Mr. Gaiman, people probably say weird things to you all the time at book signings, so I don't flatter myself that you remember the weird thing I said to you that one time at Barnes and Noble when you were reading from Anansi Boys, especially since it really wasn't all that weird, unless you remember that I prefaced it by mentioning to the Stephen Brust fan directly in front of me on line that I had once almost poisoned Stephen Brust's parrot at a science fiction and fantasy convention in Minnesota. I asked you if the dedication in your book was a reference to Don Marquis' dedication in archy and mehitabel, and you said yes. Then I asked you if you needed a copy editor, because (I said) I was a very good one. I didn't say "Please help me, I'm stuck copy-editing A.D.A. Dragondyre and books about vampires in the FBI, once one of my authors said pineal when she meant finial." Nor did I say "Come on, we even have the same hair." I was good; I didn't tell you that I was almost frightened by the way the hundreds and hundreds of people in that room turned their faces to you as if they were flowers and you were the sun; nor did I say that I longed to touch the hem of your garment, though this metaphor occurred to me, or that if I had to be Cyrano de Bergerac it could at least be to someone with a name people would be impressed by.
You blew me off in the nicest way imaginable. You said that authors don't get to pick their copy editors; that most of the time you have no contact with them at all. I had known this. I had merely hoped it might be different for fantasy fiction's closest equivalent to a rock star. But I understand completely.
I just want you to know that I would have caught that missing word.
Yours very truly,