Amid Confusion

Every con I've been a part of, there comes a time that happens. It's just like the middle novel doldrums. And I'll say here this isn't a cry for attention or reassurance.

After bs'ing my way through panels and hobknobbing with my friends who are also writers, discovering just how woefully under-read and under productive i am that I feel I'm playing the pretender.

I know it's not really founded on anything more than my own feelings of inadequacy. All these people I look up to we're at similar places in their careers at some point. They were all knewbies and unpublished. It's not like John Scalzi sprang full formed, armored, and published from the riven skull of Patrick Nielsen Hayden.

But what is the difference between me and some super fans that are in the audience. Hell the guy in the Star Wars Stormtrooper getup with the amplified voice box feels like he's given more blood to the temple of writing than I have. Well, at least his sweat, probably.

Again, this isn't a call for reassurance or pity (I've got enough of that somewhere in the well of my soul). I'm putting it out there to share so others who may have the same feeling won't think that they're the only one in the crowd with the false mask of confidence and bragdagio.