[Full Disclosure Part 1: Decker is currently on staff with the Southern California Writers' Conference. Take that into account when he blubbers on and on about how great it is. See end of article for special discount offer.]
About 25 million years ago, when monkeys ruled the earth, I wrote a novel. That book – which I furiously banged out on a Brother word processor, day and night, until the carpal tunnel spread to my neck, spine and colon – was a giant kettle of crap. And I don’t mean the kind of crap that most first time novelists produce due to inexperience, rather, the kind of crap that exists within the writer’s DNA, the kind of crap that no amount of experience or workshopping can ever flush – this crap was the kind of crap about which the Mother of All Craps could be proud.
“That’s my boy!” the Mother of All Craps was often heard saying about this novel.
Not having a predilection toward delusions of grandeur, I permanently shelved the tome and sought a career in journalism. This way, I could still be an author without having to write, or revisit, or even think about – ugh - books.