Talented

Sometimes I think I must be at least half as talented as I could be, and probably 2/3 as talented as I think I am. Other times, I think this is it, and it's not so good.

Unfortunately, this evening is feeling like one of the latter. I was looking into Clarion West, a 6-week workshop for SF&F that they do here in Seattle every year. It's a very big deal, and I know I'd like to do it. I just don't know if I'm ready.

At first I was encouraged, because I was reading people's diaries from their time at Clarion, and they all sounded like they were having the same doubts and problems I find myself having. Then I actually read their fiction.

Is it bad that I wanted to see something that made me feel less like I'm wasting my time? I want to push this from being a hobby to being my livelihood, but I'm caught at a crux: What if I stink? Do I want to be one of those people? Like massage therapist cum actors who only get non-speaking extra roles? Or singers who are still in their friend's coffeehouses after fifteen years, because their songs are all rip-offs and mediocre. Or worse, those guys who wear sweaters and lock themselves in their studies to bang out "The Great American Novel," only they haven't written a word and if you ask them what it's about they give you generic themes and a thin plot that sounds like their boring lives, only if they were more brilliant. I don't know why they wear sweaters. In my head they wear sweaters.

I read in Stephen King's On Writing (and would quote it if my mother weren't borrowing it at the time) that King believes there are bad writers, good writers and great writers. You can't teach a bad writer to be good, or a good writer to be great. You can only teach a decent writer to be good...and either I've forgotten exactly how it went or Stephen King can't count.

Anyway, it makes me wonder, which am I? And do I even want to know which I am?