In the probably vain hope that I can progress as a writer, I've turned my critical eye inward and produced two poems that sum up why I live in sludge. It's easy to analyze others and see their defects of character and be scandalized by their bad habits and misdeeds, but it's another thing entirely to skewer yourself the same way. Readers don't really like to see the author as a cruddy person, as it conflicts with the myth that there is a noble spirit behind writing. I have been a self-conscious writer for the most part, trying to keep up the appearance of a noble author. No more of that, starting now.
In the end, I've discovered, it's the lies I've told (and believed) that have done the most harm. The truth can hurt, but it is in the truth that genuine creativity can blossom, and so I offer evidence of what has really been in my narcissus heart all these years.