Vancouver Writer’s Festival… huh, wha?

Geeze, it started already and I’m missing it?

To be honest there isn’t much there that interests me.  A Discworld or Star Trek convention this ain’t.

I don’t know if I’m depressed about this or not.  I’m a writer, aren’t I?  Shouldn’t something like this be my Mecca?  Shouldn’t I want to have an all-access pass and be walking around there every day with cotton candy and a balloon in my hand?  But about the only thing I want to go to is a talk William Gibson was taking part in.

What’s worse, I don’t even recognize most of the authors there.

It’s times like this that I wonder what the heck I’m doing writing.  You’d think I’d be as familiar with the writing community as I am sci-fi or something.  Right now I feel like a little boy trying to wear his dad’s work boots – clumsy and out of my league.

Of course, that’s why I have this bronze plaque on my desk:

Which is something he said when he was 87.

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