Today's blog is guest-written by the part of me that is filled with self-doubt and self-criticism.
Hang on, what's up? Oh, you're thinking about getting back into writing? Well, that's hilarious on account of how much you suck at it. You have no mind for prose, and you have nothing interesting to say anyway. What tales do you have to tell? Anything about your own life just sounds needy and bitter, and anything you make up sounds pathetically contrived. Your attempts to write fiction are too chatty and your attempts to write non-fiction are too intellectually irresponsible. You're boring. You're self-indulgent and self-obsessed. You're not funny or witty, you're just neurotic and circular. You're like the QUEEN of telling rather than showing. If you did write some piece of fiction, the world would just regard it as vapid chick-lit and smart people you respect would look down on you. You need to at least take some kind of class on stringing together a narrative or writing a decent description, and even then you would just see how everybody else had a lot more talent than you and hopefully finally give it up. Anything that you come up with and put out there will probably set back the causes of women and all of humanity by a couple of decades. Come on, do you really want everybody you know to read some piece of shit thing you write, and then have to have awkward conversations about it at reunions and holiday parties? You're not an artist. You're just a narcissist. Get over yourself and grow up. Or don't grow up! Fine! How about just kill yourself instead?! Awesome, now you're a blog cliche. Congratulations. Now I'm embarrassed for both of us.
Whew! Thanks, guest blogger! That was quite a mouthful! Now, please excuse me; I've got some writing to do.