Sunday, September 10, 2006

Til the Last Hemlock Dies

Other writers make me sick.

It’s a sad truth.

Their work doesn’t necessarily sicken me, (fairly often, alas), but the writers themselves.

They are a self-centered lot, unfortunately. And as the years have passed and I have shared their company and listened to their constant droning, I finally concluded that I could not stand another reading, another convention, another social gathering with writers in attendance.

Some writers are my friends. I may have met them because they were fellow writers, but it’s not their status as writers that keep them as my friends. It’s a fact, by and large, that the ones who remain my friends are so in spite of the fact that they are writers.

When I was younger I thought that writers, by their nature, were better than most of the rest of the mass of mindless baboons. I thought they’d think free thoughts and live free lives and not be slaves to the dogma that dictates the movements of so many of my fellow humans. But I found, too quickly, that this was not the case. Writers are just as stupid, just as witless, just as mired in a kind of slave mentality as any other group I could choose.

So it goes, so it goes, so it goes.

Because of this, I chose some years ago to stop seeking the company of writers. Invariably I would have to listen to the droning of their own accomplishments, the whining of their own failures, the unfolding of their future projects which they found oh-so-fascinating and which I, without fail, found insipid and lacking in vision.

In short, I discovered that writers were a bunch of puling, crying, self-centered louts.

And so, some time back, I began to avoid the very mention of genre conventions. I no longer went to read what was going on at various author websites. I wanted nothing to do with the blogs of so-called writers crowing about their so-called creative works.

Writers, like the rest of humanity, had ultimately disappointed me. And, worse, they made me sick. Truly.

Bubbles, along the way, were burst. I found that writers were just as hateful as the meanest Christian. I found that writers were just as greedy as the most ruthless Republican. I saw that writers were just as closed to change as the most powerful plutocrat. I realized that writers were every bit as intolerant as any cross-burning racist. They cheated on their wives. They abused their children. They drank to excess. They drove recklessly, shit their pants, farted in elevators, voted for Bush, owned guns, ate at McDonalds, enjoyed Jurassic Park III, watched television, supported the troops, read about movie stars, denied Global Warming, thought their vote counted. And worst of all, I found that they cared about things that don’t. Really. Matter.

So it goes. So it goes. So it goes.

Ah, you writers. I discovered things about you that made knowing you unrewarding. I found out that you were just subnormal, after all.

So, go live your lives. Wander aimlessly. Inhabit your little genre ghettoes and read about your fellows’ latest publications. For myself---I don’t give a rat’s ass about you anymore. If, somehow, we are passing and you see me before I see you, please duck and cover. I’d like to remain ignorant that we actually shared the same general locale.

But that, of course, is doubtful. I spend my free and leisure time in the outdoors. I hike forest trails seeking the last hemlocks before they succumb to invasive species; and I paddle the shrinking number of undeveloped rivers; and bag the few peaks that remain unpaved. Fortunately, I’m not likely to see you there, you church-going, blackbox-voting, TV-watching, hamburger-eating, numb-skulled bunch of idiot writers.

And so it goes. And all is well.

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