One of the things I’ve come to realize– after hanging around a lot of geeks, nerds, and miscreants– is that I’ve had a pretty idyllic life. And because of that, now that I’m dancing with the sci-fi crowd, I’m left out of a couple activities integral to the group identity.

Like the ritualistic Naming of Pre-Adult Grievances, wherein the geeks, nerds, and other social misfits gather ’round and play one-up against one another’s terrible pre-teen experiences.  (“I got wedgies every day in Middle School!”  “My parents were fundamentalist Nazis who gave me wedgies every day!” “I hated myself so much, I gave myself a wedgie so hard, I tattoo’d the Fruit of the Loom logo to the back of my neck!”)

See, I can’t really participate in those games.  I wasn’t popular; I wasn’t despised.  I didn’t get into trouble, and I tried to do well in school.  I had my heart broken exactly once, but soon realized it was for the best.  My parents trusted me, and I trusted them, and no one betrayed anyone, and we all pretty much get along and love each other even now that I’m dead set against the GOP winning the next election…

Can I even be a fiction writer now?  I don’t have any of the angst other people have access to; and thinking it over, I wouldn’t change that a bit.  I don’t want to suffer for my art.  I’d rather be content and mildly amused for my art, and I’m too lazy to change for the mere satisfaction of “success.”