He’s too fat.
When he comes to an idea, he doesn’t think on it, he writes on it.
When he’s given a job to do, an assignment, he rarely plans it out ahead of time.
He’s too judgmental.
No matter how hard he tries, he can’t refrain from science fiction. It’s just too good!
When he writes poetry, he fails to put meter into account. At all.
He can’t flow.
He overdoes dialogue, or he doesn’t do it right.
He doesn’t write often enough.
He can’t be original, because his brain is to big.
His references are both confusing and irrelevant.
He fails to make the reader care about what he writes.
There is no spice, no flavor in his texts, only the bland surprise of British food.
Girls are beyond him, in every way.
Writing holds no pleasure for him, except for the feeling that hits after a too-long hair is plucked.
He cannot convey his ideas, his notes in a clear, concise, easy-to-read way.
In his goal to avoid cliches, he makes the worst statements and metaphors.
He writes like he is on stage, wearing a rubber chicken suit, waltzing with a pig in a cage, on antibiotics.

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