Cocky

We are all so absurdly cocky.

I don't know that anyone really deserves this rant, but I was just thinking it as I was reading about someone else's creative process. I was thinking of saying something about my own, and then I thought: What the heck do I know about how to write? What do I really know? I'm not a published author. I haven't published so much as a single short story (well, wait, there's "The Bribe" -- thanks, Tufty and Greywolf! -- but that's not exactly the most impressive credential). I haven't so much as finished writing a single novel. The closest I've come is wrapping up the occasional plot thread on Sinai.

So what do I know about it?

Moreover: what do all these folks talking about it know about it? 'Cause most of the people I hear going on about "their process" don't have credentials any more impressive than mine. And yet they talk, with the most amazing confidence, about "what it takes to get published" and "what works" and "what doesn't work" and "pitfalls to avoid" and on and on and on. I can't blame 'em, exactly. I do it, too. We parrot what we've read or been taught by someone else, or our fumblings as we move forward, or backwards, or sideways.

It's hard to take any of us very seriously. Maybe we're right. But goodness, how would we know if we are? If I believe Richard Bachman -- who at least has credentials -- I ought to have quit writing Prophecy six months ago and finished Silver Scales instead. But here I am, still going ... wherever I'm going. Whyever I'm going. I don't even know where this entry's going. Up in my journal, I guess.

A/C

The red wire goes with the black and brown one. Wear rubber gloves; it's live.

Cats!

Somebody get me a shotgun!

(Link courtesy of kevinpease