The Final Decision
Who decided it was a great idea for restaurant managers to wander the tables, asking if the meal is good?
I'm always either in the middle of a bite or my companion is in the middle of a story. It's an interruption. It's unnecessary. And then the waiter comes by and asks the same thing in about twenty seconds. (And after all, that's the person you've bonded with, having been told their name and their intentions: "Hi, I'm Derek, and I'll be taking care of you today." Good, Derek. I need help with some plot knots, someone to carry this bag of books around, and possibly some pyschiatric counseling.)
And who decided that stores need my phone number? They aren't going to call me up, at least they'd better not. But try saying, ever so politely, "I'd rather not share that." Sales clerks act as if you'd slapped them with an iron gauntlet.
I recall a relative who worked for a furniture store being disgusted with "experts" who came in to tell them what customers did and did not want in a sales clerk. Some of it was so ridiculous as to be offensive, yet the bosses made the employees act in accordance with it. After all, someone studied something to come to that conclusion (and they had paid for the advice), so people were bound to be impressed.
I suppose it's none of my business what business chooses to do. Those who can see through the silliness either smile or grimace in disgust. We encounter "expert decisions" that are asinine every single day, to the point where we have to decide which ones we will fight and which we'll just accept. In the restaurant, for example, I smile and tell the manager things are fine. I've even given up arguing with Fashion Bug about the phone number.
I'm glad, however, that I make the decisions in my books. No expert tells me what the reader will like. I find what I like, and then I publish it, hoping someone else will, too. You won't find me stopping by as a reader is engrossed in my book, asking, "So how is everything today?"
I'm always either in the middle of a bite or my companion is in the middle of a story. It's an interruption. It's unnecessary. And then the waiter comes by and asks the same thing in about twenty seconds. (And after all, that's the person you've bonded with, having been told their name and their intentions: "Hi, I'm Derek, and I'll be taking care of you today." Good, Derek. I need help with some plot knots, someone to carry this bag of books around, and possibly some pyschiatric counseling.)
And who decided that stores need my phone number? They aren't going to call me up, at least they'd better not. But try saying, ever so politely, "I'd rather not share that." Sales clerks act as if you'd slapped them with an iron gauntlet.
I recall a relative who worked for a furniture store being disgusted with "experts" who came in to tell them what customers did and did not want in a sales clerk. Some of it was so ridiculous as to be offensive, yet the bosses made the employees act in accordance with it. After all, someone studied something to come to that conclusion (and they had paid for the advice), so people were bound to be impressed.
I suppose it's none of my business what business chooses to do. Those who can see through the silliness either smile or grimace in disgust. We encounter "expert decisions" that are asinine every single day, to the point where we have to decide which ones we will fight and which we'll just accept. In the restaurant, for example, I smile and tell the manager things are fine. I've even given up arguing with Fashion Bug about the phone number.
I'm glad, however, that I make the decisions in my books. No expert tells me what the reader will like. I find what I like, and then I publish it, hoping someone else will, too. You won't find me stopping by as a reader is engrossed in my book, asking, "So how is everything today?"
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