It's Neil Cochrane

I've been doing this for sixteen years. I've seen with my eyes that giving people art, letting art move, letting stories breathe, allowing them to travel: it changes people. Those stories go places and lodge in people's hearts in ways you can't predict. That can't happen if you keep it all close to the chest, behind a paywall, locked in bureaucracy. It can't happen if you're afraid. If you operate from a place of ownership and grasping and the fear that there might be money left on the table. We want a piece of this, they say. We want to make sure we get our share. You wouldn't have made this without us. True. Of course. But who will move the story? Who will connect with the audience? Is it you? I don't think so. That's why you hired me. If you give someone something freely with intention, it carries gratitude in it like a seed. It's nonlinear. I've been saying this for years.

The "money left on the table" isn't thousands, or even hundreds. Often it's a loss! I pay to print comics to put out into the world because they will go places I can't. People will find their way back to me. If my life changed because of one college student's weird photocopied tall ship-themed zine I found in a bookstore in 2005, who knows where my work will go and what it will do.

It infuriates me to run up against this mentality because it is so hard to share anything in the world today. It is so hard to get stories into the hands of people who need them. You have to give everything a fighting chance—print it out, leave it in the library, share it on social media, post it on your blog. Yes, publish it. Put it in a book. Put that book up for sale. Of course. Of course. I want to eat. I'm not a fool. But if people don't find the story, they won't want to buy the book. That's how it works.

I'm tired of working in a system that operates on that fear. It feels juvenile. "What if someone steals my idea?" "What if someone reads my work and doesn't pay me for the privilege?" GREAT. SOMEONE HAS READ MY WORK.

So I tell Jane to bring her boy over to a bbq I'm having and she can tell him she's trans at my place surrounded by queer and trans people who love her and will support her if he ends up being awful.

She waits till the end of the bbq to tell him the news, by which point the rest of us have learned that Jason is a kind, friendly, empathetic, hard working, dummy. So we sit down, all of us a little worried about this gym bro's reaction when she tells him she's trans, and that she understands if he doesn't want to keep dating her it's no big deal.

He's baffled, so we explain what trans is, and after the disclosure that she hasn't had bottom surgery yet...

"Oh you have a dick?"

"... yeah."

He look's around at the room full of people with baited breath, his clearly a little afraid girl friend says

"Oooohhhh! I get it! You think- don't worry Babe! Watch this!"

And ya'll this man jumps up, runs into the kitchen and returns with one of the bratwurst we had for grilling and proceeds to tilt his head back, put it down his throat, hold it in his mouth for a moment, and spit it up without even a whisper of a gag and then looks around at the group absolutely beaming with pride.

"Honey, I must tell you, i am in fact trans and I have not had bottom surgery."

The true origin of the phrase belongs to celebrated author Tamora Pierce, in her 1983 novel Alanna: The First Adventure, when Gary says, "Still—what can Alan do for you? He's just a little guy"(49).

Thus, whenever we say of someone or some creature that they are "just a little guy," what we are really saying is that they are a short redheaded knight-in-training with some sort of Gender going on who will kick your butt given half a chance.

Thank you for coming to my TED Talk. May we all be the little guys we wish to see in the world.