Let me preface this by saying that my heart goes out to a lot of people right now regarding the Vulture piece about Neil Gaiman. Primarily it goes out to the women who were taken advantage of and hurt by him in truly malicious ways, and whose stories are now finally coming to light. It also goes out to all his fans who found something beautiful and uplifting in his work, and who now feel like fools. I can only hope they remember that they are not fools for believing a carefully crafted persona, and that it’s okay to value the good they received from his work.

As me for, I am not distraught over this news. Horrified, yes. Appalled that he used his fame as a tool to collect women and manipulate them into some barbaric sex. I won’t call it BDSM because true BDSM is always consensual and negotiated every time; Gaiman, on the other hand, took ruthless advantage of vulnerable women to live out his fantasies. Unfortunately he’s not the first writer to do this, or even the first writer to do this while claiming to be a feminist (looking at you, Joss Whedon).

But that’s not why I’m not distraught. The thing is, I never enjoyed his work. And please believe me when I say I’m not trying to come off as some kind of, “HA-ha! I KNEW he was scum!” scold. As a writer I fully acknowledge his skill and artistry. The man possesses an astonishing talent, and his sheer amount of published work and the fanbase he accumulated demonstrates that.

But what he wrote didn’t appeal to me, I found Stardust to be dreary, had a hell of a time getting through American Gods, and DNFed Anansi Boys and The Ocean at the End of the Lane (we’ll come back to that in a bit). As for the comics, I only read The Sandman: Dream Country recently after watching S1 of the series, and “Calliope”—brr.

Basically, it comes down to an issue of taste. I don’t care for artistically grim stories, even if they do have moments of transcendent beauty. That being said, I don’t like disparaging other people’s favorites so I kept quiet when people recommended him to me or raved about their favorite Gaiman novel or comic book. Oddly enough, I adored the TV series Lucifer. But that was so far removed from its source material that the only thing it shared with the character from Sandman was a name and an origin story.

So, not a Gaiman fan but I wasn’t going to yuck other people’s yum. And then I saw that he was doing what was advertised as his last ever signing tour (this was well before COVID). I thought maybe I’d like his work better if I saw him in person, so I bought a ticket that would include a reading by him and a signed and personalized copy of Ocean. The day of the signing was in the middle of a Texas summer, and attendees wound around the Majestic Theater and waited hours in triple digit heat for the doors to open. I had to shut off my phone because it was overheating, it was that bad.

The doors finally opened, and I headed up to my spot in the nosebleed seats, relieved to be in air conditioning again. I will admit to being overheated and a bit grumpy when Gaiman came out on stage, which might color my reaction to his first words. He began his reading by telling the audience that he was dismayed so many people had shown up because it meant he would have to personalize all of our books.

Now, I understand British humor and sarcasm—I am married to an Englishman, after all—but this didn’t come across as humor, or even humour. He was clearly annoyed that after the reading he would have to sit there and sign all our books. As a fellow author I did think, “Buddy, there are writers who would give a kidney to be in your shoes, so maybe show some gratitude to the fans and just shut up? You can pay for a hand massage later.”

After that, he started into a reading of “Fortunately the Milk” and immediately perked up, clearly enjoying the experience of performing for the audience. That’s when something clicked for me. I got up, carefully climbed back down the stairs, and headed to the lobby where tables were stacked with pre-signed copies of Ocean. The woman who handed me my book said earnestly, “Mr. Gaiman will be grateful for this,” when I explained that I was leaving before the signing started. That reinforced my impression that he really didn’t want to do the signing.

As I walked to the car I mulled over what had sent me out of the theater. I did not have the greatest of childhoods, and was raised by someone who wanted all the authority and none of the responsibility of being a parent. And that was the same vibe I got from Gaiman during the reading. He wanted the egoboo of adulation from his fans, but the responsibility that went along with that adulation, such as signing books, was too tedious for words. Maybe other people had different experiences, I don’t know. Maybe he was perfectly charming when you did get in line and have him sign something. But his attitude was a huge turn-off for me and cemented my disinterest in his work from that point onward.

The signed copy of Ocean remained in my car, and I finally threw it out during a cleaning. Some may think it’s horrible that I threw out a signed book instead of donating it or giving it to a fan. All I can say is that I paid for the book and it was my choice of how to dispose of it. After all these recent revelations about Gaiman’s behavior, I think I made the right choice.