There are some who are hailed as masters of the finicky craft of writing fiction, as weavers of literary magic. Here's a tip for ya: these people are usually the worst authors God ever put on Earth to kill trees with their stupid drivel. Here's a story to prove my point. There was once a man whose star happened to begin a modest ascent into those bizarre heavens we know as the Graphic Novel genre. Upon being interviewed by an obscure online publication, he grew belicose with confidence and bragged, "I wanna scare everyone. The whiny thirteen-year-old girl who wandered into a comic store to look cool, the stuck-up twenty-five-year-old hipster who thinks he's seen it all, the hardcore forty-year-old who really has seen it all and wants more. Everybody."
His most famous work was a substandard biography of a serial killer who looked like Francis out of Malcolm in the Middle, only with pouty lips and hair so greasy that it looked better after being rained on. Every character in it looked alike, a five-year-old drew a rough imitation of the art and won the prestigious "Most Superior Parody to Original Work" award, and the grammatical errors would've made a child teaching themselves to read with Youtube comments weep. Worst of all, it wasn't even scary. Last thing I heard, that guy was churning out bad pornography starring himself (I think as a werewolf). He still calls himself the scariest man in America, though. He's wrong, by the way. The scariest man in America is called Fletcher Longshanks. He hasn't been seen outside of his attic in fifteen years. The locals claim that no birds will sing in the trees surrounding his house, and he's been cited many times by the town council for giggling rubbish bins and random vortexes.
What I'm trying to say is, big dreams don't neccessarily translate to reality the way the starry-eyed want them to. Me, I can't claim to be some kind of super-awesome wordsmith. I can't seduce a lovelorn young paragraph and drive it mad with infatuated longing. Similes ignore me at parties. One time, this metaphor I was seeing-nothing serious, just dinner and an ellipsis every now and then-stole all my records and sold them to his friends. But I'm getting better. I want to be published someday. I want to have a book out there that fills people with a manic happiness when they read it. I want to write a book so good that the movie based on it gets five stars, every time. I want to be the kind of author that people nod and smile at when they pass me in the street. Here, right now, I'm scraping off my rough edges and learning by watching what doesn't work, what types of writing are untapped. So here's to everyone who's been reviewing my shoddy-ass stories-your comments are like midnight feats to a gremlin. Even that anonymous guy who said that sodomites are ruining the institution of marriage-you taught me a valuable lesson about forgiveness, letting go, and, most of all, marriage. See you all in Pinkwater. Yours, L.S.I.I.M.
Note: I have moved to Wattpad, and have some new stuff up there. Username is NoneOfYouAreSafe. http:///user/NoneOfYouAreSafe