Mr. Know-It-All

You probably know somebody like this. If so, you have my sympathy. They’re not evil, they’re not dangerous, they’re not necessarily threats to society. They’re just, well, damned annoying. And they make such wonderful blog fodder.

My story begins last Saturday, when I made my annual appearance at a writers’ group I sort of belong to. (Annual because they’re based in Philadelphia, which is a two-hour drive for me. Except when they meet at the one member’s house in King of Prussia, which is only a little over an hour away and doesn’t include all the traffic. That’s the one I go to.) There were only a few people present when I arrived, including one long-time member whom we’ll call Darrell. That’s his real name. No way I’m protecting this putz. If you’ve been even marginally involved in science fiction/fantasy fandom over the last 20 years, you probably know who I mean. If so, you’re probably nodding already. Yeah, that Darrell.

So anyway, we’re chatting about who’s writing what and I mention my entry in the Harlequin writing contest and how it’s the first time I’ve ever been able to use the phrase, “The dingo ate your baby” in a romance novel. I get the expected smiles and polite laughs and a good time was had by all. Until Darrell, who’s hovering at the edge of the group, steps forward and remarks, “You know, that actually happened several years ago,” and proceeds to relate the story, regardless of whether or not we’ve heard it already, or care.

Yes, Darrell. I know the story. Everybody knows the story, or at least knows of it. It’s been told so many times it’s become urban legend, to be used as the punch line in jokes. Which is why I used it in my story. Since the speaker is a demon who takes the form of a dingo and who’s possessing my hero, it seemed appropriate.

Not that my choices as a writer matter a whit to Darrell. He’s achieved his true objective: he’s successfully hijacked the conversation and made himself the center of attention by setting himself up as an expert. Not just on dingoes eating babies, but on everything.

I used to go to SF conventions, and I saw a lot of Darrells in attendance. No matter what the topic is, they’ll happily hold forth on it, whether they know what they’re talking about or not. Experience doesn’t really matter. What matters is, they’re talking. The spotlight is on them. All the world can clearly see how intelligent and knowledgeable they are, so much more so than everyone else.

Somehow I don’t believe “intelligent” is the word their captive audiences ascribe to these pompous motormouths. The word I was thinking during the dingo incident started with “a” and ended in “hole.” “Tiresome” also comes to mind. So does “attention whore.”

I don’t mean to single out SF fandom as a hotbed for these morons, but it does seem to attract this personality type. They’re very literal-minded. They don’t appear to understand humor, or irony, or sarcasm, unless they themselves are using it. They’re also oblivious to the phrase, “Will you shut the hell up already?” Darrell’s been with the writers’ group since before I started attending in the 1990s. He was this way back then, and he’s this way today. Yes, he has been told about it. He’s been ridiculed by others for it. It just slides right off. A willful lack of self-awareness also seems to be a trait of these people.

And yeah, there are female versions. It’s been my misfortune to know one. In fact, she’s also a member of the same writers’ group. Her schtick is to make every conversation be about herself. At least she knows her topic. One time, stuck in conversation with her, I deliberately kept switching subject matter, just to see what would happen. On average, it would take her only three sentences to redirect the conversation back to her favorite subject. A classic example: I was telling her about Stephen King’s then-recent accident, the one where a careless driver hit him with a van. Her immediate response: “I had a van once.” I kid you not. This is narcissism at its finest.

I don’t talk to her any more. It would be different if she was an interesting person, but she isn’t. She’s a major whiner. So not interested. Same for you, Darrell. You and the drive are the reason I don’t go to more of these meetings. I want to talk to and learn from people, plural, not just you. All I’ve learned from you is to steer clear of you, and try not to say anything at all when I’m within your earshot.

I’ve also learned the best thing I can do for my career is to skip these meetings entirely and spend the time writing. It’s a helluva lot more productive.

Which brings me to one of the best possible uses of the Internet. We can get up on our soapboxes and expound for pages on end on any topic at all, including those we know nothing about. It’s called “blogging.” Look at my spotlight, with me in the center! Hey, where you going? Come back!

Ray of Light

Logged onto the Internet yesterday and discovered an era had ended: Ray Bradbury, last of the grand masters of science fiction, had passed away at the age of 91. His life was a passionate love affair with the written word, which he was kind enough to share with the rest of us mere mortals.

A poet in prose, Ray approached language with playfulness and reverence. He could turn the description of an automated house slowing running down into a story to rival Greek tragedies. He could break your heart in 500 words. Some writers are natural storytellers but leaden in the prose department. Others can write beautifully descriptive sentences but can’t tell a moving story. Ray was one of those rare masters who could do both, and do it wonderfully.

Like many writers of the ‘30s and ‘40s, Ray began with stories in the science fiction pulps, but he didn’t go for the hard science, “clanky” plots. He wrote literary fiction set on Mars or in the distant future, and explored the darkness in the closet, around the corner, and within the human heart. His characters lived in a Midwest that probably never existed outside of a Norman Rockwell painting, and what a scary, wonderful, magical place it was. No ray guns and fight scenes and stuff blowing up for Mr. Bradbury; his stories were quiet little gut-punches of the type best whispered around a campfire while stealing nervous glances at the shadows.

His titles will be familiar even with those who don’t like or read science fiction: The Martian Chronicles, Something Wicked This Way Comes, Farenheit 451 (which wasn’t about book burning, but about the impact of technology and social media on society—written in 1956), “A Sound of Thunder” (for God’s sake, never step on the butterfly when you go time-traveling!) and dozens on dozens of others. Most are still in print, and will probably stay in print for years to come.

For a writer who got his start in SF, Ray was a notorious technophobe. He had no use for computers or the Internet. He never learned how to drive a car. Ray never graduated from high school. He always said he graduated from the library. He went in and read his way through the stacks and ten years later emerged with all the learning he needed. He seems to have done okay for himself. Take that, public school system.

My favorite story about Ray involves his early days as a writer. Being a writer, he was of course poor and had no typewriter. The library proved typewriters for 10 cents an hour. Ray would go in with a handful of dimes and start typing, feeding coins into the machine. With luck, he’d complete his story before the dimes ran out. Now that’s dedication.

Though Stephen King remains my favorite writer, Ray Bradbury holds the position of God. To me, his prose is the gold standard which we can admire and aim for and maybe, just maybe come close to achieving. I imagine he’s got his little room in paradise with a typewriter, a stack of paper and an endless supply of dimes, and is still turning out stories because writing was the thing he loved. We loved your writing, Ray, and we’ll be forever grateful that you chose to share that love with us. Rest in peace.