Look, respect where respect is due. These writers have made waves, changed mediums, and influenced whole generations. But personally? I’ve got bones to pick. Whether it’s their tone, their habits, or how their work makes me feel, here are the creatives I have a complicated relationship with—and why.
Alan Moore – The Cynic Behind the Curtain
My issue with Moore isn’t that he’s untalented. It’s that everything he writes feels soaked in bitterness. Heroes are broken. Institutions are corrupt. Love is rarely pure. There’s rarely hope in his stories—just control, loss, and philosophical dread. And while that can be powerful, sometimes I wonder: does he even like storytelling anymore? Or does he just want to dissect it until there’s nothing left but pieces?
And then there’s his commentary. The man has compared superheroes to everything from fascists to members of the KKK—and somehow, no one in the industry ever seems to push back. It’s like he gets a pass because he’s “the genius” or “the wizard.” But it leaves a bad taste in my mouth. Superheroes aren’t perfect, sure—but they mean something to people. They inspire. They give hope. And Moore seems to have made it his life’s work to stomp that out and act smug about it. It makes it really hard to enjoy his work, no matter how well-written it is. I’ve tried. But there’s always that undercurrent of contempt—for the genre, for the fans, maybe even for storytelling itself.
Topics that come up:
The line between deconstruction and nihilism
Whether dark storytelling needs emotional balance
When criticism stops being constructive and becomes bitterness
The lack of accountability in creator commentary
Oh yeah he was my inspiration but now I feel less and less inspired by him.
Grant Morrison – The Chaos Magician of Confusion
I want to love Morrison. I really do. Their ideas are wild, their ambition is cosmic, and they’ve written some of the most interesting takes on iconic characters like Superman and Batman. But here’s the thing: sometimes reading Morrison feels like decoding a dream you don’t remember having. It’s like they’re always ten steps ahead of the reader, daring you to keep up—and not always in a fun way. There’s a line between mind-expanding and just exhausting, and Morrison hops over it like a multiverse-hopping punk shaman. Then there's the identity thing. Morrison made waves by calling themselves non-binary, but later backtracked and said they didn’t really identify that way, preferring “he/him” pronouns. Honestly, it’s hard to know where Morrison stands on their own identity, and it’s even harder to separate that from their writing. The same confusion about who they are seems to seep into their work—where nothing ever feels settled, defined, or grounded. It’s as if the chaos is a part of the performance, the cool, rebellious stance of "I’m beyond labels," but it can be tiring when it leaves you questioning what’s authentic and what’s just a persona.
It’s the same feeling I get when reading Morrison’s stories. They throw everything at you—ideas, references, mind-bending concepts—but the result isn’t always satisfying. At times, it feels less like a journey and more like a race you can’t quite keep up with, with no finish line in sight. Instead of engaging with the reader, it often feels like Morrison is playing a game where the rules are always changing, and you’re left trying to decode the meaning without any clear direction. Then there’s the “punk rock star” persona Morrison has crafted for themselves—constantly pushing boundaries, breaking norms, and operating outside convention. But when that’s the only thing your storytelling seems to be about, it starts to feel less like a creative breakthrough and more like a gimmick. Sure, it’s edgy. But is it actually meaningful, or is it just another act to maintain that rebellious mystique?
Amy Sherman-Palladino – Fast Talk, Slow Growth
Look, Gilmore Girls has its charm. The banter is sharp, the references are endless, and the vibes are cozy. But after a while, it starts to feel like a loop. The characters talk like no one else, but they often act like no one else changes. There's wit, sure—but where's the emotional evolution? Sometimes it feels like cleverness is a substitute for depth. And don’t get me started on how some of the characters treat each other under the veneer of "quirky dysfunction. Then there's the 2016 special, where Palladino revisits the Gilmore Girls universe. At this point, you’d think there would be some level of maturity, some sense of growth for the characters we’ve followed for years. Instead, we get the return of Logan, the charming, entitled mess of a character who seems to never face any real consequences for his actions. He’s getting married, but surprise—he’s still juggling another woman on the side, trying to give her gifts and not letting go of Rory. Honestly, how is this normalized? Amy seems to think it’s just part of Logan’s charm, but let’s get this straight: Logan is not some tragic hero. He’s a guy who refuses to take responsibility, refuses to change, and thinks it’s fine to cheat on his wives because that’s who he is. That’s bad writing. Palladino completely glosses over the fact that Logan’s behavior is toxic and never holds him accountable for it. The show acts like it’s normal, but it’s not. Rory should’ve told him to stop, but instead, we’re expected to forgive him like he’s just misunderstood. It’s frustrating.
And the same goes for Dean. Palladino treats him almost as if his mistakes are excusable or not worth addressing. Dean cheated on Lindsay with Rory, lied, and acted incredibly selfishly, but none of that behavior was really explored or challenged in any meaningful way. He was a mess, and Lindsay—who deserved so much better, is barely given any respect. Dean’s character arc doesn’t get the full reckoning it deserves. There’s no real growth for him after everything he put Lindsay through, and Palladino just brushes it aside as if it’s not a big deal. By the time Dean returns in the revival, it feels like all of his mistakes have been swept under the rug, and the show moves on without any real acknowledgment of how much damage he caused. It’s disappointing that Palladino didn’t give us the emotional complexity that could have come from addressing Dean’s past actions. Don’t even get me started on the missed opportunity with Rory and Jess. That could’ve been the relationship that truly evolved—two characters who actually had growth, and it was left hanging. They had chemistry and shared values, but instead, Rory’s stuck in this weird emotional limbo with Logan, and the show just ignores the possibility of what could’ve been a healthier, more genuine relationship. There’s something off about the way Palladino handled the characters' dynamics in the revival, and it’s a huge disappointment for anyone who hoped for a more mature resolution.
As for Lorelai, I’ve never been a huge fan of some of her dialogue either. While her sharp, quick-witted banter was once charming, at times, it feels forced, almost like Palladino is trying too hard to keep that “quirky” edge. Some of Lorelai’s lines can come off as odd or even a bit cringey. It’s almost like Palladino’s trying to make her character sound smart or endearing, but it doesn’t always land. Lorelai’s dialogue feels more like an exercise in fast talking than an authentic way of expressing herself. It’s jarring when it pulls you out of the moment, and sometimes it feels like it’s more about style than substance.
Logan as Role Model? Bad Call
Palladino frames Logan’s return as a romantic homecoming, but the footage tells a different story:
Flirting with a Bridesmaid (2:15)
In this moment, Logan openly flirts with one of his bridesmaids right in front of Rory, treating her like a backup option while Rory watches. Palladino glosses this over as “cute tension,” normalizing outright disrespect .
Manipulation & Gaslighting (2:45)
Shortly after, Logan downplays Rory’s valid concerns, subtly shifts blame onto her, and acts hurt to make her feel like the problem. He uses just enough charm in his apology to placate her—without any real remorse or change—turning what should be an emotional reckoning into another display of “sexy bad-boy” antics.
Let’s be blunt: Logan is not a good influence. He cheats, lies, manipulates, and then expects forgiveness on the strength of his privilege and charm also stop thinking if he an misunderstood golden boy when he manipulated and is never held accountable for his actions . If Rory’s supposed to learn anything from him, it should be what not to tolerate. Instead, Palladino turns emotional abuse into romantic drama—and that’s bad writing, plain and simple. Yet somehow Amy Sherman-Palladino treats him like peak romantic material. Really? A guy who cheats, gaslights, dodges responsibility, and hides behind money? That’s the good influence for Rory? Even fans are starting to pull the curtain back. That Logan breakdown by “T1” on YouTube? It spells it out plain: Logan is bad news with a trust fund. If Amy wants to frame that as love, maybe she needs to check the difference between drama and dysfunction
Jess & Rory? Too “Bad Boy” Cliché
And while we’re at it—Jess and Rory? Palladino basically glances over the one pairing that could’ve felt real. Instead of exploring the dynamic between Rory and the brooding, bookish “bad boy,” she sidelines them for the same tired trope: charming rogue returns, everyone swoons. It’s like she’s never even seen a real 1950s rebel—it all reads like a checklist item rather than an authentic relationship. That could’ve been the growth Rory needed—a partner who challenges her intellectually and emotionally, not someone who cheats and gaslights. But nope, that ship sails off before we even get to see it dock. They deserve better.
Scott Cawthon – Brilliant Concepts, Clunky Execution
The Five Nights at Freddy's universe is a brilliant concoction of horror, mystery, and dark storytelling. The animatronics, the twisted history of Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza, and the chilling atmosphere all make for an incredibly unique concept. But when it comes to the actual storytelling? It’s an exhausting ride of confusion and frustration. Cawthon has crafted a vast and intricate world, but instead of letting fans discover the lore through well-structured narrative arcs, he’s opted for convoluted storytelling that feels like it’s intentionally built to be confusing. There’s so much ambiguity that it's hard to follow along, and the more we learn, the less we actually understand. The lore itself doesn’t seem cohesive. It’s like a puzzle with missing pieces, and instead of helping the fans put it together, Cawthon keeps tossing in random new bits, like the Bite of ’83 versus the Bite of ’87—and no real clarity is ever given. Let’s be real: for all the people who claim Cawthon had this entire plan mapped out from the beginning—he didn’t. No amount of backtracking or "retconning" can hide the fact that the lore was made up as he went along. If he had a grand plan from the start, things would be much more cohesive. But instead, it feels like a series of decisions made on the fly, which is why fans have to piece things together through wild speculation. The mystery isn’t by design—it’s a result of a lack of foresight. So when Cawthon acts like this was all part of some grand, genius scheme, it’s hard to take that seriously.
Remember those fan theories? Fans have literally had to create their own interpretations to make sense of the mess, but instead of working with them or acknowledging their ideas, Cawthon just plays coy and continues to introduce new mysteries. Imagine if he’d actually worked with the fanbase to refine and expand the lore together instead of making it an endless loop of "no, you’re wrong" every time a new detail is revealed. That could have made for a much more satisfying experience. Instead, we’re left wondering if he’s just trolling us or if he genuinely can’t connect the dots himself. The lack of clarity, especially when it comes to key events and characters, feels like an attempt to stretch out the story longer than it needs to be, without providing the resolution fans deserve. The comics oh man I’ve never bothered to read them, and it’s easy to see why. The comics are just another layer of confusion that only complicates the already convoluted lore. The series already has more than enough to keep track of, and instead of streamlining things, the comics pile on even more complexity with little payoff.
Oh than there's William Afton—the man who just refuses to die. It’s like Cawthon can’t let go of him. The constant back-and-forth of whether he’s alive, dead, or a ghost in a machine feels like a cheap way to keep him around, rather than giving him a definitive, meaningful end. It’s an endless cycle, and it doesn’t add anything to the story other than to drag it out. How many times does one character need to come back before it loses its impact?
What was the name of Crying Child—don’t even get me started. The character is arguably one of the most tragic in the series, and yet Cawthon couldn’t even be bothered to give them a name. It’s almost as if the lack of a name is supposed to make the tragedy feel more impactful, but all it really does is make the character feel less human. A simple name could have added a lot of emotional weight to the character’s story, but instead, Cawthon chooses to keep them as an ambiguous, almost anonymous figure. It’s a missed opportunity to add depth and meaning.
Topics that come up:
The frustrating lack of clarity in Five Nights at Freddy's lore
The overwhelming complexity of the FNAF universe and its lack of long-term planning
How fan theories were left to fill in the gaps that Cawthon created
The constant mysteries without satisfying resolutions (Bite of ’83 vs. Bite of ’87)
The missed potential of collaborating with the fanbase on lore development
The endless return of William Afton, diluting any sense of finality
The impact of leaving key characters like the Crying Child nameless and vague
Stephen King – The Unsettled King of Horror
Full disclosure: I’ve tried to dive into Stephen King’s work, but it never clicks for me. His sprawling horror epics and endless small‑town creepiness just aren’t my thing—and, honestly, his perpetual “creepy author” vibe (you know the photos with that intense stare) doesn’t help. Here’s where the friction lies:
Genre Overload
King’s world is drenched in horror tropes: haunted hotels, possessed cars, supernatural kids. After a while, it all blurs together.
Too Much of Everything
His novels are brick‑sized tomes of backstories and subplots. I’m all for depth, but when the scares are buried under 800 pages, I lose interest.
Pacing Whiplash
High tension one second, then long stretches of small‑town life the next. It kills the momentum for me.
Author Aura
Let’s be real—his publicity photos alone give me the heebie‑jeebies. That intense stare adds to the disconnect I feel with his work. It’s not hate—it’s just another case of style clashing with reader preference. If King’s brand of horror doesn’t grab you, you’re not alone. Sometimes you’ve got to admit when an author’s vibe just isn’t for you.
Brian Michael Bendis – Inspiration Lost in Translation
There was a time when Brian Michael Bendis was one of my biggest inspirations. His early Marvel work—especially Ultimate Spider-Man—felt like lightning in a bottle. He brought dialogue to life in a way that made characters feel grounded and human, like you were listening to real people with real problems and real quirks. He helped shape an era. But somewhere along the way, that spark faded. His time at DC? Honestly, it’s been rough. Characters feel off. Dialogue that once felt fresh now comes across as repetitive or forced. And don’t even get me started on Civil War II—a storyline that managed to make Captain Marvel come off as cold, controlling, and hard to root for. The emotional weight just wasn’t there. The choices felt more like plot devices than organic character development.
And then there’s Riri Williams—Ironheart. A Black teenage girl stepping into a legacy as big as Iron Man’s should have been a huge moment, but it ended up feeling hollow. Not because she wasn’t worthy, but because Bendis didn’t give her the arc she deserved. She was introduced with barely any foundation, thrown into the spotlight before we had a chance to connect with her. That’s where the Mary Sue criticisms started—not because she wasn’t a cool idea, but because her journey didn’t earn the impact it was aiming for. And that’s on the writer. It’s disappointing. Bendis helped shape the way I saw dialogue and pacing, but his later work feels like a distant echo of what once was. The influence is still there, but the respect? It’s complicated now.
It’s Not Hate—It’s Friction
This isn’t about dragging these creators. It’s about that weird space where you can respect someone’s work but not enjoy it. Or where you want to like them, but something just doesn’t click. As a writer myself, I get how difficult it is to put something out there for the world to judge—and how much of a risk it is to create something that speaks to people. But as much as I try, I can’t always connect with everything that’s out there, no matter how much I respect the creators' skill or influence.
Maybe that’s what being a writer does—it makes you more aware of the things that rub you wrong. Maybe it’s the inconsistencies, the emotional gaps, or the missed potential that gets to you more than it would to the average reader. And maybe that’s okay. Not every piece of work is going to click with everyone, no matter how talented or influential the creator is. And calling out the issues you see doesn’t mean you’re diminishing their ability. It just means you’re pointing out where the friction happens.
At the end of the day, storytelling is a conversation between the creator and the audience. If that conversation doesn’t always go the way you want it to, it’s not hate—it’s just the natural friction that comes with storytelling.
J.K. Rowling – A World I Just Never Needed
I was a Star Wars kid.
Lightsabers, starfighters, empires collapsing—that was my kind of fantasy. Why would I trade all that for wizard sticks, owl mail, and a school where the teachers let literal children get murdered every year? No thanks.
When Harry Potter blew up, everyone acted like it was some sacred text. Midnight releases, house scarves, sorting quizzes—meanwhile, I was wondering how anyone could get hyped about a story where the biggest villain was a noseless guy whispering threats in Latin. And Rowling herself? Whether it’s politics, interviews, or whatever headline she’s chasing this week—I don’t care. I didn’t care then. I don’t care now. Harry Potter didn’t shape my childhood. It didn’t shape my imagination. And it sure as hell doesn’t shape my bookshelf.
Honestly, I was already a Star Wars kid. I didn’t need a new “chosen one” story when I had lightsabers, starfighters, massive fleets, and the Force. Why would I trade space battles for wizard sticks and talking hats?
When Harry Potter exploded, everyone around me acted like it was some new religion. But I just shrugged. It wasn’t my world. The stakes felt smaller, the magic less exciting, the battles less epic. Even as people lined up at midnight for books and movies, I never felt the pull—and I never felt like I was missing out.
Sometimes your first love (Star Wars) already gave you everything you needed—and no amount of wizardry could change that.
Star Wars had X-Wings.
Harry Potter had broomsticks.
Star Wars gave us worlds.
Cartoons like Clone Wars and Rebels. Comics that rewrote history. Games that let you live the galaxy. Legends lore so massive you could drown in it—and still ask for more. Harry Potter?
It had some movies, some bad spin-offs, and a play about time-traveling teenagers that even die-hard fans pretend doesn’t exist. It stayed inside its Hogwarts bubble and never really grew up. And honestly? I barely noticed. I was too busy piloting a Star Destroyer and hunting Sith Lords.
Yeah, I moved on from Star Wars too—especially after that dumpster fire called the Sequel Trilogy and its fake, sterilized “new canon.” But even at its worst, Star Wars shot for the stars.
Harry Potter stayed stuck in a broom closet.
Rowling’s magic trick?
Convincing the world that a few Latin spells and a castle full of sad teachers counted as "epic fantasy."
Nah. I wasn't buying it then, and I'm not buying it now.
Clone troopers > House elves.
X-Wings > Broomsticks.
Sith Lords > Dark wizards.
Keep your Butterbeer. I’ll take a hyperdrive. I'm gone.
If Rowling really isn’t transphobic, she sure spends a lot of time convincing the world otherwise. Statement after statement, documentary after documentary, headline after headline—always trying to reframe herself as some misunderstood, canceled genius.
It’s exhausting.
Maybe instead of writing essays about how everyone’s wrong about her, she should sit down, face real people, and actually listen. Or perhaps someone needs to look her in the eye and say it flat out: You’re not the victim here. You’re the problem. At some point, you don’t get to hide behind “misunderstood intentions.” You don't get to play both sides. You have to face the music. But if Rowling keeps trying to outtalk the truth, she’ll find it’s a lot louder than she is.
Game over.
For someone who built a world full of mirrors and magic, it’s wild how little reflection she’s capable of.
Mic dropped. I’m out.
Also here's the writers of big bang theory who I have so much issues with them and just. The writers behind The Big Bang Theory undeniably left a massive mark on pop culture. The show redefined geek culture for mainstream audiences, tapping into fandoms and bringing intellectual characters into the limelight. Yet, as much as the series helped shape the TV landscape, I’ve got serious bones to pick with the creative choices they made, especially when it comes to some of their character portrayals, lack of research, and the tone they set.
Here are the writers I have issues with, and why:
Chuck Lorre
Chuck Lorre’s work has always been a double-edged sword for me. On one hand, his contribution to TV shows like Two and a Half Men and Big Bang Theory is undeniable. He’s created shows that millions love and that have changed the sitcom game. But on the other hand, Lorre’s shows often rely heavily on stereotypes, and the character depth can feel shallow. His work doesn’t take as many risks as it could, and that's frustrating when you see how Big Bang Theory could’ve done more with its characters.
Bill Prady
As co-creator of the series, Prady is partly responsible for the early success of The Big Bang Theory. But I can’t help but feel like the show could’ve pushed beyond its formulaic plotlines. The characters, especially Sheldon, were crafted in a way that makes them feel like a one-size-fits-all kind of nerd. Sheldon’s possible autism? Left unexplored. He’s quirky and brilliant—sure—but the writers never bothered to give him any more depth or sensitivity. It felt like they just wanted to write a “funny” guy who was “different,” not someone who could resonate with viewers who might have similar traits or experiences.
Steven Molaro
Molaro took the reins as showrunner for several seasons, and his influence on the direction of the show can’t be ignored. However, his approach to character development didn’t always land. The repetitiveness of characters like Howard's mom being off-screen was a clear case of a creative decision that could have evolved. Instead of leaning into the humor of her unseen voice, it became a trope that dragged on. As much as Molaro helped build out the family dynamics, I felt like he took the easy road too often—avoiding growth and just using familiar jokes for too long.
Steve Holland
Holland's time as showrunner might’ve marked the end of Big Bang Theory, but it was also when many of the show's worst writing habits became too apparent. Characters were locked into these stagnant, one-dimensional roles, and the jokes about their quirks started feeling tired. He had the chance to give more depth to Sheldon and the other characters, but by the end of the series, it seemed like the show was more interested in keeping things light and predictable than challenging itself with new ideas.
Eric Kaplan & Dave Goetsch
Kaplan and Goetsch had some big moments during their time writing for the show, but both of them contributed to the growing lack of complexity in the storylines and character arcs. Kaplan’s focus on one-liners and quips meant we got fewer moments that actually let us see the characters grow beyond their familiar roles. Meanwhile, Goetsch’s influence pushed for more slapstick humor than emotional depth. Both writers fed into the notion that TV comedy shouldn’t be too deep—it should just be fun. And while fun is fine, it leaves a lot of untapped potential on the table.
But here's my three reasons that made me pissed off.
1. The Lack of Character Depth and Missed Opportunities
Sheldon’s Potential Autism: Sheldon’s behavior aligns with many traits seen in autism spectrum disorders—his struggles with social cues, rigid routines, and intense interests. But The Big Bang Theory never fully acknowledged or explored this. The writers could have used Sheldon’s character to educate audiences and shed light on the spectrum, offering a nuanced portrayal that could resonate with viewers who might see themselves in him. Instead, his quirks are often played for laughs without diving into why he is the way he is. For you, that feels like a missed opportunity, right? The lack of research and depth in presenting Sheldon’s character more realistically could have made him more relatable and respectful to autistic viewers.
Howard’s Mom: The off-screen voice of Howard’s mom became a bit of a running joke, but it didn’t evolve. After a while, it just became repetitive—always the voice, but never the face. The whole point was to highlight her overbearing and intrusive nature, but by keeping her off-screen, the show limited how much the audience could actually connect with or understand her as a character. She felt like a punchline that didn’t have any real depth. What makes this worse is that, after the actor’s passing, they didn’t recast or provide any closure. It’s like they kept her voice for the sake of nostalgia, but never took it further.
2. The Tone and Approach to Pop Culture
Dismissing The Clone Wars: One of the things that made The Big Bang Theory stand out was its constant stream of pop culture references. But dismissing The Clone Wars, a show that had a massive following and played a huge part in Star Wars canon, is frustrating. For a show that prides itself on being a geeky celebration of nerd culture, to casually dismiss a show with such rich storytelling feels hypocritical. The fact that they never even engaged with the Star Wars prequels beyond snarky comments seemed like a missed chance to bring in more depth to their “geek” universe. It’s almost like they didn’t want to acknowledge the prequels had value beyond their initial criticism, and that can feel dismissive of fans who loved it.
Missed Chances to Connect with Geek Audiences: The Big Bang Theory was successful because it celebrated geek culture, but at times, it felt like the show was using it as a gimmick rather than genuinely engaging with it. The lack of deeper exploration into things like The Clone Wars or ignoring other fan-favorite properties that deserved attention made the show feel surface-level at times. They missed the opportunity to dig deeper into the fandoms they were referencing, which would have given them even more layers of richness to work with.
3. How Some Character Portrayals Felt Like Stereotypes
Mary Cooper’s Overly Religious Character: While Mary Cooper’s religion was central to her character, it often felt like it was all she was about. There wasn’t much depth to her outside of being the overly religious mother. Every interaction with Sheldon, for example, would just bring her faith to the forefront, and that was the extent of her character development. There’s nothing inherently wrong with a religious character, but when that’s all they are, it can feel one-dimensional. Especially in the context of a show that prided itself on being about complex, multi-faceted characters, this seemed like a lazy approach to a potentially rich character. The portrayal often felt like a stereotype, which made Mary Cooper less relatable and more of a plot device to challenge Sheldon’s worldview rather than a fully realized person.
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