top of page

Dealing with Neil: Separating the Artist from the Craft

My head has been a mess of sticky, tangled thoughts ever since I read the jaw-dropping, gut-wrenching article “There is No Safe Word,” written by Lila Shapiro and published in New York’s Vulture magazine on Monday, January 13th. It’s a detailed, harrowing, well-written piece about some very disturbing, alleged abuse conducted by author Neil Gaiman. [NOTE: I will be using the word “alleged” throughout this essay, but to be clear, I wholeheartedly believe the women who have come forward.] Several vital trigger warnings on the article itself: it includes graphic accounts of multiple instances of sexual abuse, including child sexual abuse. I will not be summarizing this article or the abuse in any way below. 

 

 

A phrase we hear a lot in the wake of moments like these is “separate the artist from the art.” Daniel Radcliffe had a great quote about this, which has been pulled from his longer statement via the Trevor Project on June 8th, 2020, in response to J.K. Rowling’s extremely public transphobia and its alienating effects over the mass of LGBTQIA+ readers who had grown up buoyed by Rowling’s Harry Potter series.

 

“If you found anything in these stories that resonated with you and helped you at any time in your life - then that is between you and the book that you read,

and it is sacred.”

-Daniel Radcliffe

 

 

If we shift the phrase “separate the artist from the art” to “separate the writer from the books,” Daniel’s guidance is clearly meant for readers and fans of the Harry Potter series. The connection between the reader and the book is sacred. The connection between art and the consumer can exist and continue despite one’s connection—or lack thereof—with the creator. If the consumer so chooses, of course.

 

As I bounced around over every corner of the internet on Monday, checking public forums, fan pages, reading Instagram comments, etc., I saw many posts from avid Neil Gaiman readers and fans.

 

            What do I do with the eighteen Neil Gaiman books on display at my house? asked one.

 

            What do I do about the two giant tattoos of Neil Gaiman characters on my arms? asked another.

 

Responses varied, though all seem steeped in the similar sort of kind regard Radcliffe invoked in his 2020 statement on Rowling. People could keep the books, or not. Cover or remove the tattoos, or not. Their connection with Gaiman’s stories and characters was still valid, still sacred, if the individual deemed it so. No fan needed to be held accountable for enjoying the work just because its creator has, allegedly, behaved monstrously.

 

Throughout the day, I wasn’t sure why I was so caught up in this specific wave of news. I am no stranger to these kinds of horrific stories. I’ve seen the behavior from various actors, producers, directors, musicians, brought to light in ways that sicken me as an individual. But I have never felt quite so uncomfortably tugged into a story like I felt tugged into this one. As the day went on, the hours burning into my retinas as I read page after page on the internet, I realized I would not be finding the solace I needed. For, like the people who own every Neil Gaiman book, or have a Neil Gaiman-themed tattoo, I too was looking for some kind of support or guidance. Except this guidance was based not on separating the artist from his art… but rather, from his craft.

 

In the fifteen years I’ve been writing fiction, I have looked up to Neil Gaiman as a creative mentor above all other public figures. All of my notebooks, spanning back to 2010, are striped with Neil Gaiman quotes on craft. When his collection of nonfiction essays, The View From the Cheap Seats, came out in 2016, my partner gifted me the hefty hardback for Christmas. Though I never was and will probably never be a particularly religious person, I treated this tome with the reverence of a Bible or Quran. I was determined not to read too fast, or else I would miss some crucial remark or detail. I turned Neil Gaiman’s random musings into a treasure hunt with glittering wisdom hiding in every unassuming corner. His book became the book I started every work day with, reading for thirty minutes and journaling after, then embarking on whatever project I had queued up on my laptop.  

 

 Because Neil Gaiman has been prolifically active on the internet since the dawn of… well, the internet itself (or so it would seem to my millennial brain), his advice landed frequently and randomly in my own writing journey, like the sage words of a coworker spoken over coffee at the communal work kitchen. I have screenshots of his old Tweets peppered throughout my camera roll from the years 2012-2020. His voice, his guidance, has become a staple of my own identity as a now published author.

 

So how do I reconcile my informal education as a writer with the person I elected lead teacher for so many years of my life?

 

I’m far from being the only writer who has ever looked up to Gaiman, and I assume that many of my colleagues can and will neatly separate the craft from the artist, just as we may separate the art from said artist. For, at the end of the day, Gaiman’s approach to writing is tied far more significantly to his books than his own personal character, yes? The art is the product of his craft, and therefore, we might encircle both together. Take Radcliffe’s gentle sanction and apply it here too.

 

But I think, as writers, we have an additional dimension to wrestle with.

 

Must we disregard Gaiman’s advice in its entirely? His routine, his philosophy, his approach to craft, etc.? Not necessarily. But as the stories of (alleged) abuse continue to emerge with gusto, perhaps they present the right opportunity to chip away at the pedestal or high shelf we—or at least, I—have initially placed Gaiman’s advice.

 

As a person who has spoken Neil Gaiman’s name enough times that it has evolved to signify not only an individual, but a status of writer in itself, I did not know very much about Gaiman’s personal history. I suppose I bought into a self-inflicted lore that Gaiman was removed from the trappings that made humans such tricky, imperfect storytellers. In Gaiman’s writing, he has a way of breaking from compulsory rhythm in cadence. No matter how fast or slow you read his stories, you get the feeling he has all the time in the world to tell them. If he chooses a bias as narrator, he does so deliberately. When it comes to matters of narrative, Gaiman’s position is everywhere, all-seeing, and all-knowing.

 

On Monday, in my deep dive of the internet, I learned for the first time that Gaiman grew up in a family that practiced Scientology. I was embarrassed not to have known that before, but since I didn’t know, I’m sharing this on the off-chance that some other writers, some other fans, might not have known, either. This particular background means nothing, explains or excuses nothing about Gaiman’s character, but serves to remind me that he does indeed have his own unique and limited, imperfect lens of the world. Just like everyone else.

 

Gaiman is well-aware of his fame and acclaim. Even before he broke out into his various literary scenes (comics, science fiction, fantasy, children’s literature), he is described by those who knew him in his adolescence as almost uncannily aware of his own ability to persuade and captivate. When he speaks on certain aspects of writing craft, he rarely phrases his thoughts as specific advice from one writer to another. Instead, they are posed as morsels of truth from Gaiman himself, their significance implied by their originator. Yet in actuality, Gaiman’s shared writing habits provide only a sliver of his experience and motivations as a storyteller.

 

Like everyone else who picks up a pen or opens a blank document on a laptop, Gaiman can only approach the page with his own inherent backstory and biases of the world around him. He has managed to spin some very beautifully-worded stories that often feel as if they were written in another time, by a voice as old as the Earth itself. But that too is a kind of craft, an almost snake oil salesman trick, that Gaiman doesn’t shed light on nearly as willingly.  

 

So what do I do? What do writers like myself do? It’s not as simple as taking The View From the Cheap Seats down from the shelf (though my copy is, admittedly, currently sitting in the bottom of my kitchen pantry). It’s not even as simple, dare I say, as getting a tattoo covered. We cannot haul ourselves to the Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind clinic and erase Gaiman’s teachings. We can only surround them with context, context, context. We can remind ourselves over and over what kind of voices get promoted to the level of reception and acclaim Gaiman has enjoyed. We can remember that when it comes to any craft, The Artist is simply one artist. One of millions at that.

 

Whenever I send feedback, whether it be to a critique partner or to a student, I send it with the same note: “Keep what resonates and throw the rest out.” Craft is not so much a recipe for us to copy as it is medical advice whenever we run ourselves into creative malady. Here’s a list of things to try—figure out what works best for you and your art.

 

Keep what resonates and throw the rest out.

 

I have not coined that phrase, of course. I don’t know who exactly coined it. Maybe that’s the point.

 

 

           

 

           

258 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All

Writing Sports and Action Scenes, Part 2

Welcome to the second installment of the craft series on writing sports and action scenes. Today we’re picking up where we left off last...

Comments


Join my mailing list for behind-the-scenes updates, exciting news, and fun giveaways!

  • Instagram - Black Circle
  • Twitter - Black Circle

Illustrated and designed by Danika Corrall

bottom of page