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I use the term "met" loosely. Really, I waited among hundreds for a few moments of his time. He looked at me, smiled encouragingly. I babbled. I was forgettable. He was not.

Before he sat down at a low table flanked by staff from , he stood in front of the crowd, looking not quite nervous but not quite comfortable, as if he didn't really believe that we were all gathered there for him, and he read a chapter from his new book The Ocean at the End of the Lane. His voice was composed, resonant, and very British, and as I listened from one of the front rows I felt as though I was floating a bit above my body.

Brad Meltzer (who was fantastic and actually made me cry during his introduction), served as a moderator, asking Neil pre-submitted audience questions. Neil was thoughtful with his answers, even to the absurd questions like what side of the bed do you sleep on, and he managed to be clever, eloquent, and humble all at once. He spoke of authors and books that he had loved or been inspired by as a child and a young writer. He told amusing stories about himself and his work. He talked about his family--his wife and three children.

One of my favorite parts of the question and answer period was when he discussed myth and the power of fantasy, and of books as a means of escape. He said:I get very nervous when people talk about escapism as if it’s something bad. Then he paraphrased something he had heard or read once. No one, he said, but a jailer should be bothered by the possibility of escape. He encouraged us to push boundaries, to dream, to create. His words were stirring and wonderful and deserved the standing ovation that they received.

All in all, the lines, the plane flight, and the insane cab driver that I encountered at the Miami airport, who drove the car like he stole it, were worth it. Yesterday is one of those days that I will replay over and over. I will remember how I "met" my favorite author and showed him a photo of my dog and he commented that she was beautiful and said, They are a lovely breed, aren't they? And how I swallowed and answered, yes, they are.(As an aside in case you don't know this already: Neil Gaiman has a White German Shepherd also, so me whipping out the dog photo is not completely bizarre. It's only slightly bizarre.)

Strange as it seems, I think what I will remember the most are the people, the fans that I encountered while waiting in the sticky Miami heat. I will remember Christian, from Orlando, in his jacket and beanie, who spoke with Neil Gaiman once in an airport. And another Neil, first in line, who had traveled from Jacksonville with a first edition of Sandman in an acrylic case. I saw all types. I saw collared, ironed shirts, skull-patterned tights, linen shorts, and fancy dresses. I saw frizzy grey-haired grandmothers and sleekly-styled teenagers with brilliant blue dreadlocks.

We were different.

We were varied.

We were very varied.

But we were also the same in a way that counted. We were all lovers of stories... dreamers, magic-bean-buyers. We were all there for a chance to tell Neil Gaiman what he meant to each of us. We were all readers.