INT. CONTROL ROOM – DIM

A series of panels gives the room a somehow surreal, not-quite industrial look. All the instruments and surfaces are covered with clear plastic tarps. BRIAN is bound to a table by plastic wrap. His mouth is covered by the wrap. A SHADOWY FIGURE stands a few feet away.

BRIAN

mmmfff

SHADOWY FIGURE

Oh, you’re awake. Good, we can get started.

The SHADOWY FIGURE pulls a strange cylinder out of his pocket and points it at the ceiling. Its tip glows red and it buzzes, activating dramatic spot lighting that shines down on BRIAN and illuminates a series of photographs. The photos depict young, beautiful girls of approximately high school age.

BRIAN

MMMFFF MUH MMFFF

The SHADOWY FIGURE leans into the light, and we see him clearly for the first time. He’s a handsome man in his forties, with ginger hair and soulless eyes. He’s wearing a thick black apron and elbow-length gloves over an olive shirt and green pants. He raises his right hand and flips the cylindrical object, and we see the gleam of a scalpel just before it cuts BRIAN’s cheek. The SHADOWY FIGURE takes a quick sample of BRIAN’s blood.

BRIAN

MMMMFFFF MMFFMFMFFF

SHADOWY FIGURE

What was that? I’m sorry. I’m very, very sorry. Of course, you can’t talk through the gag. Let me help you with that.

The SHADOWY FIGURE cuts the plastic covering BRIAN’s mouth, cutting BRIAN again in the process.

BRIAN

What the fuck, man? Who the hell ARE you?  What have I ever done to you?

SHADOWY FIGURE

You’re right, you’re right. Please, allow me to introduce myself. I’m THE PASSENGER, and it’s not what you’ve done to me, but what you’ll do to these girls.

BRIAN

I don’t know what you’re talking about, I don’t even KNOW those girls!

THE PASSENGER

You don’t, no. Not yet. But the things you’ll do to them if I let you live... You become a monster, Brian. I can’t let that happen.

BRIAN

What? You can’t know that!

THE PASSENGER

Oh, but I can, Brian. If you don’t believe me... I can show you.

THE PASSENGER raises his sonic scalpel and activates something. The room begins to shake and a light begins to pulse in the center of the console. The entire structure begins to make a noise like a broken vacuum cleaner. We slide away from the pair, out through a pair of doors that reveal we were inside the TARDIS all along.

Yes, that’s right. I dreamed of Dexter Who. What the hell, brain?

I was always so relieved that anyone wants to publish anything I’ve written. In many ways I feel like the biggest challenge hasn’t come yet. Because, if pressed, I would confess that what I’m really scared of is that one day somebody will knock at the door and they’ll have a clipboard. They’ll say, “Mr. Gaiman?” And I’ll say “Yes.” They’ll say, “It says here that you get to make stuff up and get paid for it.” I’ll say, “Yes.” “And it says here that you can do anything you want. You can go and do fantasy and you can do real fiction and you can do TV, films, whatever you want.” And I’ll say, “Yes.” And they say, “Well it’s over. It’s done. We’ve caught up with your game, Sir. You are going to have to go and get a real job. And work normal hours.”

Yes, Mr. Croup and Mr. Vandemar show up and they say “It’s over. You are now going to have to get a real job.” I will have gone to that point, seemingly expecting that this writing thing would go on for ages. I’d then think, “Well, it’s a fair cop.” I would go off and have to get a real job and get up the morning and wear a suit. I suppose I’d secretly make some things up in my head for myself before I went to bed at night, or before I go to sleep anyway lying in bed, sort of making up little stories. But I’d never be able to tell anybody. That’s the thing I’m scared of.

I mean, I know these fears are fairly universal, but it’s somehow comforting to see someone like Neil articulate them.

You can also read the full interview.

Oh, and go read the Graveyard Book. It’s wonderful.

I’m Going to Suck

First thing you need to know? I’m a shy and insecure person. I’m not nearly as bad as I used to be, but I am. I have never really been able to fully invest myself in anything I’ve done creatively, because I always have the little voice in the back of my head… They’re going to laugh at you. Nobody will like it. Even now, every time I send off a draft to my editors, he’s there… This is it. This is the one. They’re going to read this and you’re going to get an email that says “whoops, we made a huge mistake. I’m not sure why we even hired you in the first place.” I stress out and live in fear of people thinking my work sucks and, by extension, so do I.

Fuck that.

Everything I do isn’t going to be gold, and I have to be OK with that. But just because I produce something that sucks once doesn’t invalidate the other things I’ve done or the potential I have to produce something amazing in the future. Honestly, I think getting the suck out now might even raise my chances of producing that amazing thing.

I’m a Writer

Someone asked me what I did the other day, and I told them the truth as I see it.

“I’m a writer, and a web designer,” I said.

“Oh,” he said, “anything I might have read?”

“Probably not,” I shrugged. “All of my actual published work is in tabletop RPGs.”

“Oooh. I thought you meant a real writer.”

Yeah. And again, fuck that. I don’t need validation from anyone to know that I’m a writer. I’d be a writer even if I didn’t have a pretty regular gig doing it. I write. As melodramatic as it sounds, I couldn’t survive without writing. Without it, I wouldn’t be whole. I’m proud of my work for White Wolf. I love role-playing games, and I love that I get to take part in shaping and building a world I’ve been immersed in for over half my life. I will never be ashamed of that.

That guy who basically said I wasn’t a “real” writer? He didn’t mean to insult me. He was surprised that it annoyed me.

Pretension

Society frowns on the kind of earnest and thoughtful intensity that creates its most enduring, beautiful works. It’s interesting, because it’s almost like a kind of institutionalized discrimination. People who try are weird. Pretentious. Even when you make it, even when you earn society’s “acceptance” of your weirdness, you’re separate. Celebrity is, in a sense, another kind of segregation. It’s still a matter of us and them.

Pretension is such a dirty word. Except all writing is pretense. Everything worth doing is pretentious. You’re damn right I have aspirations “above my station.” You’re damn right I’m going to stretch and reach for things.

And I may miss. I may fall off the ladder I’ve built for myself. But that’s just an opportunity to stabilize the foundations and build it higher before I climb back up.

I’m done apologizing for that.