I am so sick and tired of the dreamy liquid words of a woman who thinks herself higher by her language. they write of sex as trotted fingers skipping upon their own arm and think it goosebumps the rest of us. they think their metaphors cast us into spirals of confusion when it is one of the most common comparisons often showered by a twelve year old girl bored in math class. they sneer and scoff at the attempts of others for having to force themselves to be brought down to neanderthal levels of English comprehension in order to teach you how to truly be proficient. cannibalism. pomegranate seeds. Ophelia. mothers. daughters performing their literary blood-letting. all through the tappeting fingers of a stolen Pinterest manicure and tasteless silver rings.
am I a hypocrite? absolutely. but it is not the woman herself who bothers me. in fact I feel as though the topics I listed out at the end of my rant sound more of misogynistic dog whistles than the criticism of repetition I sought them to be. I could probably find myself able to hear her out. but it's when class involves itself. there in lies the rub.
whether by literacy, age, or class, I find this woman is more prone to scoffing at the ideas of another lady who may have thought of a comedy in her 40's. or a girl who wrote novice fan-fiction at 14. or the works of an airport author stuck in literary hell for the next 25 years. why must we only care when my writer looks like me and shoots nonsense she disguises as profoundness.?embrace those tropes so long as you are passionate about them. challenge other writers. write the strange. write the cliche. I wish to take your prompt with a smile.
and giggle with its sincerity.