Yesterday was ‘”F” you and your empire King George’ day. It was also a friend’s (and also Deep One‘s roommate) birthday. So I made the journey up the mountain for their barbecue.
It was an interesting afternoon in Missoula, for all that entails.
The food was for the most part decent, the company was good. Apparently the fireworks were awesome from the top of the mountain, but we didn’t stay to find out. I also spent a bit of time trying to teach my Daughter to shoot a BB gun. She didn’t hit anything, but on the plus side, she didn’t hit anything.
The funny thing about Missoula is that it’s full of artists, or rather it has artists in it, and is full of other people who want to be artists, or want people to think they are artists. As Time gos on I have less and less patience for these folks. It seems to me that if one really wanted to be an artist or in this case, there were a few “aspiring” writers, then they should spend their time making art or writing.
I swear if these folks spent half the effort creating material that the spend carefully crafting excuses as to why they aren’t, the world would be paved with art.
I am I must admit a convert of the school of Dean Wesley Smith. I just had to laugh when I overheard the “writers” talk of creating a brand for themselves and the latest sortie of rewrites they are subjecting their work to. I had to restrain myself when I heard one of them speaking about how they rewrite their work until it’s perfect. I almost asked how they know when the work is perfect? It was astoundingly like an encounter with a walking list of Dean’s myths of publishing.
I’m sure that these practices do work for some people, but I’ve known these folks for damn near 13 years, and they’ve never, ever published anything. (To be fair one of them has never tried, she just likes to write stories, and I’m sure that she is much better than she gives herself credit for, if only she would trust herself, and the other did briefly edit a local literary magazine that she created)