Anger, offence and a torrent of reflective humility and fortunate vanity.

Sometimes books are really terrible. Sometimes they really are. I just wasted a good half day reading a stupid little book that even as an inexperienced writer I could correct and alter its paragraphs. Unfortunately for me the stupidness of the accused is not something I seem to be able to put down. I can disagree with everything it represents. It’s blind narrow-minded writing. On average I am not a particularly judgemental person. Sure, I observe like nobodies business and, lord knows, do I have opinions on what I have observed up the wazoo. Still this book… angers me in an odd way because it feels like a an act of disrespect to the storytelling of my generation. I can accept as an avid reader of teenage fiction that there are a lot of books out there that are so sappy it kind of makes you want to gag, but still the writing talents have not diminished, they have just become a whole lot more difficult to find. For example, The Hunger Games. Awesome book and rightfully quite famous. The Book Thief. Another great book. Not quite of my generation but still hugely appreciated by us. A less common one would be The Night Circus which I have taken quite a liking to. I guess that’s the reason that I feel so angry now. I despise the idea of stereotyping and generalisations even though I occasionally guiltily succumb to them and I don’t like the idea that all teenage fiction is twilight-y bullshit. I spend the majority of my time as a hide from society inside my own head conjuring up and writing down stories and I feel… quite… offended to think that my somewhat not bad stories would still fit into the same category as the book I just read. Of course I could never hold myself so high with something I care this much about. I have written some truly terrible stories in my time. We are talking some real sappy shit here. I can’t say how I feel about my past epic failures, because at the time I didn’t realise just how bafflingly terrible they were. I like to think of writing the same way I think of art. There are the pieces made by people who really know there shit. The guys who dedicate their lives to knowing their shit and make a point of letting everyone know they know their shit. Then there are the guys who really don’t know their shit and are humble enough to admit that until they are ready and have perfected themselves enough to run at the world with their guns blazing. Then there are the people who not only don’t know there shit but can’t accept that so they run at the world with a broken slingshot that they think is a plasma gun.
I think that pieces of writing just like pieces of art should always be attempted but never out put until your sure that you understand what good means in the context of what you’re doing. When I first started writing which was in about year five I did not know crap. It was around the time that I began reading on a slightly higher level, but still when it came to really good literature I would have see it if it started screaming my name and dancing the waltz with my sisters. I started writing because I wanted to. Thats the reason I do anything. My thoughts were along the lines of “Hey, I’ve thought of the outline of a story. I think it’s pretty cool. How ‘bout I write it down in this little purple notebook I found in under my bed one time”. As you can see I was not a particularly complex thinker at the time, now, on the other hand, I have complex thinking leaking out of my ears. When I showed people my writing, in my little purple notebook they thankfully congratulated me for trying and kept their well-earned critical complements to themselves. Naturally I felt like the toppest of all the top shit. Fortunately I always feel like that so it didn’t really make much of a difference. As I got older and I read more and more and understood more and more I discovered I wasn’t as top shit as I had perviously thought, nonetheless as I went though my terrible stories I still continued to believed that the most recent addition to my terrible stories what the best, all the while looking upon the one before it critically. Every time I wrote a story I would look back on the pervious one and find a few of my mistakes and I would be sure that I didn’t make them again. I continued to make more and more stories and they slowly, slowly got better. I am still doing this and will probably continue to do this for the rest of my life, because as my teachers have proudly preached to me “You can only get better”.
Anyway the point of this post it simply to spread the lesson the you must see and understand your mistakes to know the worth of your piece.

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