Well, mister, I have something to tell you. I want to read what you have written. It is shit. How do I know this, you ask? BECAUSE I KNOW YOU ARE NOT A REAL WRITER. It is HARD. Really really really fucking oh my god will it ever end hard. Yet we keep slogging away. Why? Because we love it. It's our passion. If the only good writing, in your opinion, is the writing which comes pouring out of us, unedited, unshown to everyone and their mailman, undoubted, unstalled for hours as we search for a single word, then you are wrong. Good morning, mister writer! You are not God. What comes spewing out of your facehole is not gospel. Writing must be edited, then edited some more, then revised, then revised some, then shown to everyone in the known universe so they can edit and revise and completely change your plot.
You say to us who spend hours staring at our screen in frustration, to us who run every adverb by our girlfriend, to us who spend days at a time unable to continue, that our writing is bad. You say it is bad. BAD B-A-D. Plain. Boring. WHAT?! We spend years cultivating and perfecting our art. We are the keepers of a almost forgotten secret.
WE ARE WRITERS.
You are not perfect. I am not perfect. Hell, no-one has EVER published an unedited just-came-spewing-out-my-head rant. Show me one. ONE.
No luck? Because we need to make our writing good. We sweat, we bleed, we cry to struggle and slog through out hazy jell of cousiousness to write what we know to be within us. We don't sit and have stories come pouring out. Sometimes, sure, you'll get inspired and yell for a pen and paper to jot down ideas, but rarely do we just sit down and write and entire anything, mistake free. Actually, we never do that.
In layman's terms, in case I used to many grown-up words for you:
Fuck you and your horrible writing, mister.
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