The Tower

Dec. 3rd, 2006 11:48 pm
fictional: (full face)
Today, after several grueling hours at the CCNY library [overly heated and I had to stamp the books out to myself!] I had a very odd experience.

I was carrying a Herculean load of books. Like, really, I looked like one of those little nerdkids, carrying the enormous backpack bigger than themselves, and bowed over from the weight of it. Anyway, I manhandled myself into the subway station at 137th street, and perched on the bench and dove thankfully into my book to await the train.

I was reading The Wastelands, which for those of you who don't know, is Volume 3 in The Dark Tower series by Stephen King. I've only ever read this series once before - it took me a long time to give it a try, since Stephen King is not generally my cup of tea, but D. convinced me (by gifting me with the first three and engaging in a lot of enthusiastic bargaining) to give them a try. So I did - and then I lost a week to Roland, and his quest to keep the Tower from falling. I swallowed those books as fast as humanly possible, and it was a book-journey the likes of which I've never had. And by the end, which I won't spoil, I actually hated D. a little, and Mr. King, well, him I hated a whole lot. Because it was agonizing and true and frightening, and I've never screamed in anguish when I finished a book before, but I certainly did that day.

So I couldn't exactly say that I liked The Dark Tower, but it certainly made an impression. And I've been wanting to read them again. Because though flawed, they were Great Stories, and as much as I hated them, I loved them too.

I mean, how could I not? They're books about stories, and how we are all part of the stories, how they are real, how reality is a story, and well, Jake pretty well sums it up when he says, "There are other worlds than these."

ANYway, so today I'm sitting in the subway station, reading, and then I hear someone say something. I look up, and it's a gang of, well, thugs. And these weren't the little babythugs that you usually run into on the train, all young and pretending to be bad ass. They were menacing, the real deal; I've been riding the subway a long time, and I don't menace easily.

I look out of the corner of my eye to see if there's anyone else they could have been talking to, but no joy - subway station completely empty. I gulp. Meanwhile they're approaching closer and closer, like, far into my personal space, eying me, and my book, and I'm freaking out just a little here.

"You like to read, huh?" one of them says, for what is obviously not the first time, only I hadn't quite heard it before because I was so deep in the book, and oh, god, I think, I've heard this one a million times [Annoying Sexual Harasser: "you like to read, huh, baby? well, why don't you come over here and read THIS!" Me: "Sorry, I don't like to read short books."] but I've never been so petrified while it was happening before.

"Uh...yeah," I say.

"Don't let the Tower fall," he says, sort of abruptly. The rest of the guys look puzzled.

"Uh...I won't," I say, foolishly, because now I really don't know what to make of what's happening, except I am conscious of a huge wave of relief.

They all move away, and then we can hear the sounds of the train about to pull into the station. The guy says to me, "January," [which is when the Dark Tower graphic novel comes out] and I said, "Yeah!" and I smile, for the first time. He doesn't smile back, and he and his thugs get into a different car.

It was maybe the most laconic and weird fannish conversation I've ever had.



I'm posting this instead of thinking about posting it, so it must be finals.
fictional: (full face)
So, it's been a while...

But I just had to post tonight. [livejournal.com profile] hofnarr, [livejournal.com profile] magnetgirl, [livejournal.com profile] farisnallaneen and I went to the Neil Gaiman event at FIT - he was being interviewed by John Hodgman from the Daily Show...and it was seriously awesome. Even John Hodgman, who is (and was this evening) incredibly hilarious, dropped his persona for quite a while, and instead just seemed touched and moved and fannishly awestruck like the rest of us. Despite the preponderence of some of the scary!fans [which included the remnants of one of the bands at my high school - called Lack Thereof, and rightfully so!], it was really lovely. Like really lovely. I'm not usually fangirly about real people - more about fictional ones. But with a writer, especially one that I've been following for so long - it feels different. Personal. Somehow those dimly lit 3 o'clocks of the morning filled with the Endless, the tears at The Kindly Ones and the Wake; enspelled by Neverwhere, being enchanted by Stardust and finding for the first time, the magic of America in American Gods, the way his novels always seemed to magically mirror shifts in my own personal aesthetics; his language, and the stories, above all the stories - without a doubt, I think, he is the writer I would most like to be like, beautiful and witty and fey all at the same time.

I know him, not in the way of a friend or a lover or a real person, but in the way that stories meet and collide in some Elsewhere, I know him. And I think he knows me too. And maybe you as well, if you've read the stories, and they mean something to you. I always thought he must understand, and then I read Anansi Boys and I knew for sure - because the dedication reads: "You know how it is, you pick up a book, flip to the dedication, and find that, once again, the author has dedicated a book to someone else and not to you. Not this time. Because we haven't yet met/have only a glancing accquaintance/are just crazy about each other/haven't seen each other in much too long/ are in some way related/ will never meet, but will, I trust, despite that, always think fondly of each other...This one's for you. With you know what, and you probably know why."

Cheap, they might say. But they wouldn't have been there, that day, where he was, and I was, and Edie was [and about 1000 other fans - he didn't leave that day till he talked to every one.] That day, the very last time I was in the World Trade Center - the first time I met him, if you can call it that. I remember going up to meet him, and seriously thinking my heart might explode, it was pounding so hard. Edie was with me, and held my hand, and I did not burst. But I got up there and handed him the little post-it with my name on it, and he looked at it, and said, "Kali? I put you into American Gods," and smiled. And I gibbered, and choked out something maudlin, about his stories and how they got me through nights that I thought would never end, and he smiled again and said they did the same for him.

I got a copy of Neverwhere signed for Daniel too, I remember - and then much later, last summer in fact, Daniel gave me the best present ever - from his second road odyssey - a ticket from the House on the Rock, signed to me by Neil. Those who call that dedication a stunt, wouldn't have been there on that day either, when Daniel got that ticket signed, and told him it was for me, and re-told him the story about that day in the WTC Borders, and he stopped, and added three kisses to the bottom of his signature for me. I'm looking at it now, and it still makes me shiver.

And they wouldn't have been there today either, when he changed my opinion about his poetry, which I used to think was quite terrible, but today was actually charmed by, and when he signed the copy of Fragile Things that Daniel and I bought together to both of us, and smiled when I told him we'd been sending signed things of his across the country for years, and now finally we could get one signed together in the same place. And he stopped signing, and took my hand and did not let go for several incredibly long moments when I said that I had nothing clever on offer, so all I could say was thank you. And we looked in the book, and it had a little message - "Fragile wishes" [everyone else just got butterflies].

And hey, when asked the inevitable question about fanfiction, he said, go thou, and write with my blessing - but he had to say that his mind was not meant to encompass such things as the RPS fic about him and Terry Pratchett. He suggested instead that we "go back to making the nice boys in Harry Potter mate," to which I say, thank you, Neil. And I will.

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