If there’s one good thing about having been born and raised in an era where authority was unquestioned—as long as you’re still around to have gained the benefit of living into an era where you do not accept authority’s word without questioning it first—it is that you have the advantage of knowing when to apply either concept.
Authority is not always right. Sometimes at best all it proves to be is knowledge up until now that is yet to be disproven. At worst, it’s blatant abuse of knowledge. But most often it has the backup of experience that has evolved through generations or even centuries and still holds true. Aesop’s Fables are just as clear a picture of man’s morals and nature as when they were written: The fox, unable to reach the grapes that hang high above him decides that the grapes are probably too sour to eat.
I have often complained—no, bitched in disgust—about basing a story around a standard of number of words. “I want you to cut it down to about half, maybe 90,000 words,” or “I’d like to see it turn in at about 12 pages.”
Firm in my belief that no matter how crazy something sounds, there’s always a seed of truth within that started it all off, I now tend to at least attempt to understand the reasoning behind the statement given. Sometimes the reason has been lost through time and translation. Sometimes a simple answer can be provided. Sometimes it’s best to just figure it in among the other variables. Always though, it’s best to consider it before discarding.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology