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Neil Gaiman had provided some seed-notions from which something elaborate was hoped to emerge (at that point I had no idea how involved Neil was to be).
I was, I fully understood, just one of many others asked to pitch. (In fact there was an amusing few weeks afterwards during which every pub conversation with a fellow writer would begin with a fumbling conversational dance to determine, without breaking NDA, whether they too had been invited to contribute. They all had.)
I, being a hungry little shit, replied to the invitation with an interwoven outline for all the titles, offering to helm the whole event. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
As I recall a reply came back along the lines of “wow, we really respond to your ambition”... which is about as polite a way as I can imagine of calling someone an arrogant fuckweasel.
-- Si Spurrier
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