I Write the Worst Book Ever.

I wish I was joking with the title. I do. As a writer, I take pride in my way with words and my ability to paint a pretty picture (metaphorically, of course. My artistry isn’t quite there yet), but it’s gotten to the point where I’m just out of options. I’m looking back at all the advice I’ve ever heard, thinking, “Damnit! They have a point.”

Throughout my life, I’ve run into this ‘perfectionist’ thing a few times. Really irritating, wouldn’t recommend. Apparently, a few writers actually encounter it. Ever heard of it? Eh. I’m sure I’m just special and unique.

The point is, I’m finally at my wits’ end with it. Eventually, issues stop being so doom and gloomy and really just start being a pain in the ass. I open up a notebook, try to write, the voice in my head starts doing its thing. Previously, I would quake in fear and resolve to never touch a pen or keyboard again, to spare the world from my dreadful words. Now, it’s just kind of like, “Really? Is this the best you can do? I’m kind of busy here.”

But I digress. A goal of mine for years and years and years has been to write a book. Again, very special and very unique, I know. Venturing where no man has gone before. Yet after all these years of the same goal, I’m still yet to see a finished book. I probably get about two thousand words in before I curse myself for ever daring to try – as obviously the idea is completely horrendous, and who would ever want to read anything of the sort? I pre-reject my own writing and ideas before people even get to make up their own minds about me.

But then I think back to my Wattpad days, where I would sit and read on the very safe and great-for-your-eyes layout from a tiny phone. Reading a story that a thirteen-year-old wrote every day, only half of which made sense. I hate to say that at the time I would think, “Gosh, I can write better than this.” Almost scoffing at the audacity while I read. I don’t know what type of superiority complex I had going on back then. Did I read it anyway? Yes. The whole way through? Yes. Props to them – they got further than I ever did. I underestimated just how difficult it is to even be consistent with something, let alone consistent and good at something.

As I’ve gotten older, I understand the depth and bravery it takes to actually put yourself out there like that, whereas I shoot myself down before I even really try. My sister used to love hearing about the things I was writing and working on – it’s now gotten to the stage where I rush to her with this amazing new idea, and she just looks at me sideways, and the first thing she says is, “Yes, but will you actually do it?”

I then get offended, of course, as how could she even ask that when this is my sole passion and new reason for living, and she should just forget about the other 300 ideas I got her excited about and never delivered on. I also have a friend from uni who made me promise to put his name in the acknowledgements of my book when I get it published. That was in 2019. This book is still imaginary. I hope he’s not still holding on to that promise.

Thus, bringing us back to the title of today’s piece: my new goal is to write the worst book you’ve ever read.

Upon reflection, maybe this is my perfectionism creeping in again. I’m sure I can settle for just a badly written book. It doesn’t have to be the WORST. Gosh. I even have to be the best at being the worst. Maybe the only thing I actually have to give up is the version of me who needs to be impressive.

But yes, shocking news. Therapists and coaches were right. You should just start badly. And writing badly with the aim of writing badly is quite freeing. I mean, it was painful at first. It seemed like every word I wrote was just evidence for why I should never write again.

It hurts to write badly. But it hurts more leaving goals unfinished.

Then, suddenly, the clouds of judgement and annoying subconscious self-protection seemed to be parting from above me.

I wonder if I should apply this to other areas of my life. Maybe this has been the answer all along. 2026: the year of doing things badly. Sounds like a whole lot of fun.

Well.

If this is the worst book you ever read, at least it will exist.