This is a third attempt at a blog today. Nothing’s really got that A. Lee Martinez snap. What is that snap? Where does it come from? Do I even know what that is? Am I even being serious? (Am I ever being serious?)
Honestly, I don’t know the answer to any of those questions. Writing is weird like that. I write things. I get paid. Even if it doesn’t prove I’m good at it, proves that at least I can keep a roof over my head doing it. And I get positive feedback on this blogging stuff. Of course, that’s kind of a self-selecting audience. Very few people take the time to post a comment telling me how obnoxious I am although I’m sure those folks are out there, too.
But ignoring those people and going by the checks that go into my bank account and the positive comments on my blogs and even the occasional real life person who says they read something of mine and liked it, I’ve got something going on here. Some, dare I say it, talent. (I dared.)
I hate that word though because it takes my job and makes it seem magical. When really all I do is sit down in front of a computer and make up stories. Anybody can do it. Not anybody can do it well, but that doesn’t prevent a lot of bad writers from getting paid and getting paid well. (Insert your favorite successful, untalented writer of choice here.)
That’s something I never forget. No matter how good a writer I think I am, no matter how many people adore me (and while it’s not really that many people, it sure is a lot more than I ever expected), I could stink on ice. I could be one of those bad but financially viable writers I make fun of. Irony can be a real pain in the ass, huh?
Oh, and don’t bother telling me how great I am. While it’s nice to hear, I’m not fishing for compliments. Also, you might be one of those people with really bad taste that help encourage bad writers. Either way, I thank you for indulging me because I’m a great writer, an adequate juggler, and a generally cool dude, but I’d probably be loading boxes on the night shift at UPS right now if it wasn’t for you.
Moving on . . .
So in addition to being a (disgruntled) comic book fan. I’m also a game player. I don’t know exactly when it happened, but somewhere, I crossed the line from hobbyist to full-blown enthusiast. I know game companies the same way people know car manufacturers. I even follow some game designers the same way movie afficianados follow directors.
(FYI: Bruno Faidutti has yet to make a bad game. Ad Astra is a current favorite among my small gaming group.)
If such a thing is even possible, game designers are even more obscure than novelologists. While everyone has heard of Stephen King and Daniel Steele, who knows the name of the guy who designed Sorry?
Even the hobby is difficult to explain. When people find out that you play games, they usually get this perplexed look on their face and say “Like Monopoly?” Then I close my eyes and shake my head.
“Kinda. . . ”
I’ve pretty much given up on trying to explain it because unless you’ve experienced the joy of Heroscape, Monsterpocalypse, or Citadels, you just ain’t gonna get it.
And finally . . .
Godzilla would totally kick King Kong’s ass. Don’t try denying it. One is a huge, city destroying, radiaoctive, fire-breathing dinosaur. The other is a big ape that couldn’t even climb a single building without getting shot down like a chump.
Biplanes? Seriously? That’s weak. So until you get laser vision or the power to regenerate, Kong, you should probably stay out of the big leagues. Just a suggestion.
And on that controversial note, I bid you all a good night.
Fighting the good fight, Writing the good write,