I like to turn my nose up at terrible writing. Comfort can be found in the lackluster prose of some other writer who oozes the very essence of cheese. When it’s even worse than that, when the writing is so piss poor that the characters aren’t even half believable and the prose makes me want to gauge my eyes out, I get angry. But also delighted. Because at least I’m not that bad. At least I can subjectively compare my writing to another author’s and go: “Well, I’m not as cringe as this idiot.”
This is a nasty habit, I know. It’s not healthy to compare yourself to others, or knock down aspiring writers when they’re only trying to find their feet. Because I believe most of the time I do this I’m mixing up bad writers and amateur writers – that is, writers who are just getting started in the game. This is such hypocrisy. Because I didn’t start out über skilled at this craft. In fact, some may argue I’m still shit at it, like that one bitch from Goodreads. I think, I know, there’s a fear associated with me scoffing at amateur writers, because I see myself in them. I remember being a bad writer, and it is a deep seeded fear of mine that one day I may roll back and become one yet again. I’ve seen this in other writers I admire, Ray Bradbury comes to mind. His 1950s pieces are a thing of beauty, but his 1990s writings leave something to be desired, in my opinion. What if I ride off my coattails and think I have no more improving to do, and end up regressing? Can that happen? How much of an inflated ego does one have to have to even start considering this shit?
Every time I write these days, this fear is in the back of my head. And the middle. And the front. Sometimes I put things to paper and I can tell there was no joy injected into the words. I read back what I’ve written and I go “Ugh.” Which I am told is normal, but that isn’t what used to happen to me. I used to immediately love the things I’d write. I’d think myself a fuckin’ Shakespeare. God. In my personal life I’ve been doing a lot of digging into what makes me myself, my very soul. And I’m seeing all these cracks. Flaws that were always there. And as I work to mend these aspects head on, I can’t delude myself any longer in thinking that I am the shit. So maybe that’s where this new self-criticism comes in. I don’t even want to call it self-criticism, because everyone tells you to silence your inner critic. I don’t think this is my inner critic, or at least not entirely. I think this is a new way of looking at myself. And I must learn to love them, to see the beauty in what they’ve created, and to polish my work into something that I can once again be proud of.
Oof! Long tangent. I’m getting to the point.
There’s something I want to show you. It isn’t very good. I was an amateur writer once too, remember? I probably still am. Or perhaps me finally seeing my work without rose-colored glasses is the next step in me becoming a better writer. It’s a messy thing. This piece I want to show you is from my early days. Not my earliest days; I’ve been making books and stories since I was three. But as a freshly out fourteen year-old, I wanted to write a love story. Realizing I wanted to kiss boys, but not finding any real ones to smooch, I retreated into my fantasies. That’s what this project was.
Imagine: it’s 2009. I have just admitted to myself that I am gay. People are starting to really hate on Twilight, but it’s still as popular as ever. For the next few weeks I’m going to be releasing a little novella I wrote during this time. It’s going to be PAID content, so if you wanna dive into my past with me you’re gonna have to fork over a whopping five dollars. It’s also actually very closely related to a project I’m working on right now, which’ll become apparent in the coming year, maybe. I think you can see me developing my skills in this (highly embarrassing) story, but you can also see a pattern of longing. Never once been held. Never even been kissed. Watching emo boys sit around the lockers during lunch and wanting to mash faces with all of them. A science fiction nerd who’s too scared to go inside Hot Topic, but always lingers a bit outside the store.
This story, this terribly-written, cringefest of a story, is called The Winged Boy.
I’m so sorry.
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