Five years ago, I lined up for three days at three different venues, for a total of maybe fifteen hours.

I'm not one to cut lines, in fact, it's safe to say I enjoy lines to some degree.

There are lots of things to do while waiting in line, beginning with counting tiles.

The infinite permutations of math problems you can do in your head with tiles guarantee lots and lots of fun and entertainment. That is, of course, assuming you're blessed with a line-mate who is tolerable, lest you be unable to focus on the numbers.

By tolerable, I mean clean-smelling, polite, and willing to do mutual favors (holding your place while you run off to the washroom, or to smoke, or eat, or go home and bathe, depending on how extreme the line is).

If you’re lucky, you may even have an interesting line-mate, someone who doesn’t ask creepy questions, or share too much information, but is pleasant to converse with for the duration of the wait.

Souza says happiness is a journey, not a destination.

In this case, it could be the line and not whatever's at the end of the line. Or who, as the case may be.

Five years ago, I was in line for the Neil Gaiman book signing.

To be specific, I was in line for other people. Was I paid? No. Was I bored? Maybe. Why did I do it? Who knows.

I vaguely remember the rules limiting fans to having just two books each signed.

My sister, who was celebrating her birthday, took care of Stardust, and got a kiss as well as an autograph.

I had Good Omens, a very well-loved (tattered) copy, and I was having my doubts about getting it signed.

Not only was it in a pitiful state, it was co-authored, too. Would he mind? I wondered.

I ended up entrusting Good Omens to a friend, who was also in line, and just lining up for someone else, who had more than two books to have signed. Which reminds me, my friend still has my copy of Good Omens.

Books should be like homing pigeons, I think, but that's another story.

We took our time before lining up, loading our tummies with ammunition, which we anticipated the long wait would require.

The line began along Aurora Boulevard, more than a block away from the mall entrance. It then snaked into the mall, up the escalator, round the stairs, and finally, finally, into the bookstore where Neil Gaiman sat, signing book after book.

We took a side trip to the grocery to buy two cans of Red Horse beer, which my friend Phil thought the author would appreciate.

I had my reservations about giving him warm beer, but I was too giddy and the weather was too warm for such discussions.

Instead, we were content to hang out in a convenience store, stocking up on cold drinks to sustain us for the next few hours.

Five or so hours later, we finally reached the end of the line.

This meant I would step aside and let my friend take my place, and have his book signed.

I don't really remember why I didn't take the chance then. I have a fuzzy recollection of saying, "It's okay, I'm not that big a fan, I'll line up for you."

Perhaps it's true, I wasn't that big a fan then.

Despite having read a bunch of Sandman comics (a rare concession I made, because comics in general make me dizzy) and loving Good Omens, enjoying Stardust, and getting a bit too carried away by Neverwhere, I was too caught up in other reading material to realize that I was missing the opportunity of a lifetime.

Or was I?

When my friend returned, blissfully hugging his signed book the way Smeagol presses the Ring to his chest, I felt a strange sense of regret.

We have around five Gaiman books at home, (thankfully spared from Ondoy floods), none of them signed. I could be sourgraping, but is a signature really all that?

I suppose you could argue that it isn't the signature, really, but the few seconds of proximity to the star. Or does a signature make the work more valuable?

When he signs it and writes your name on the dedication, does he know who you are?

Will he remember you? I'm probably over-analyzing here, but it's only because I am now officially a Neil Gaiman fan.

Not just because he writes wonderfully, but because he wants other people to do so, as well.

Fortunately, it looks like he's willing to return. Again, and again, and again.

He supposedly said the basis for him coming back here is dependent on how loud the fans get. The fans were pretty loud last night, so I’m hoping he’ll be back next year.

Maybe then I could afford to buy the necessary 2,000 pesos worth of his books to get a book signing pass.

Or not, because I think that if I were ever to meet him, or any other author for that matter,

I'd want it to be because we had something to discuss.

On second (or third) thought, no.

If I ever got to that level, I don't think I'd want to meet people I look up to. It's a bit like fairytales.

Wouldn't you rather the characters stayed in the stories? Wouldn't meeting them make them somehow, ordinary?

When Neil Gaiman came here the first time and was met by a "wall of sound," I was there. I didn't contribute to the noise, I was too overwhelmed.

Writers are solitary figures who rarely get recognized, I thought, how is this possible?

"In the Philippines, the people are enthusiastic on a level that makes the Brazilians look reserved and polite. They shout very loudly when they're happy, too. There's a noise that a few thousand of the locals make when they all shout at once to let you know they're happy to see you that made me finally understand the idea of a wall of sound..." he later blogged.

I used to think being noisy was limited to girls from my high school, but it looks like noise could be a national thing.

The best thing about it is despite being "shellshocked" from signing books until the wee hours, Neil Gaiman was equally supportive of his fans.

He said Filipinos have such a wealth of mythology, and such immense talent.

He said he was depressed that there seemed to be a lack of outlets for this kind of creativity, and so the Philippine Graphic/Fiction Awards was born.

He, together with Fully Booked brain Jaime Daez, made it possible.

PGFA goes where traditional award-giving bodies can't, or won't, and on its third year, it even includes a short film category.

For internet addicts who want something else (from, you know, Facebook) to do, the shortlisted entries can be seen here.