Coincidence

Some years ago, I was on a how-to-write panel at a science fiction convention whereupon I chanced to sit next to a writer I didn't know. This fellow was, I came to learn, part of a collaborative team, and recently added. (His collaborator had a successful series going, and the man to my right joined up. As far as I was later able to determine, he didn't have any other novel credits.)

So we are talking about this and that, and this fellow–let's call him "Kenny,"–was going on at some length about the writing process, allowing as how when it came to rewriting, there was Only One Right Way, and he was hammering it home with a pretty heavy maul. 

Pretty much when a writer tells you there is Only One Right Way to craft a story, he is full of feces right up to the scalp follicles. What works for him or her might not work for others at all, and no two writers I know do it exactly the same. So I offered that there were other paths up the mountain.

No, he pedanted pontificatedly, such paths were not as efficient ...

I wanted to laugh, but managed to hold it to a chuckle. Really? I was on a different path and had written and sold more novels than Kenny and his collaborator had by a multiple of seven or eight, so I didn't buy that he was the guy to be giving me lessons on much of anything.

Be like me sitting next to Ursula LeGuin and telling her she was doing it wrong ...

I have noticed over time, probably you have, too, that often, the people with the least amount of knowledge about a thing sometimes offer the most advice about how it should be done.

I didn't slide over and slap him as one might an hysterical friend, to snap him out of it, though I confess the urge was there. It takes all kinds, everybody has to be someplace, and it was just a panel at a con, move along, Steve, it matters not in the grand cosmic scheme of things.

But, still: throughout the rest of the presentation, Kenny's arrogance shined through. Let me count some ways ...

It might seem something of a reach to define personal arrogance by remarking upon a person's clothes, but his costume was such that he was Making a Statement, though I'm not at all sure what it was. I won't say what he wore, that would give him away to anybody who has seen him.

(Back when I first started writing, I bought a pipe and a cord jacket with leather patches on the elbows, just in case anybody might miss that I Was A Writer (ECHO WAH-WAH EFX OVER: "Writer ... writer ... writer ...") so I do understand that young and foolish cuts you some slack. Kenny was not so young, but give him a little bit.)

There were microphones on the table, it was a largish room, and although I pride myself on having enough voice to reach the back row without amplification, Kenny didn't have those chops, and he refused to use the mike. Now and again, somebody in the rear of the room would yell "Speak up! We can't hear you!" when Kenny offered his pearls of wisdom. That pissed him off. Jaw muscles dancing, and teeth gritted, he would raise his volume for a line, then drop back to the level where he'd been. When the folks in the front row are leaning forward and cupping their ears to hear you, you know the ones by the back wall can't make out what you are saying. Which was just as well, far as I was concerned, but ...

Kenny seemed truly irritated that people didn't have better hearing. And that must be the problem, because it certainly couldn't be his fault.

Eventually, mercifully, the panel came to an end, and as I gathered my placard and jacket and all to head to my next panel, somebody came up to ask Kenny a question.  About martial arts.

It seemed that Kenny was also an expert martial artist, and after a few moments eavesdropping, I had heard more than enough of that, too, so I shook my head went along my merry way. 

It stuck in my memory; first impressions, especially bad ones, sometimes do, but I wasn't going to lose any sleep over it. With any luck, I'd never run into him again, and Bob's your uncle ...

Now, I told you all that, so you'd understand this:

Recently, I was on a website upon which there was a lively discussion of a somewhat contentious happening at a science fiction convention. Hardly a surprise–cons are notorious for conflict, happens all the time, many enemies get made, people storm off to live in France, there are parties you can't invite this fellow and that one to, and grudges last until everybody connected to them dies. In this case, somebody behaved badly and somebody else was taking them to task for it, and readers were choosing sides, as they are wont to do. It was so awful! No, it wasn't that awful! He should be tarred and feathered! He should get a medal! The usual back-and-forth. I didn't have a horse in the race, not having been there, but I read along ...

... and there, weighing in, was Kenny! Allowing as how he was a man of the world and above such squabbling when he attended cons, and a couple of other choice tidbits involving his manly manhood and ...

I could not help myself. I logged on, and basically told them the same story there I told you here, without mentioning names or places. Because it seemed, I dunno, so ... well, karmic and all ...

Now understand, I don't expect that Kenny will for a New York second, see himself in my story; the nature of who he is wouldn't allow it. There might be people who recognize him, but if you do, don't post that in the comments section, I don't want to give him any photons. 

I just want to note that sometimes life gives you these little opportunities, and while, as often as not, you should turn away, sometimes, you just can't ...