You write like an obsessive teenager

I visited Mina Witteman’s blog earlier tonight, and she wrote about an interesting exercise that she did with her masterclass. The idea is to let your inner critic speak without censorship. Read more about the exercise:

From here I’m giving free reign to my inner critic. I’m quite tired, so expect her to be particularly nasty and foul mouthed.

You dumb, lazy slob. You think you can write? You can’t even control a class full of near infants, never mind find the self discipline to finish a book. And what’s so special about you anyway? What makes you think you are any different from all the other Sally’s with a blog these days who imagine themselves to be the next great author? Did you ever stop to think that maybe you are just so ordinary and boring, that you have made up this world inside your head where you are the hero and this is your story and everyone has to stop what they’re doing and give a shit? Maybe, just maybe, you had such a kak childhood that you couldn’t bear the thought that this is it, that all you are meant to be is scum waiting on other people, executing their passions and their ideas. So you convince yourself that you are special and one day your writing will set you free. Why? Just because once upon a time a teacher felt sorry for your dirty hair and your yellow teeth and she told you that your homework assignment was good and that you could be a writer? Have you ever had an original thought in your life? This house, this job, this blog, nothing is yours. It wasn’t your idea. You’re a leach, you bum off other people and steal their personalities and change who you are all the time for other people to like you. And you think that’s a good writer? A good writer is someone who is strong, someone who can stick to their guns and deliver a message. A good writer is someone who can tell society something about itself. You couldn’t tell anyone anything about yourself that’s true if you tried. Just look at your welcome note. It’s generic and average, it tries too hard to be cool and nonchalant, when really you are just a stupid little girl who writes like an obsessed teenager who can’t get over that people have been mean to you and now you think you’re some sort of visionary. Please. The only thing you are good enough to write is Facebook statuses. Annetjie feels very tired today. Annetjie wants to go home today. Annetjie loves pizza today. And just like here, no one gives a rat’s ass. Your lines are like pompous little piglets suckling at their mother’s dried pink nipples. They go nowhere and they are of no use but to be butchered and fried and fed to pimply teenagers. Your imagery is like the brown rings on your tea mugs, they go in circles and they stink up the place. Your spelling and grammar are like Nazi footsteps, so by the book it bores me to suicide. What are you doing? Get a real job! Stop dreaming about something that’s never going to happen. Grow up and move on, you’re never going to make it, it’s over, you’re done. If you were going to write a book by now you would have. So what if you had university and a job and a social life? Now you’re just making excuses. You know that the reason you’ll never write anything engaging is because you have nothing to say, and even if you did, you’ll always yearn for confirmation from other people that you are good enough. Because you are me and neither of us believe in you.

 Whoa, she’s a peach, ain’t she? Maybe we should take this dialogue to the diary. Good night.



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