Sitting in a Madison WI sushi restaurant this evening, I started writing the new Neverwhere novella, HOW THE MARQUIS GOT HIS COAT BACK, in a blank book for writing in that some nice person gave me at some point. It was not a happy experience, as the book turned out to be shi-shi enough to have little bits of flower petal in the paper, which might be okay if you're writing down your dreams in a thick felt pen, but which combine with a scritchy fountain pen to render the whole thing more or less illegible from the off. Which is rather irritating. I may see ifI can find a thicker-nibbed fountain pen and darker ink. Meanwhile, I have learned all about how many pockets the marquis has in coat, and about the things that got lost in them...
Argh. How frustrating to know that I live so near this terribly cool person, whose writing I greatly admire, and that I will probably never actually know him as anything more than words on a page or screen. I am but one Neil Gaiman fan in a world full of Neil Gaiman fans. Sure, I could meet him. (Well, actually I have met him.) However, I feel way too "stalker fan" about making an effort to get to know him. I certainly will not be hanging out at the court house this week. If we are meant to met, it will happen naturally. The same thing goes for Dar Williams and all the other "famous people" that I'd love to know personally. I guess I'll just have to get famous myself. All famous people know each other, right? &;t:snicker>
On the other hand....a new Neverwhere story! WOOOOO!
