(Also Known As: Overrated Writers I Hate #1. Maybe.)
I have no idea whether or not the allegations against our beloved, saintly Lord Neil of Gaiman have any validity. It wouldn’t necessarily surprise me, but I’m happy to be on the fence.
However, it’s not the worst time to indulge my view about his character and his work. I believe the two, being more or less inseparable, are best summed up with the word charlatan. I’ve spent 30-odd years being astounded (and quite disappointed) by the amount of praise and gushing idolatry directed at this insufferably smug, annoyingly fey, all-appeasing goon. His work is, without doubt, amongst the most shallow, meaningless, insincere and vacuous ever to be published to significant acclaim.
LOVELY NEIL… having teased every single strand of his pseudo-scruffy hair with tender, loving care, all the more to maximise the gothic, windswept image he’s so carefully manufactured—gorgeous.
Worst of all, his powerful influence upon comics, and indeed the whole of pop culture, hasn’t a single redeeming quality. The influence is gigantic, pernicious, leeringly oppressive. It swept along a whole generation (several generations?) of disenfranchised youth looking for something to buy into (even if it was a big fat nothing)—and an awful lot of insecure, older nerds got swept along too, with the seductive allure of being part of something the “cool kids” approved of. And that was crux of it. Gaiman came up with a marketing strategy. Not a “creative vision”—a posture and an image, a vibe that would sell itself to a particular set of receptive sensibilities vulnerabilities.
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