Waiting for Neil Gaiman’s press conference to start is half-killing me. Me working hard to look like the 16-year veteran journalist I am and not showing my fan-girl eagerness is completing the process.

My heart is jack-hammering my chest as I watch him walk into the room, his hair a mop of unruly curls that just won’t sit still – a carelessly casual cap calling my fingers to stray from their studied and dignified position on my laptop keyboard. My eyes are steady, studiedly shuttered to the other journalists positioned around me.

I am seated right beside the only mike in the audience area and I am set for the press conference. I am breathing deliberately, slowly, working to bring my leaping pulse down to a healthier heart-rate. My yoga training is good, but not that good. My martial arts training is good, but not good enough. My journalist’s training in keeping a calm front is barely holding.

What I really want to do is rush to Mr. Gaiman’s feet and begin kissing away. What I actually do is get down on my knees to maximize the light as I shoot a video of his statement with my iPod Nano. My knees are trembling and the quakes have nothing to do with the cool tile beneath my black jeans and kneecaps and everything to do with the fact that kneeling in front of a literary godling from my personal bookshelf pantheon just feels like the appropriate thing to do.

What I want to do is whisk him away for coffee and a long chat, to pick his brain and make friends with Mr. Gaiman so I can truly call him Neil with a friend’s familiarity. What I wind up doing is shooting him the hard questions at the press conference and at a small group interview four hours after the press briefing – a short but sweet rapport that lasted all of five or so minutes.

I want to touch him and tell him what a fan I am, how lucky I feel to be in his presence, how much I want to squeal with unbridled delight like a little girl who has just gotten free rein in a candy shop. What I actually do is listen intently to his answers and help two newbie reporters shoot from the hip.

He is so sincere and so likeable, so like Death, from his graphic novels “Death: The High Cost of Living.” He leans forward in his seat as he answers our queries, commenting that my question is “lovely” and that Rachel’s query is “fascinating.” I am over the moon and it takes every ounce of control I have not to jump on him, strangle him with hugs and scream like a demented fan. Yes, I know I am a demented fan, but this is not the time or place to let it all hang out. So I hold on to my dignity (and the Graphic’s dignity).

What I do is calmly shoot my follow-up question in measured and impeccable English (I did have several hours to perfect the queries in my head, after all), listen for inflections that will clue me in to what he means to say, look him steadily in the eye (oh, those lovely, lovely eyes!) and observe his body English.

He answers our queries with replies that are stunning, gorgeous, utterly delicious. His surprise at the turn of our questions gratifies me. His total engagement in our rapport makes me want to faint with joy. The answers are unexpected, enlightening and I will listen to these digital recordings over and over again without tiring of his sonorous voice or the unconscious grace of his words as they fall from his lips.

When our long-awaited five-minute rapport is over, I am still star-struck, but I shake his hand with a firm yet gentle grip and offer him a restrained smile, a respectful nod and dignified words of thanks. Then I let my reins loose a bit and do the fan-girl thing and quietly ask for a photo with him as a keepsake. He grants me this wish and wraps an arm around my shoulder for the photo op. My shoulder will tingle from this warm hug forever.

“I’ve been a fan of your work for 16 years, sir,” I tell him as I pick up my backpack and prepare to leave. His eyebrows bob up in surprise and he cocks his head to the side. “Really?” he asks me. I smile and nod as he shakes his head and emits a small chuckle. “My word,” he says with a wry look on his emotive face. Dry British humor is such an expressive mode of communication. “However, you are the point of focus, sir, not I. But I must say it is an honor to have shaken your hand.”

Ah, yes, I believe that particular episode of acting should win me a Famas or an Oscar, neh? Once I got into a cab headed back to the Graphic with Rachel, however, I hollered and whooped and wiggled like the girly uber-fan I really am.

I’ll be honest: I am still star-struck, dizzy with joy and high with pleasure over meeting one of my all-time favorite authors. I just won’t show it while I’ve got my Associate-Editor-of-the-Philippines-Graphic badge on. Now, however, is off-duty time and I can squeal all I want. :)

This is also uploaded on my blog at www.dateline.ph: http://dateline.ph/?p=8143