Recovered from the Wayback Machine.
The Bay’s remarkably clear tonight. The lights on the other side sparkle like wadded up gum tinfoil on the ground.
I was thinking tonight that writers are either abysmally insecure or abominably arrogant —we don’t fall in-between. And I think the arrogant ones among us are nothing more than insecure writers that got so tired of being insecure that they got mad and then remained in that state.
Go to a bookstore and stand between any two bookshelves. If you close your ears and open your mind, you’ll be deafened by the sound of a thousand authors whispering their insecurities into the night. What will people say? Will they like it? Why did that critic hate it so much? Why did that jackass give me only one star at Amazon? What if no one reads it?
Chances are if you’re reading this, you’re a weblogger. If so, then you know what I’m saying. Close your eyes now, and in your mind you’ll hear a thousand webloggers whispering their insecurities into the threaded void of the Internet. Will they like it? Will I get any hits? Will I get flamed? What’s my Blogdex index? Why is no one linking to me?
