The writing proletariat.
You know, to be perfectly honest, I find it rather amusing, albeit in a sad kind of way, how the people that post "chapters" of their "novels" on writing communities on Livejournal (such as writers_guild) are usually people that can't write a decent, grammatically-correct sentence, let alone paragraph, to save their lives. I wonder where these people even conceived of the idea of writing a "novel" when it's quite apparent, at least to me, they haven't actually read anything of substance. Otherwise, they wouldn't punctuate dialogue wrongly and get their grammar all wrong, and they perhaps also wouldn't jam-pack their "novels" with trite, tired cliches and generalisations and boring plot devices that are taken right out of a bad episode of Heroes. I mean, really. Where do these people come from? What's happened to the world that some random talentless hack thinks that he/she is able to write when all empirical evidence is yelling at him/her "no!"?
To add insult to injury, why is it that people with absolutely no talent whatsoever are able to churn out chapters of a novel, crap as they may be? At least it's something, right? Why is it that they can write copiously and endlessly about the most insignificant, inconsequential tales that have absolutely no basis in reality and therefore have absolutely no worth nor value (no I'm not a fantasy/science fiction fan), and yet...yet, I can't?
I refuse to write something unless I can do it well. If I can't do it well, I wouldn't bother. Maybe it's a defeatist attitude, but I prefer to pretentiously think of it as a quest for perfection. I'm pretty much a slacker in everything that I do which I couldn't possibly care any less about; but when it comes to the things that I care passionately about, I have to be perfect, or there is just no point. Tennis, for one - I get incredibly irritated whenever my forehand continues to be made of utter shit (which it does), even more so when my backhand, the only shot that I can actually do relatively well, fails me. This, mind you, is just tennis. It's a hobby that I'd obviously never consider making a living out of, something that I do for fun, something that makes me happy.
But writing. Oh, writing. Writing is another story altogether. I live for writing the way Roger Federer lives for tennis; the only difference is, he's making a hell of an awesome living from it, he's absolutely impeccable at it, and me? I'm struggling. Struggling. Seeing people that can't write to save their lives produce more work than me further emphasises that point and serves only to rub salt into my wounds.
Having a job in a law firm is great until the day comes when I wake up in the morning and find no reason to go to work. And you know - you know - that is inevitable. I don't think people really change. I know that, more likely than not, I can't. This is who I am, what I am; I can't try to be something I'm not.
To add insult to injury, why is it that people with absolutely no talent whatsoever are able to churn out chapters of a novel, crap as they may be? At least it's something, right? Why is it that they can write copiously and endlessly about the most insignificant, inconsequential tales that have absolutely no basis in reality and therefore have absolutely no worth nor value (no I'm not a fantasy/science fiction fan), and yet...yet, I can't?
I refuse to write something unless I can do it well. If I can't do it well, I wouldn't bother. Maybe it's a defeatist attitude, but I prefer to pretentiously think of it as a quest for perfection. I'm pretty much a slacker in everything that I do which I couldn't possibly care any less about; but when it comes to the things that I care passionately about, I have to be perfect, or there is just no point. Tennis, for one - I get incredibly irritated whenever my forehand continues to be made of utter shit (which it does), even more so when my backhand, the only shot that I can actually do relatively well, fails me. This, mind you, is just tennis. It's a hobby that I'd obviously never consider making a living out of, something that I do for fun, something that makes me happy.
But writing. Oh, writing. Writing is another story altogether. I live for writing the way Roger Federer lives for tennis; the only difference is, he's making a hell of an awesome living from it, he's absolutely impeccable at it, and me? I'm struggling. Struggling. Seeing people that can't write to save their lives produce more work than me further emphasises that point and serves only to rub salt into my wounds.
Having a job in a law firm is great until the day comes when I wake up in the morning and find no reason to go to work. And you know - you know - that is inevitable. I don't think people really change. I know that, more likely than not, I can't. This is who I am, what I am; I can't try to be something I'm not.