For several consecutive days, I saw this person as one of my Followers. I knew she Didn't Belong There. For several days running, I'd run the URL for my Twitter Orientation, to try to shake her off. Didn't work. She finally got the message:
Some people in this world find a little parasitical niche and latch onto it. One of these is anything that, other than sports, has the word "coach" appended to it: Life Coach, Writing Coach, ad nauseum.
I particularly have venom for "writing coaches." I mean, what the fuck is that? Someone to Ooh and Aah over your worthless shit, purring absolutely false encouragement? Do you really expect someone who's a coach to one day state, "Hey, you don't need me anymore!" Suuuure. You can get feedback from anyone who promises to tell you the absolute truth. Because that's what you need to get your work published: Material that is worth publishing.
What? When your shit gets bounced back time and again, are you going to write to the places that rejected it and say, "But my wriiiiting coach said it was Good Enough!!" Get real! They don't give a fuck for your writing coach. And if you were stupid enough to mention having one, I hope they put you on the Stupid List. Do you know the Stupid List? It's the list that's kept of people deemed so fucking hopeless that when your stuff comes in, it goes right back out again, unread.
The post that elicited her tweet? This one. That is called the fucking Truth.
Here's a quick way for anyone to tell if they're a true writer -- and I mean as in artist, not non-fiction or other types of writing (which are honorable professions in their own rights, but not anything I'm either interested in nor at all competent to do -- see, I don't kid myself on that point!). Pick up The Outsider by Colin Wilson. Read it. If you don't see yourself on every -- and I mean every -- page of that book, get out of the way of those of us who do.
And heed the words of the late Randy Pausch: “The Dreams Will Come To You”
No comments:
Post a Comment