creeping in and, for the first time in years,  I can see things in my mind that could one day find their way out into the world. That was the reason I got in line with one thousand other people on a Tuesday in Denver. I wanted to say thank you.

I would have been number 73 in the signing line, but I swapped my ticket with that of the young man sitting next to me who needed to leave early. I took number 200 because I wasn't quite ready for the day to be over, plus I'm an incoherent mess when it comes to talking to people I'm meeting for the first time, especially with time constraints and the knowledge that I will likely never get to do it again. That self-awareness led me to scribble anything I had to say on the back of two photographs the night before and, when I finally reached the signing table, I handed them over as quickly as I could after the initial hello. One was a print of my submission for A Calendar of Tales. He recognized it and remembered it. Among the hundreds of images he poured over months ago, he remembered mine. That meant more to me than a signature in a book ever could.

It hardly seems like a fair exchange. He's given me, in his work, new ways to look at the world around me and worlds to escape to when that's not enough. And this year he unknowingly helped me find the place where my ideas have been hiding and encouraged me to quiet some of the self-doubt that keeps me from acting on them. All I had to offer him was two photos and a jar of honey and a hug that I passed on from his wife (another story for another day). When I do at last sit down with some paint or a pencil or pen, I'll let him know. I think I owe him that.

One last thing. This was a book tour and there is a new book. The Ocean at the End of the Lane is not a long book, less than a third of the length of American Gods. In the midst of my first read, I had to admit I was slightly underwhelmed. I was about two thirds of the way through the book, and all I could think was, "Well, it's a nice story, but there's nothing terribly special about it." I'm not sure how many more pages I read before the immensity of it all came crashing down on me. I had to pause to let it all sink in. It's even more affecting if you know the story's origin.

The book may be thin, but its tale is dense. It will sneak up on you. You can enjoy it as a straight forward story of a boy battling otherworldly monsters, but I'd be surprised if it didn't stir up some memories that you didn't even know you had. There's far more happening in there than the words on the page would lead you to believe.

If you were once a child, you should read this book. If you've ever wondered about the blank spaces on the map of your childhood that you carry around with you, this book is for you.

Thank you, Neil.

F*%k it

I was wrong. I'm not going to sit down for hours and try to piece together memories and images of things that occurred six months ago, a full solstice before this current one. Not even under the threat of not being allowed to post anything else until I'm done. London, city that I fell in love with, will have to wait. Last glimpses of Paris and the bears of Berne will emerge when I get a chance. All related posts will show up on the right in a Euro 2012 list for convenience.

In the meantime, life is still happening. Seasons are coming and going. Opportunities to connect with people and see still more places in the world are arriving every day. There isn't a pause button.

Yesterday I finally got this family to sit still long enough for their sunset portrait. This afternoon, the nest was empty. I sat in the gravel for twenty minutes spotting and then watching two of the four fledglings nearby. One flapped around on the ground till he got enough momentum to fling himself onto someone's bike frame. I left him wobbling on the handle bar. Yesterday a nestling, today a fledgling. No pause button. Let's just push play and see what happens.

A walk in the park (Paris)

When I was on a week-long trip to France as a high school student, I broke the buddy-system rule and went off on my own on our last day, armed only with a camera loaded with black and white film. I found my way to the Jardin du Luxembourg that afternoon and tried to record the oldness of it all. I was fascinated.

Returning two decades later, I could see many parts of the city had undergone noticeable changes, but the parks remained virtually the same. The paths, the trees, the statues, they were all right where I'd left them. I wandered for hours between leafless trees, no longer worried about cutting my day short to meet up with my classmates. I revisited old friends and discovered some new secrets that I'd missed before.

Ah, the romance of death. Such a strong attraction in the teen years.

This is new. I have no explanation for this.

I feel like I've known this lion and its twin for most of my life.

I never knew there was an orchard tucked away in the far corner of the park. Away from the eyes of tourists, they grow six hundred kinds of espaliered fruits, including these persimmons. And they keep bees. So many things to learn, if you have the time.

The parks in Paris are ageless in my eyes. Moss blankets the north-facing sides of statues, crows strut past empty benches in search of leftover baguette, pensioners walk arm in arm with little dogs in tow. While I understand change is inevitable, I'm glad this little part of the world has managed to stay intact a little while longer.

Science is cool (Paris, part 3d)

The nice thing about being stuck with a typically grey and rainy day in Paris is the option of ducking into yet another museum, staying dry and earning some culture points at the same time. Mildly overwhelmed with art, I selected something from the other end of the spectrum.

The Musée des Arts et Métiers translates as Arts and Industry, but I like to think of it as a pleasant mix of design, innovation and science. Exhibit names like Scientific Instruments, Materials, Energy and Transport might sound a little dry, but I thought many of the items displayed had their own charm and some were simply lovely to look at.

I found snake no. 12 in the "glass" section of Matériaux

Then there were the displays that just made me feel a little old. The history of communication section was especially harsh. I don't really want things I used as a child, high school student or college student in the "antiques" section!

We collected télécartes in college. In addition to allowing us the only means of direct contact with friends and family while we were overseas, they often had clever designs or advertisements. Now they're in a museum. Oh, well.

Housed in the adjoining church is Foucault's pendulum. And more planes. And a race car.

The real motivation for my visit that damp Wednesday afternoon was determined by my ancient Let's Go: France guide while my trip was still in the planning stages. "Théâtre des automates." Potentially creepy, mechanical figures that were animated for the public twice a month? How could I not go?

Someone's nightmare monkey

I was unable to record the monkey and the clown in their dark, little room, but I did capture a bit of a music box on the way out. It uses a rotating disc similar to a player piano roll and reminded by of the nicest kind of carousel.

There's still beauty there

Paris is known as the city of lights and love. Films, novels and songs build up ridiculously romantic expectations and I imagine there will always be tourists who arrive expecting to step onto the set of Amélie. Actually, you can go have your crème brûlée the Café des Deux Moulins, so I guess that's not a very good example, but on this last visit I saw more of another side of Paris, the side that the tourist bureau would probably prefer to sweep under the rug.

Walking home to my rented apartment each night, I passed by families in shop doorways who would spend the long winter night there until the shops opened again the next day. Shelter, usually for a woman and often one with kids, consisted of cardboard, plastic sheeting and blankets. On the rainy sidewalks of the Champs-Élysées, women wrapped in scarves lay prostrate with coin cups in front of them. Most startling was the night I stumbled upon the soup line that wraps itself around the Église Saint-Eustache. As I kept walking past the giant construction pit that is Les Halles, I wondered what event at the church could draw such a crowd so late in the day. Curiosity got the better of me and I circled back around and saw what they were waiting for: dinner for the night and a bagged lunch for the next day. There were young, immigrant men, pensioners and families in line, probably just under one hundred people at that moment.  I learned later that La Soupe de St Eustache serves over 200 meals a night during the winter months.

Sights like these were common, but no less sobering for it. Whether they were seasoned scammers (and there were plenty of those), refugees from some place worse, or victims of a failing economy, they were people first and I took no photos. These were not memories that most people would want to take home from their vacation, but they were part of the city, too, and they affected how I looked at it for the rest of the week.

I prefer the non-Disneyfied version of a place, so I'm glad I got to see the whole city this time, rough edges and all.

Getting on with it

 

I said I would get the Christmas trees posted before spring. I lied. As a life-long procrastinator, this was a piece of cake. Just put your guilt in a box, make up as many excuses as possible and just never get around to it. Cake.

But eventually the things left undone crawl out of the box, get a whole lot bigger and become a lovely psychological road block between me and the present. That's just how it works. Spring posts are going nowhere till I finish with the Christmas trees. So that's what I'm going to do. One a day till I dig my way out to the garden and sunshine and now. Tomorrow, it's back to Paris.

This is the song that doesn't end...

I wore short sleeves yesterday, honest. But that is a damned fine looking tree. I'll let the white stuff go, just this one last time.