/lit/ - Literature

My ass my ass

You will never be a real writer. You have no talent, you have no imagination, you have no insight. You are a pretentious man twisted by greed and vanity into a crude mockery of literary aspirations.

All the “validation” you get is two-faced and half-hearted. Behind your back people mock you. Your parents are disgusted and ashamed of you, your “friends” laugh at your tedious attempts to be witty behind closed doors.

Readers are utterly repulsed by you. Thousands of years of analysis have allowed critics to sniff out pseuds with incredible efficiency. Even hacks who “sell” seem uncanny and unnatural to a reader. Your sentence structure is a dead giveaway. And even if you manage to get a contract, the audience will toss your book in the trash the second they get a glance at your stilted, awkward prose.

You will never be happy. You wrench out a fake smile every single morning and tell yourself it just needs a little more editing before you can start looking for an agent, but deep inside you feel the depression creeping up like a weed, ready to crush you under the unbearable weight.

Eventually it’ll be too much to bear - you’ll buy a rope, tie a noose, put it around your neck, and pull a DFW. Your parents will find you, heartbroken but relieved that they no longer have to tell you that your latest story was "good, but don't you think you should start getting serious about your future?" They’ll bury you with a headstone marked with your birth name, and no passerby for the rest of eternity will ever know that you used to refer to yourself with two first initials. Your body will decay and go back to the dust, and all that will remain of your legacy is a self-pub that is unmistakably cringe.

This is your fate. This is what you chose. There is no turning back.