In many ways, it was much, much harder to get the first book

Hear the words of Neil Gaiman, teller of myths and dream-weaver of our age, who once confessed: “In many ways, it was much, much harder to get the first book contract. The hardest thing probably overall has been learning not to trust people, publicists and so forth, implicitly.” These words reveal not only the struggle of the artist, but also the nature of the world: that the path of creation is not only hard for the work itself, but for the snares and illusions that surround it. To create is one trial, to navigate the marketplace of creation is another.

For the first book contract is the mountain gate. Every writer, every dreamer with words burning in their chest, longs to pass through it. Yet the guardians of that gate—publishers, editors, gatekeepers of commerce—test the spirit with trials of rejection, doubt, and delay. To sign one’s name upon that first covenant of ink is often harder than writing the book itself. It is not merely art that is tested, but perseverance, resilience, and faith.

But Gaiman’s words speak also of a second burden: the bitter truth that not all who smile are allies. To learn not to trust implicitly is a painful lesson, for the artist enters the world of contracts and publicity with hope, believing that those who work alongside him serve the same dream. Yet commerce is often cold, and many think of profit more than truth, of appearances more than substance. And so the artist, who creates with heart, must learn to guard that heart against betrayal.

This truth has echoed through ages. Consider the fate of Nikola Tesla, whose brilliance gave the world light, energy, and vision. Yet because he trusted too freely the promises of financiers like J.P. Morgan, he died in obscurity, his genius unrecognized, his treasures scattered. Contrast him with Thomas Edison, who though less of a visionary, guarded his dealings with iron vigilance, ensuring his place in the world’s memory. Here we see the ancient lesson: the creator must balance vision with discernment, or risk losing both.

Even in literature’s history, the same pattern emerges. Herman Melville poured his soul into Moby-Dick, yet the world dismissed him, his publishers turned lukewarm, and he was forgotten in his time. He had no shield against the indifference of commerce, no caution against those who could not see his worth. Only later did his work rise like a leviathan from the deep. Gaiman’s words echo this lament: talent and art are not enough. One must also learn how to walk among wolves without being devoured.

Yet this lesson is not a call to cynicism, but to wisdom. To learn not to trust implicitly is not to close the heart, but to open the eyes. The artist must be wary, but not bitter; cautious, but not cold. Trust must be earned, not assumed. To discern who speaks truth and who seeks gain is as vital a skill as crafting words or painting images. For without such discernment, the artist’s flame can be dimmed by those who stand too close to it.

O seekers, let this be your guidance: when you begin your journey, expect difficulty, for beginnings are always hardest. Endure the trials that guard your first covenant with patience and resolve. And when you walk further, guard your trust. Do not give it cheaply. Test the spirits of those who offer help, and measure their actions against their words. Seek those who honor both your craft and your soul, for such allies are rare but precious.

Thus, Neil Gaiman’s words shine like a lantern upon the path of creation: the first book contract may be the hardest prize, but harder still is learning how to walk in a world where not all hands are honest. Yet the lesson is clear—create with passion, guard with wisdom, and give your trust not to all, but to those who have proven worthy. In this balance, the artist finds not only survival, but freedom.