The kind of writers that I hate the most are the ones that had to go to school to learn the craft. They are the most dangerous elements of the creative writing community. Their mission is to establish and fortify strictures in structure and grammar; and they are easy sell-outs to editors and similar pernicious parasites to the publishing process. In all of their miserable writing life they tend to remember everything that they have been taught in school and tend to learn nothing new.
You find the best of them clinging to a dream of a ascending to similar literary heights as heroes who they awkwardly try without success to imitate, or as clearly superior literary foes which they envy without hope. Eventually ,and because there is no passion for this craft which they only mechanically try to master, the best of them eventually recede back to where they quite rightly belong - back into the academic community , or into a leather chair in an overrated publishing enterprise. And from their beaten position they ply a new career of creating drones programmed to perpetuate the reign of mediocre literature. The worst of them become bitter critics with poison flowing in their veins and with a lifetime diabolic mission of character and talent assassination. For these I have no time.
I used to feel somehow disadvantaged because I had unlike the African celebrities of the craft, not gone to university to study English Literature instead of Engineering . Indeed I used to feel somewhat disadvantaged that I had no formal training in the craft of writing other than a good eye and ear for words which should belong together. My English has never been perfect either; quite often I still mix up tenses. Wake me up on a bad day and I may be unable to define a verb or an adjective ; and atimes when unable to find the appropriate word to use, I do create my own and use it anyway and stick a finger up in the face of grammar. But now I am completely grateful to have escaped the fate of being taught to write to academic formulas. I am so grateful that they do not mean anything to me. I am so grateful to have discovered that I am one of those abominable existential writers. Stab me in the heart and blood gushes onto the floor in a pool of writhing words. I am so grateful for my gift; I feel so much blessed for my disadvantage.
The kind of writers I hate the most are those that are completely bereft of distinguishing colors,and so gladly troop out with sundry mediocres in queues of dismal greys- bearing dry gristle for the mental mill of those that that are not permitted to know the difference.