My Own Worst Critic

In this era of limitless information and with the advent of internet celebrity via social media, it seems everyone thinks of themselves as a critic. And why shouldn't they? These platforms reinforce the notions that "everyone's opinion matters" and that "your voice should be heard." This opiate for the masses, these serotonin dispensers and intellect vacuums, they're all complete rubbish and we know it. Most opinions are unwanted or irrelevant - I mean honestly, who gives a damn what some Instagram influencer thinks of a book? Based on their photos and interests I doubt they often read a book more than a hundred pages long if they're not being paid to promote it. People don't read real books anymore, they don't read real literature or appreciate the art of the written word, not like you or I.

While my writing career has been tumultuous and controversial over the years, I am nonetheless proud of my creations. This craft, this pursuit of imagining and capturing tales of wonder on paper is all consuming. As you know, I began my career with my first series when I was 17. It was a critical success at the time with much acclaim, including your kind words which I still appreciate. Many reviews proclaimed "young talent" and "brilliantly written for such a young author." While I was complimented on one hand, on the other I was enraged. My writings weren't just good for a kid, they were and still are brilliant for a writer of any age - something I was grateful you noted. I felt somewhat flattered as I began to receive commissions and respectable income, but I also felt misunderstood and constrained by these shallow critiques. While I cannot complain about having wealth and status at a young age, it was never about money. I sold the rights to my first series which, looking back, was among my lesser works. In doing so, I freed myself to pursue and hone my craft.

Like many others, I was seduced into higher education and the prospects of strengthening my skills. What a foolish endeavor and absolute waste of money! I had already generated the success my cohorts and teachers wished to achieve for themselves and, at the risk of sounding pompous, there was nothing for my professors to teach me. I was often called arrogant by my professors and classmates, one of the reasons I chose to leave. After all, I didn't need them to succeed, I needed no one else as I had already demonstrated.

Sadly, my critical and financial success never reached that of my first novel. After leaving college much of my money was gone and I had to learn to live like many other brilliant and misunderstood artists, within my means. While I came from humble beginnings, my mother always made sure I wanted for nothing and she appreciated my gift. She was very supportive and would praise my creations. She ensured I worked hard from a young age and was quick to punish me for poor grades, misspending money, or being irresponsible with my belongings. I didn't consider her actions abusive or unusual, but the state of New York did and would no longer allow us to be together. I moved from foster home to foster home penning my first novel and unearthing the real world of abuse and exploitation. After my success, I was able to be on my own and to fully explore my art. I was free of familial obligations and was financially independent by the time I was 18, what better circumstances could befall a young artist?

My second series of novels were rejected by many publishers for being too extreme or profane. The company that owned the rights to my first series would not allow my involvement in the sequels as it was too "dark" and "violent" for their bland taste. I continued to work on short story collections, but beyond a few commissions from publishing houses and editors trying to capitalize on my name to sell more copies, work was limited. But what hurt me most of all was no longer being applauded or praised for my works. I began to be harshly and publicly humiliated by critics. "Depraved and deplorable" and "incomprehensible to decent minds" I believe were your words. The worst I recollect was "unreadable. There is no art to be found here." I couldn't fathom how a respected, intelligent literary mind such as yours discredited and couldn't comprehend my work. Of all the daggers thrown at me, yours struck the hardest and infected my mind. You must understand, I respect you.

After reading your review, I couldn't sleep or eat. I would stare at blank Word documents and my notebooks with pure rage. I became obsessed, I needed to know what you thought was so terrible that my art should not be shared. As I said earlier, the internet has made the world a much smaller place. While I rarely looked at social media, I knew of no other way to gain your attention. After all, you never responded to my letters and your secretary never passed my messages on to you - about 250 I believe.
I saw you regularly checked in at the Starbucks on Broadway and Canal. I would sit there and type away not once being recognized. I suppose a decade of invisibility to the public eye is now paying off after remembering how different my young, naive face appeared in bookstore displays at age 17. I saw you walk in, your normal ensemble of dark jeans, blue Converse All Stars, and a faded blue sport coat to match. It was unmistakably you - the same uniform you wear to slay or praise authors in your monthly reviews, your articles which can birth or kill careers. Your regular latte and scone were prepared by staff for your to go order with your name and a smiley face on them. I followed you at a distance, waiting for the effect of the drugs I had slipped into your latte to take place. You see your routine, your mindless scrolling and drinking your coffee without concern of it's integrity, that made it too easy.

So now you're here, in my spare room - but please do consider this your room, your creative space. You're now unencumbered by your phone or laptop. No more notifications or reminders to distract your mind. Now you have all you need - copies of my recent works both printed and digitally, this laptop you're reading which cannot connect to the internet, some pens and a pad, a commode, a mattress, a desk, and a refrigerator full of some of your favorite foods and drinks. The room is soundproof and I have a shock collar attached to you should you decide the need to scream is in order. You see you no longer need your voice, after all, the written word is our medium of communication. Your right leg is also bound to the steel pipe below this desk. You'll find a single button remote controller by your right hand, that will ring like a doorbell to my room. And don't worry about your family or work, I've posted a suicide note on all your social media platforms and closed all accounts. So now that you are dead to the world, much like you made me, you can focus on my resurrection and restore that which you have taken away. Your life for mine and let's be honest, we both know I am the artist here and you are but a critic.