harsh harold.

I try to be polite. I really do. But there are certain circumstances in which I am forced to relinquish both tact and self-control and tell it like it is. For instance, if you happen to mention to me that you like one of those absolutely awful radio bands like Maroon 5 or All-American Rejects, I will not hold back. “We can’t be friends anymore,” I’ll state flatly. I probably won’t even offer an explanation because if you’re really the type to think that Linkin Park is music worthy of appreciation, you’re probably also the type that a cohesively structured cause-and-effect sentence would utterly baffle. Maybe I could text you a simplified explanation with lots of unnecessary acronyms. WDYT?

And if you’re an amateur science fiction or horror writer, I am really going to try hard to be nice, but let’s be honest—you probably suck. By the end of the first paragraph of your story, I already know the end. Horribly lurking, inhuman creatures, only visible to your main character, will slowly surround him. And just as the group of unsightly beasts pounce towards his throat, he’ll wake up. “Phew, it was just a dream,” he’ll say, drenched in sweat but immensely relieved. But then, as he pulls away, one of the creatures, gnashing teeth and all, will be seen clinging menacingly to the bumper of his car. It’s really bad, but I’ll scour your paper for some ray of sunshine hidden beneath the piles of inept blithering—anything at all that I can speak of positively or compliment. But we both know that when I praise your indenting skills or the precision of your one-inch margins, that it just means I hate your story.

I don’t mean to be a harsh Harold, but I just can’t encourage these kinds of behavior. And however humble my contribution, I feel that if I serve as a soldier in the war against crappy awfulness, I’ve done my small part to make the world a better place.