Some of you know of my misadventures in joining a certain writing organization. For those of you who don’t, here’s a brief, non-name-calling overview: I joined under one set of rules, said set of rules changed mid-game, there was much celebrating as me and many others hit the bricks.
All of this fun and excitement happened a year ago, at least. So, why am I now writing about it? Because I have a fun habit of trolling the Internet and finding fun tidbits to read that are the equivalent of taking sharpened bamboo sticks to my fingernail beds. I found a blog of a writer who not only thinks the organization was correct in the handling of this matter, but that he was sorry he missed the ‘fun’ of watching us unworthies shuffled to the door. He imagined with great amusement the gilded halls being cleansed of the class dunces. In his eyes, those of us still in the process of writing novels or getting our short stories out to market weren’t ‘serious’ writers, but parasitic fanboys hanging about hoping Mr. Bestseller would make his spectacular return to their ranks. In this writer’s words, we unpublished were obviously not cut out for the professional writing life simply because we didn’t meet their ridiculous goal of selling one 250 word-count story or (get the relevance in this) a movie review (great job on the legitimacy, guys). Because I had greater sights for my story than a 75,000 word-count and a single viewpoint with zero plot twists, I was nothing. According to him, I guess I still am.
Okay, anger aside — this isn’t about the organization. They’re free to act on whatever spasmodic notion they feel can propel them to the heights enjoyed by other, more respected, organizations. It’s their game, not mine. This goes back to the writers who somehow feel superior because they’ve managed to land a couple of short stories in a magazine. It goes back to those who are supposed to be leaning down from their lofty perches and lending a hand, but are instead gleefully taking their boot heels to the fingers of those who are still struggling to climb. It goes back to the age-old saying:
Why can’t we all just get along?
Oh well. I’ve always said I wasn’t a joiner. I just tend to forget now and again. Things like this only serve to remind me that I do better on my own, anyway.
Can you hear my spurs jangling as I ride off into the sunset?
Fortunately for me, the sunset is also in the direction of the movie theater parking lot, so I can go see Grindhouse.
Blood, guts, and Tarantino. Can’t get a better mood-lift than that.
And, to those who insist on looking down, a message from Bif (kinda dumb video, but the song’s what matters, here):