I was going through past posts and changing my name and various identifying features over to new, made-up ones, and I stumbled across this old post, written in response to a guy in my writing class who got snooty about my writing. I posted it, then took it down because there was an off chance that he would read it, and it had basically been written to hit all his psychological Big Red Buttons in ascending order of impact. So I didn't want him to read it. Because he seemed like the sort of guy who might show up at my house with a weapon if he did.

There is no way that guy is reading my blog now, and for some reason reading it brought back some pretty fond memories, so I'll post it now.

My dear and most condescending sir,

Much as I appreciate the time and effort that went into your communication re: How I Can Become A Better Writer Just Like You, I'm afraid I must decline to apply any of your useful, helpful and obviously well-meant suggestions.

There are many things that can be said to attempt to justify, though of course such behavior is beyond justification, my scandalous refusal to submit to reason. For the first, I'm afraid my simple-minded sex must be at least in part at fault. As you are likely well aware, we of the lesser-brained sex must cling to stubbornness, lest our weak-willed ways lead us astray in this time of moral turpitude. We are, sad to say, emotional creatures as well. Learned stubbornness and the emotional swelling of our womanly hearts make a most dreadful combination, which in turn leads to writing that unfortunately seeks to explore the inner workings of one's mind and soul, rather than car chases and knife fights.

As you suspected, I am, in fact, far too simple-minded to know how to write an action sequence, and your help in this matter will not go unrewarded. I had never before realized that all my writing needed was a good old-fashioned spilling of entrails upon one's doorstep to make it truly shine in the aether. However, such a thing is not to be! I feel that my ego must not exceed my abilities! I, sir, do not mean to shine in the aether; such a path is not for me or my sort. I am, in short, afraid. Yes, afraid! to attempt to tackle the grand precipice of literature that is cannibalism, self-mutilation, rotting mounds of human flesh, and other techniques that you make such free use of in your own illustrious writings, lest my feeble brain fail to comprehend the many and varied subtleties employed therein. I would fail, dear sir, and in the failing so break my word-filled heart that I would be forced to never put pen to paper again. Such would be the pain of failure on that  grand a scale. As you yourself were so kind to condescend to say, you would like to see more of my writing, were I willing to rise to the challenge of writing more like you. You did not think through the implications, my dear sir. It is a challenge that is beyond my simple yet charming ways. I, sir, can never aspire to be like you.

Again, allow me to express my appreciation of your continued critique. I can only imagine that you are a busy man, and taking the time out of your life must have been quite a stress upon your already-weary brain. I would suggest that, in the future, you not waste your time trying to teach the unteachable or bring literary enlightenment to a mind permanently darkened.

Yours in affection,

A Velociraptor, Susie