My parents were English professors. When I was a university student, I showed them my prize science fiction story. Mom refused to comment. She was always of the opinion that if you haven't anything nice to say, don't say anything at all. Dad used diversion. He said my talent was clearly in non-fiction, and he praised the A+ papers I had written for my classes. "But Daaaaad! What about the story?" "I've got to grade some papers, son. Maybe another time." I asked my best friend, Blobbo, to give an utterly ruthless line-by-line critique, telling him I wanted nothing but honesty. Boy, was he honest!

From my friend's helpful line-by-line critique--and yes, he remained a dear, dear friend--I discovered to my dismay that every single line in my story was bad. Nothing was right, absolutely nothing! Although the grammar checker and spell checker were satisfied, those things are elementary mechanics, which all writers must master first of all, but they represent a low level of skill. There were errors in logic, far too much passive voice, horribly common cliches, airy verbosity, lazy disorganization, outright contradictions, and other blunders of style, taste, sense, and clarity.

My ego was slain. Buzzards circled. Years passed. Ego is a funny thing. It just keeps getting resurrected somehow. If one enjoys doing something, one is likely to find an excuse to do it. Writing turns me on. I purchased some books on the art of writing, practiced, and possibly improved a little bit. I may know nothing, but at least now I understand that writing is a difficult art that takes time to master. I take comfort from reading Mary Renault's early works. Wow, did she improve! Well, there's some hope for us all, perhaps.