I Am An Astronaut! (Well, I've seen the moon at any rate...)

A few short years ago, telling people I was a writer evoked one of two reactions. Some would smile benevolently, indicating that my words had registered but they’d rather not hear any more about it. Others would burst out with wistful envy and awe, “Oh, I’ve always wished that I could write!”

Lately something has changed. Admiration for those of us who genuinely plod away at the art of wordsmithing (in the hopes some sort of payment will follow), has virtually disappeared. Nowadays, when I’m forced to confess to being a writer, I most often hear, “Oh my god, what a coincidence, I’m a writer too!” Yes indeed, in 2006, everyone is a writer. (When did you all stop wanting to be actors?) Everyone has a keyboard, a printer, a website, a blog, a postcard and when they marry those to an opinion, dirty joke or observation, they believe themselves to be inducted into the dubious camaraderie of the literary world.


With the utmost respect, allow me to state what should really be perfectly obvious. For those of us who have toiled for years battling sentences into submission while consuming gallons of bad java or arguing with obtuse nouns during the dark hours of the night, this is unspeakably insulting. Put it this way, upon meeting the First Soprano of the London Opera at a social occasion, would you burst out with “I’m a soprano as well, I sing in the shower!”

You see my point.

What I want to know is this: when did good writing stop mattering? I’m talking about good writers in a world where the bible of scribes may as well be renamed, "On Writing Well Enough." If the answer is – as I am coming to expect – before my birth, then don’t tell me. I can’t afford to know.

(Can I afford not to?)