I’m terrible at writing
Like horrendous. The dregs of the dregs. The shit that I write would put shit to shame. It’s perplexing how my computer screen doesn’t explode from entity cramming with all the trash that I fill it with. I’m not even halfway through my first draft of my first attempt at a real novel and I’ve managed to hit all the cliches. Legit all of them. The mirror to describe the character. The overly witty dialogue. The constant single sentence dialogue. It’s poop. But you know what. It’s my poop. And I’m proud of it. I read over all this slop I disgraced the world with and will continue to do so as I see fit. Why? Because I love it. I love reading and writing. I love stories of all kinds in all mediums. I love them so much that it physically pains me to not try my hand at a story of my own creation. I don’t care if it’s trash. I don’t care if it sucks. It’s mine. I was going to search up how to get better at writing before typing this, but I stopped when I realized I was falling into that false productivity loop. Trying to cheat myself. Why ruin the journey of sucking for a while? It’ll be a long while, but all the while I’ll be writing, so what’s the rush? I will enjoy this. I love that I suck, because it means I have more to write until I don’t, and then even more after.