Today one of my friends handed me a three hundred word essay on immortality and asked me to rate it.
I gave it a 5/10.
To be honest I wanted to give it a 3.
In my defence, the writer thought too much of himself(I am 90℅ certain it was a guy, given the references he used or rather crammed in an effort to be funny.)
That screwed up his writing big time.
He gave references to Robin Williams “we are food for worms” quote, followed by a quip at Da Vinci and Di Caprio in seemingly irrelevant contexts and ended with another quote from Troy.
All in one bloody paragraph.
Seriously, I get It, you watch famous movies. Congratulations.
But, then after I gave my friend a suitably worded review, ( I told her if the author rewrote the piece with a little less vanity it would turn out great) I began to think, was I too judgmental?
Sure, the writing wasn’t great, but was I too forceful, too aggressive in my judgement because that piece represented everything I hated in an author and most of my world loved?
The author in all probability is one of those people who have a thousand likes on his poetry page on Facebook.
He must be the celebrated indisputable God of the English language in his school batch, the witty learned Mr Popular who attends all debates and holds out on his own in word battles.
Inspite of all this social conformity to his brilliance there is something about such people that gets under my skin.
Maybe because I am generally reclusive, and I can’t work under pressure, when I see these people flourish it makes me realise I’d have been a lot better in his position if I had wanted to be.
I lacked the necessary competitive streak, that zeal you require to speak into a microphone,
So I am judging whoever succeeded in what I failed.
Did I fail really? I’ve been to a fair amount of competitions, but I disliked having to air my views on a platform and I disliked subjecting my ‘Facebook friends’ to my poetic whims.
Anonymity suits me better.
The choice I give to my readers to read or skip without an obligation suits me better.
So I did judge him, for being all that the world that expects an author to be, and what I couldn’t be.
But I judged his writing because, quite frankly, it was terrible.