I finished Neil Gaiman’s latest novel last night, in my second sitting with it. It was that kind of book, right from the start. Grabbed me, pulled me in, wrung me out, and didn’t let me go until it was done with me. I fell asleep afterward, my head filled with rags and worms and an endless tugging ocean.
He wrote it for his wife, and it feels like he wrote it for writers, for all of us, and with so much love.
I want to write like that, of course. I woke up this morning and wrote another 1300 words in my novel and they were nothing like that.
I read today that the Ocean’s signing tour is Gaiman’s last.
I am unspeakably sad about it. Right now, with the Ocean still flowing through me its current tugging longing to dissolve me… I’m ready to drop everything and head to California, just so I can meet him before he turns recluse. Alas, odds are that I never will have that honor. I’ll have to settle for video:
It’s good video. Good advice. Go do things. Read a lot. Lose your heart. Write. Write. Write.
“All writers have this vague hope that the elves will come in the night and finish things for you… They never do… You put one word after another like putting bricks in the wall…” or drops in an ocean…