Why my writing sucks

Writing can be as easy or as hard as you make it. And that's okay.

I recently started thinking about the deep existential question of where I am going. Like, in life. Am I even going somewhere? The answer was no, I'm not (and that's also okay). But I'd like to, not in the way of grand goals but in the way of seeing little steps I can point to and go "see, this is where I improved over the last time I did this. Without crying." I may have grown as a person in the past few years, but those changes are more abstract than making a nice annotated graph.

Thus, I decided to use a scalpel for my own writing. Part of it is my desire to improve it, part of it is an acknowledgment that, as a first instinct, feedback might feel bad. You pour your heart and soul into a piece of writing. You refine it. And you might even pat yourself on the back. I cooked here, five-star Michelin, pomegranate reduction on wild-caught salmon (actually, that sounds kinda gross, disregard). And then someone rushes into your comment section with an insightful "wtf is that grammar you ESL troglodyte?" Is that valid criticism? Probably yes. Is it delivered in a helpful way? Definitely not. Can we learn from it, though? That's up to you.

So, let's move on to the juicy bits (if you're not interested in my personal dissection, feel free to skip to the actual advice part. I felt like it's only fair to walk you through the process on something deeply personal to me).

Injuries: "the cold and yielding gelatinous mass inside his otherwise unmarred skull" (my latest fiction post)

Words are fun. Some words evoke an immediate rush of emotions. Surely, if you describe a brain as a cold and yielding gelatinous mass, people will immediately imagine the sensation of plunging their own fingers into the goop. And yeah, they might. But then I go on to do it again and again and again. Some readers will quit halfway through, believing they could have just read a Thesaurus for the same effect. Some will finish the story and may even come away feeling like they just had a wonderful sensory experience. But they are tired. It was dense, it was evocative, it was flowery, it required them to sift through "dubiously" and "odd" and "unwashed armpits" to get to the crumb of the actual story.

Why do I do this? Well, as stated, words are fun. I like playing with them, with intent and focus. They make people feel things. They create art. I feel smarter when the words are like, really cool.

Why is it bad? Reader fatigue, word bloat, loss of clarity, im14andthisisdeep

Injuries: This entire post. Or any other before that. If you've read anything by me, you know.

Sometimes, I hit a pot of liquid gold with a sentence or a scene. I dip my hands into it, intending to prove my literary genius. I immediately panic that I don't have the actual skills to do it and proceed to fingerpaint Dickbutt on the page. I just did it again, see? I undermine not only the depth of my writing but the humor itself. If everything is funny, nothing is.

Why do I do this? This is rooted in a fundamental personality problem. If I'm not funny, if I don't make people laugh, then... who am I? If I have to go deep, to the painful bits and trauma and mundane life, and people reject it, it will hurt. And I take my defensive mechanism into my essays.

Why is it bad? "This was funny, right? Validate me!"

Injuries: Again, my entire writing.

I come up with a clever metaphor or a repeat element and then point at it, wink at you all, and go "SEE WHAT I DID?"

Why do I do this? Fundamentally, people want to be understood. And sometimes, if you're too subtle, people will miss it. For me, the metaphors or repeats serve a purpose. Usually one that relates to that deeper, aching part of me I want others to see but not reject. And since it's buried under all the jokes, exhuming it usually takes a few extra kicks to the dead horse's flank.

Why is it bad? Pretty much the same reasons as Cadaver 1 and 2.

Do these mean I should stop doing all this and reframe how I think about writing? Of course not, it would actually be severely detrimental. Why?

My weaknesses are just the other side of the coin of my strengths. I despise praising myself, but for the sake of this argument, we all have to take a deep breath and brace ourselves.

Because my writing CAN be evocative. It shows, it doesn't tell. It asks you to think and immerse yourself in the moment, to feel like you ARE the forensic interfacer experiencing a piss-soaked alien alley.

And the essays? I can be funny. It doesn't take away from the depression and deep ideas, a good witty line or dry sarcasm enhances the fact that human feelings are like that. Sometimes all you have left is gallows humor. The metaphors? They CAN be artistic. I can construct them to enhance the story, not bog it down.

If I learn how to muzzle these elements and use them with precision, I will grow to be a better writer.

Are you being accused of being melodramatic? Well, let me break the news to you. You know emotions intimately, have so many of them, and want to resonate with others on the same level. I will lend you that muzzle I just found and you can weaponize that to make the suckers in the comments WEEP.

Writing cliches and tropes? You recognized successful patterns, and they are that for a reason. You're just one harsh feedback session from knowing how to use them to your advantage, to lead the reader on a well-trodden path, only to hit them with the biggest subversive twist in history.

Your weak points might not have a matching strength, but they don't have to. It will require introspection; it will require a hard look at who you are and why you write. You might not even have a solution in the moment, but that's okay. Are your dialogues criticized as being unrealistic, short, or stilted? Well, maybe action scenes are where your heart lies, so you skip over the parts you find boring (and trust me, action scenes are HARD, so if you know how to do them, you're ahead of so many of us). Or you prefer vivid descriptions, setting atmosphere, introspection... Or, you know. You're just shit at all of it. But being shit at everything and realizing it is the first step to being slightly less shit at it.

Why does all of this matter? I don't know, maybe it doesn't. It's all about your goals. Writing for the pure pleasure of it is a fantastic activity that will enrich your life in an absolutely worthwhile way. You can even find success with it as a byproduct.

But there might be this little gremlin of ambition, somewhere deep inside your own cold and yielding gelatinous mass, going "but what if writing better? what if words out there? how hard could be?" And that's where you need to crack your knuckles, your ribcage, and someone else's skull. Pull out the scalpel and start cutting chunks of your darlings and stitching them together.

It will be hard at first, but remember when you were a wee drooling doughblob, trying to learn how to walk. Nobody expected you to know it straight from the womb; it requires practice. Were people laughing at you for needing to learn how to do it properly? No. Well, probably yes, but not in the way of "haha look at this idiot not understanding feet." More like "aww, look, it's a bit silly, but this is the start of a whole new journey! It needs the clumsy steps."

So I will leave you with the following assorted sentences I remind myself of whenever I stare at an empty page:

• Feedback and criticism are not a personal attack on me as a person.

• I am not a bad writer for writing badly. I would be a bad writer for refusing to acknowledge and learn from my faults.

• "How hard could be? Probably hard. Is worth? Maybe. Should try? Why not."

• GO BE AN UNHINGED MASS MURDERER AND CHOP YOUR WRITING UP.

P.S. I am not a writing expert, but I am academically pretty okay at analyzing it. I am also a manager, so I know how to find that one green number in the reddest most fucked up projects. If you want someone to gently hold your hand as they say, "fam, those commas made me cry, but so did MC's emotional arc" - I am here.