I know you are, but what am I?

   A recent post on the site, Fiction After 50 (I subscribe to it just for information ... not necessarily because I qualify for membership), caught my attention. It was titled, Don't Check Your Ego at the Door. It starts with an exchange between someone named 'Whippersnapper' and 'Me' (the poster, Ron Benrey). I could summarize this conversation, but it would be easier to just cite it:

Whippersnapper: Do you want to know the real problem with late-blooming novelists, as you call them?
Me: Do you have a specific problem in mind?
Whippersnapper: You bet… (Smug simper.) You’re all on ego trips. That’s why you insist on producing paper books to give to friends and relatives. And why you still crave to do book signings. And why you print bookmarks (that nobody uses any more) and tacky business cards that proclaim your title as: “Author.”
Me: [Not quite sure how to respond] Umm… well…


   Ron goes on to provide a more thoughtful response to Whip via his blog ... about how having a healthy ego is a good thing ... at least I think that is his point ... you'll have to read the entire post to form your own opinion. Anyway, my beef is not with Ron's response, but with the fact that he felt compelled to respond in the first place. I'm guessing the real reason that Ron sputtered at that end of the conversation wasn't because he didn't have an immediate answer to Whip's comment, but because it didn't warrant one. 
   If I was having a conversation with Whip and he whipped out that statement, my retort would have been, 'A sphincter says what?' I mean, if you're into a meaningless argument, you might as well go for it.