Ah! you will say, the clock has spun round and the time has come again, another opportunity for this foolish writer to complain and lambast on paper. But not today. For today i have seen the light, today i am here to say d truth. The irrefutable, it-pains-me-to-utter-this kind of truth. I would say the truth of my writing and i would not mince words. I challenge you to counter me, and I am secure that you will not. For if you do, you praise me. Though if you do not, you do also. But that is my bonus.
As an independent observer reading one of my pieces one day, I realised the inadequacies hidden behind every line I write. I play up my words with tunes of high pitches, gross embellishments and exaggerations, searching for deeper meaning where sometimes there is none. It is annoying to the seasoned reader when he takes up a piece of my work. What he views is a truckload of horsedung whose creator has merely clothed with finery. And as one idiotic fool said, that is the true definition of a writer. Ha! What does he know?
Never before have i been so disgusted as when i took up one of my works to read during one of my boring hours and all i saw was a pseudo-litany with sexual underlining. I shook my head and laughed at myself. What i was exhibiting was a shameless salesman technique where you give the people what it is that they want at the expense of literary morality. And that is just the tip of the iceberg.
Going further, on extremely boring days, i notice a trend which has begun to dog my work. The trend of addressing myself to the reader as though on a personal basis. What does that mean? Since when did that become artistic writing? As far as I am concerned that is a mere trick to grab the readers attention and keep him with you all through the article and that is just bullshit isn’t it? Honestly, as far as i am concerned it takes a high level of intelligence to read anything I write, I may kid myself that it is because some of the offhanded phrases and lines I throw in along the way require past your basic intelligence, but I know better. And you do too. The reason why those who discard my articles claiming its unreadability do so is simply due to the length! I write for too long, using big words. And a piece is essentially supposed to be short and to the point. To justify myself I claim it is because, I get ideas more than the average man and hence have more material to work with, but you know better don’t you? Or I could claim that the topics upon which I write are just too intelligent or even bourgeois for the common man to interprete. What insolence!
On most occasions I can be downright insulting and that I know. I end up coating my words in vernacular and slang to take the brunt of the insult but only after the damage is done. Some people call that brilliant journalism or a sort of diplomacy. I simply call it pretence. Why do I couch my words in hidden terms and double entrendres? Is that not more of an act of cowardice than a supreme style of writing? The writer should say what he wants to say, for he is the Fourth Estate, not a snivelling man hiding behind a curtain! Right?
When the subject matter shifts to girls, in a totally and quite typical male chauvinistic pig attitude I am highly critical and quite dirty. Even Oscar Wilde I fear will have a thing or two to say about me. I console myself saying, it will merely be jealousy which shall trouble his heart. But who knows such things?
The other day i took it upon myself to write a poem. Who send me? Who asked me to? I had not even recieved a wide acclaim for my articles. At the very most, about 500 people in the whole wide world knew I could spell out the words of an article. And I wanted to try on the highly exalted chair of the poet? Why? Because of a couple of romantic pieces I had written once or twice which earned me some two-bit fame? Hmmph! I amuse even myself.
There exist a lot of people in this world and of this number, a very few of them are storytellers. Into this small circle is where I sought to throw myself. The annoying, and by that I mean, really annoying part is, I am no good at it! If i was, then i wouldn’t have needed to try convincing my editor of the worthiness of my novel, (he should have simply caught on right away). I would have more subscribers following my blog (maybe like 50, 000 ) and even in the days when we were young and we sat on the bunks and told stories, I would have a listening group of 90 people, rather than a loose collection of friends who obviously were waiting for me to round up (out of courtesy) so they could go do something more interesting like solve further mathematics.
This is the truth and I say it plainly, I cannot claim to be a master of magic and spin webs of words around your heads and keep you so enthralled you’ll gladly lie at my feet just to feel the words pour out for a thousand years. No! I simply write and apparently, somewhere deep within your crazy souls (you have to be crazy to read from me), there is a need to hear something no one else can give you. I will always provide for that need. I cannot but do so.
I have criticized myself. You have been duly warned. You read on at your peril.