Originally published in somewhat different form on Facebook, 19 February 2014.
Something I’ve discovered as a professional writer, with my own very small claim to fame:
The folks who come up to me with “a stack” of books to sign are generally not interested in my writing, but in creating items to sell.
Frankly — and here I think I can speak for all writers — I get a lot more satisfaction out of meeting folks who have one or two dog-eared copies of my older books, or a brand-new book they just purchased and clearly haven’t had a chance to read yet. I appreciate it when they talk about specific things they enjoyed, or were even bothered by. The guy with the stack of identical books is going straight home to sign on to E-Bay, and might not even read books at all, for all I know.
A few years ago I met the late Dick Giordano, who, for the benefit of those of you who don’t know, was among other things one of the best Batman artists of all time. He was signing comics at the time, and the line of folks carrying stacks of mylar-bagged comics all the way from their cupped hands to their chins went all the way out the door. I pointed out to the folks first in line that I had no comics with me and got their permission to precede them, so I could say hello to Giordano. I surprised the man by saying I don’t collect signed comics and had none on hand, but I had loved his work since childhood, and wanted to thank him for helping to form my imagination, as I made my living writing science fiction now. He beamed, absolutely beamed. Then I told him he had drawn my favorite Batman story of all time, and he said “Which one?”, and answered even as I did: “There Is No Hope In Crime Alley.” We shared a laugh and I said I’d let him get back to signing. He shook my hand.
Then he had to go back to the next guy on line, who had about two hundred Giordano issues that had to be opened to the splash page and signed, each and every one.
I’d bet money that I was the only person on line that day who had more to say than, “Hello” and “Thank you.”
Giordano died a year or so later
Who do you think got more value out of the encounter? Me, or the guys behind me with fifty issues of DETECTIVE?
Who do you think Dick Giordano remembered with fondness at the end of the day? Me, or the guys behind me with fifty issues of DETECTIVE?
Comment By: Bill Householder
February 19th, 2016 at 2:18 pm
Years ago, I was at Dragon*Con when Ray Bradbury and Harlan Ellison were guests. I’d seen Ellison before and actually had lunch with him during that con. I’d gone through his line, got something signed and thanked him for his kindness and generosity. As I left to go get in the line for Bradbury, I, along with many others, was told that they had just ended the line for Bradbury. Nobody was happy about this, especially those who’d gone to Bradbury’s panel prior and were now denied the opportunity to speak to him. Because that’s all I, and I’m sure some of the others, really wanted to do. Sure I had an old copy of 451 to get signed, but I mainly wanted to thank Ray for the words and the spark to my imagination. From that point on when I see a writer I like, I bring a token something to get signed, but I always tell them how much their work means to me.
Comment By: Craven Sean
February 19th, 2016 at 8:17 pm
So there was a writer that had actually influenced me, and he’d contributed to a magazine I was involved with, and we met. I brought a couple of books of his for autographs because I was under the naive impression that it was complimentary to do so. His tone cooled distinctly when I pulled the books out, he made a reference to ebay, and now I understand what happened. I’ll be honest. My current policy is to avoid people whose work I admire, because Jesus.
Comment By: Glenn Hauman
February 23rd, 2016 at 12:44 am
I knew Dick for many years, had many pages of his pass through my hands for work, and was honored to publish his last big comics job.
I have one signature from him, and it’s hanging on my dining room wall, signed to a cover he inked over Don Heck pencils. One of my prized possessions.
Gads, he’s missed.