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Sometimes, I try to write something. In fact, I do write something. I write line after line until I’ve got paragraphs. I spend several minutes, or even hours, before I realize my mistake, my monstrous mistake. It’s one I make repeatedly on blank screens and pieces of paper: I write a bunch of crap.
This wouldn’t be such a problem if only people enjoyed reading crap. But they have much better things to do.
You might be thinking, well, any number of things right now. But if I’m managing to engage you in this text, you’re likely thinking, “How do you even know if it’s crap?” Or, “What I call crap might not be the same as what you call crap!”
In addressing the former point, I can only say that if you want to be a writer, you work like hell to figure it out. But the latter point is more interesting.
First of all, by “crap,” I don’t mean “writing that is not good.” I can’t define “good” when it comes to literature. I would as soon judge what you read as judge the person who sleeps with you.
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