Yes I’m serious. It sucks.
You. Your writing. The person standing right there, trembling, clutching your pages and swearing to yourself that you’ll never let go of it, never publish, never be the writer you want to be because your writing is terrible and awful and just not good enough.
You’re right. It’s not. So?
But I got more. That famous author you adore? Those books that awakened your soul and changed your life? Utter bollocks. If you ever met that author (or happened to eavesdrop on their therapy session) they’d be the first person to tell you their writing is shit. If they can stop sobbing long enough to be coherent.
Because all writing is shit. It all sucks balls. All the beautiful words in the world could be put together in new and miraculous ways but mostly they aren’t and ninety-nine sentences out of a hundred belong on the flaming crapheap of language.
We’re doomed before we begin. Do you know what a cliché is? It’s plagiarism that happens so often we’re like, “Meh”. And most writing is mostly clichés, tired and bored and overused bits of trite crap that hold everything together, and you have to use them or else your writing doesn’t make sense. There are books out there that don’t use clichés, where nearly every sentence is original and a marvel and a work of genius and I honestly have no idea what the fuck is going on in them.
And this writing? This piece is complete and utter trash. Look at that, I put a swear word in the title so you’d click on it. How pathetic. Tenses all over the place. Look at the repeated adjectives, the morbid dependence on adverbs, bollockly loose sentence structure, rambling arguments that also lack structure, the mixed metaphors and the slap and dash relationship with grammar.
And similes!! Who uses similes?! A shit writer, that’s who.
Because writing is like going for a walk in a forest (I’ve been in various lockdowns for a thousand years and all I remember how to do is walk in a forest and eat). I’ve walked in a forest a lot, and trust me when I say that a forest is ninety nine per cent bloody terrible. There’s heaps of dirt and branches and crap lying around everywhere. Every step has a pile of wombat shit on it because they’re lazy little buggers who sit down to poo. You get attacked by flies and mosquitoes and leeches and snakes and magpies and wallabies who missed the memo about running away. It’s hot or cold or wet or windy and something died over there and the stench is unholy.
But we go to forests and stagger around blindly, looking for the one thing that will make this horror worthwhile. Maybe you find a flower, or an animal who isn’t immediately trying to kill you, like a lyrebird or a caterpillar or a dead rosella. Maybe you find a lovely view, or a baby fern, or you manage to catch sight of one of those wombats mid-crap. And with just that one gem, you will come home singing the praises of nature and how lucky you are to live close to a forest you can walk in during lockdown and get bitten by various assholes and trip over wombat crap.
Because writing isn’t about being good (as we have established above, we are not). Writing is about having something to offer. Maybe it’s an original character, or an excellent plot twist, or an inspiring idea. Maybe it’s just one line that is brilliant or funny or insightful or wise or poignant. And maybe that will be all your readers need to feel moved, or delighted, or blown away.
And the other ninety nine per cent of your writing will suck. And that’s OK.
Because reading is like eating (I said I only remember how to walk and eat, I wasn’t kidding). We consume stories and we can’t stop. We might aim for gourmet meals but most of the time we end up shovelling down stale saladas and vegemite while standing over the kitchen sink. And if it’s between stale saladas and starvation, saladas win out every time.
We are compelled to read stories. And some of us are compelled to write stories. And if one tiny thing in the story you need to write happens to be the one tiny thing that your reader needs to read, that’s the best you can hope for really.
So stop worrying about being a good writer, because you won’t be. Nobody is. Just try to be better. A bit better than you were the last time you put pen to paper and ended up with a reeking mess. Your next reeking mess might not be so bad, but either way you just keep going until you finally stumble over something worthwhile and then you keep going some more. Because all writing is shit.
Get it done. Publish. Put your words out there. Strive for something incredible and fail. Weep, drink, go back to work. It’s all shit.
Congratulations. You’re a writer.