It’s 1984. I’m just shy of two years old. Every week, my dad takes me to the South Bend Public Library, where we sit at a table in the children’s room and whisper through picture books. Our favorite is Commander Toad, a series of space-opera riffs by the first writer whose name I will learn to recognize: Jane Yolen.
Over the next twenty-seven years, Jane Yolen remains a constant on my shelves. I graduate from Commander Toad to Dream Weaver (still my favorite; tragically, long out of print), to Briar Rose. I pick out Jane’s name in anthologies, gift copies of her books to friends, and then friends’ children. In the meantime, her titles grow well into triple digits; Newsweek dubs her “America’s Hans Christian Andersen.” I grow up, finish school, get a job, drop everything and move cross-country to edit comics.
It’s 2007. I’ve been at Dark Horse for a little over a year. Scott Allie and I are tossing back and forth ideas for someone to write the introduction to Hellboy: Darkness Calls. It’s all about Russian folklore and the bleeding of fairy tales into everyday—everyday for Hellboy, anyway—life. Both of those are recurring motifs in Jane Yolen’s work, so I suggest her. Scott’s amenable. We check with Mike Mignola, who digs the idea, so I cold-email the contact address at janeyolen.com and cross my fingers. She writes back that day.
It’s 2010. I’m in the back seat of a car, on the way from New York City to western Massachusetts. In the driver’s seat is Rebecca Guay, a painter whose work I’ve been following since high school; in front of me, in the passenger seat, is Jane Yolen. The two of them are collaborating on a graphic novel, a gorgeous, lyrical fantasy story about a girl who rallies her village to fight the last of the dragons long believed extinct. They’re a bit over halfway done. I’m their editor.
It’s 2011. The Last Dragon, by Jane Yolen and Rebecca Guay, comes out this month. It’s already made it onto a handful of “best graphic novels for teens” lists and garnered rave reviews. It’s the kind of book I wish I could go back in time and give to my ten, or twelve, of fourteen-year-old self, the kind of book you can drown in, that’ll follow you into your dreams—lyrical and rollicking and sweet and smart and achingly exquisite.
It’s not a particularly unusual experience to end up editing your heroes—most of us were readers and fans before we were editors, and the same voices that influenced us the most are often the ones most likely to endure. Sometimes, it’s disappointing; frequently, it’s wonderful; once in a while, it’s magic. And then—well, then, there are dragons.