the best writing on the internet

So says Mr. gingaTao

I don’t like creative writing, and I haven’t rated a poet since Samuel Taylor Coleridge, then again I haven’t read one since so what do I know. Add in the fact this guy is an Aussie who at times claims he has “the best writing on the internet” and we're off to a spanking start.

It’s not your average blog, in fact, it’s not a blog at all, but a collection of creative writings and poems.

Boring stuff first, the template is generally meh, at least it’s white. While I suspect you really couldn’t give a shit, I would suggest you sharpen it a little, dump that trash along the side, no one goes to your site to read the news, and fuck right off with your gingaTao store where I can buy a thong, or credibility, or some other such shit.

Tighten up those categories, structuralism etc, make it accessible for the reader to identify what you’re playing at. Give a newcomer a chance to figure out what you’re doing. That is, if it’s not too uncool for you.

I do find it hard to criticise anything you write because of it’s artistic and therefore subjective nature (although that seems to suggest that other blogs are of less artistic merit… who knows anymore).
Anyway, what you’re getting is my very personal opinion on what you do, while clearly it is something that runs through your veins, it’s not in the form of anything I would normally warm to.

The writing, you write your wee heart out, I love that. I found your best moments to be, surprisingly to me, a few of your short poems. A small boy holding flowers was delightful, to dust was a very good short piece on imagery that could have left you in cliché territory but didn’t, and some things are not ghosts is hushed and vivid.

I didn’t really enjoy your narrative pieces, personally I missed continuity, any real thread. Individually, they were quite good, but not substantial enough to leave me wanting more. Having said that, you did occasionally really hit heights.

Throughout, we read your observation of life around you, your opinion, your condemnation, your approval, but never your heart. You are always at a distance.

Where are your heartaches, your losses, your loves?

The closest you came was a post about your father, which for the life of me I couldn’t find when I returned to get the link.

You take a very clinical view of writing which left me a bit cold:

“my hatred of critics, of genre, of stuffy old grammar grannies, of all the postfacto analysis and name creating, postpostneoclassicism, knows no bounds, the only reason writing exists is to be read, being readable is the only rule”

Where does the emotion come into play?

Without it, you can write twice around the globe and remain dime a dozen.

As talented as you are technically, the only emotion you really stir is indifference.