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I thought it would be interesting to write an example of a terrible story and explain which parts were badly written and why.
So I wrote a funny Snape and Lily fanfiction, but then I realized there was an even better example called The Mortal Instruments.
It's a series that was originally a Harry Potter fanfiction, and still has lots of the same problems as a regular fanfiction even though it's been published.

"But those aren't problems, maybe I like stories that have those things."

Okay, you like them. *That's* an opinion.

The FACT is that they're not very well-written (meaning they're not something any kid you find walking down the street/off google can't accomplish writing). Consider this: the majority of fanfictions are written by beginners. Is it a coincidence that it's the beginners who all write this way?

WHY do people grow out of it? COULD any of it possibly just be immature?

Here I have inserted some comments into the story to highlight what I found to be the most fanfiction-like (and by fanfiction-like I'm trying to say immature) parts of the story. As usual, I care more about general story-telling than anything too mechanical here (for that, you'll have to talk to one of those grammar Nazi people. I'm not really one of them, so if that's what you're looking for, you're better off talking to someone else). Here we go:

As the Queen and Court laughed, the icy feeling in Jace’s chest intensified. (the words "icy," "firey," or "ran-through-his-veins" are always a bad sign)

Clary (I like how she has the same name as the author) didn’t understand faeries, he thought. He’d tried to explain, but there was no explaining, not really. Whatever the Queen wanted from them, it wasn’t a kiss from him; she could have demanded that without all this show and nonsense. What she wanted was to see them pinned and struggling like butterflies. (note the transparency of the overly convenient story arc. You can see that the author obviously wants this to happen so badly. It might seem more strategic if there weren't so MANY set ups that cater to anything romantic... or over-dramatic for that matter.)
It was something immortality did to you, he’d often thought: dulled your senses, your emotions; the sharp, uncontrollable, pitiable responses of human beings were to faeries like fresh blood to a vampire (be sure to mention blood as much as possible for extra fanfiction points). Something living. Something they didn’t have themselves.

“Despite his charms,” (an example of how the author constantly abuses surrounding characters to force certain opinions on the audience instead of proving them) the Queen said, flicking a glance toward Jace — her eyes were green, like Clary’s, but not like Clary’s at all (unnecessary focus on favorite characters whenever possible for more fanfiction points) — “that kiss will not free the girl.”

“I could kiss Meliorn,” suggested Isabelle, shrugging.

The Queen shook her head slowly. “Nor that. Nor any one of my Court.”

Isabelle threw up her hands; Jace wanted to ask her what she’d expected — kissing Meliorn wouldn’t have bothered her, so obviously the Queen wouldn’t care about it. He supposed it had been nice of her to offer, but Iz (a classic fan-fiction cliche: making friends shorten each other's names as a cute way of being affectionate) , at least, ought to know better. She’d had dealings with faeries before.

Maybe it wasn’t just knowing the way the Fair Folk thought, Jace wondered. Maybe it was knowing how people who enjoyed cruelty for the sake of cruelty thought. Isabelle was thoughtless, and sometimes vain, but she wasn’t cruel. She tossed her dark hair back and scowled. “I’m not kissing any of you,” she said firmly. “Just so it’s official.” (It's always nice when the majority of humor revolves around romance...)

“That hardly seems necessary,” said Simon, stepped forward. “If a kiss is all . . .”

He took a step toward Clary, who didn’t move away. The ice in Jace’s chest turned into liquid fire (another classic fan-fiction phrase); he clenched his hands at his sides as Simon took Clary gently by the arms and looked down into her face. She rested her hands on Simon’s waist, as if she’d done it a million times before. Maybe she had, for all he knew. He knew Simon loved her; he’d known it since he’d seen them together in that stupid coffee shop, the other boy practically choking on getting the words “I love you” out of his mouth while Clary looked around the room, restlessly alive, her green eyes darting everywhere. She’s not interested in you, mundane boy, he’d thought with satisfaction. Get lost. And then been surprised he’d thought it. What difference did it make to him what this girl he barely knew thought?

That seemed like a lifetime ago. She wasn’t some girl he barely knew anymore (yes she is): she was Clary (oh, here we go. The author is going to start worshiping herself(-insert) any second now) . She was the one thing in his life that mattered more than anything else, and watching Simon put his hands on her, wherever he wanted to, made him feel at once sick and faint and murderously angry (for more fanfiction points, always make emotions as intense as you can. Use dramatic words like "murderous" as much as possible. Remember, the audience is too dumb to make up their own minds, and it will make you sound more credible than if you just leave them out!). The urge to stalk up and rip the two of them apart was so strong he could barely breathe.

Clary glanced back at him, her red hair slipping over her shoulder. She looked concerned, which was bad enough. He couldn’t stand the thought that she might feel sorry for him. He looked away fast, and caught the eye of the Seelie Queen, glimmering with delight: now this was what she was after. Their pain, their agony. (It's usually best to steer clear of such insincere sounding paragraphs.)

“No,” said the Queen, to Simon, in a voice like the soft slice of a knife (another phrase that drips with fanfictionness). “That is not what I want either.”

Simon stepped away from Clary, reluctantly. Relief pounded through Jace’s veins like blood (Again, really?), drowning out what his friends were saying. For a moment all he cared about was that he wasn’t going to have to watch Clary kiss Simon. (The author insists and insists her characters are in love in narration only. That can never make up for sincere character interaction.) Then Clary seemed to swim into focus: she was very pale, (pale is always good. Use as much as possible) and he couldn’t help wondering what she was thinking. Was she disappointed not to be kissed by Simon? Relieved as he was? He thought of Simon kissing her hand earlier than day and shoved the memory away viciously, still staring at his sister. Look up, he thought. Look at me. If you love me, you’ll look at me.

She crossed her arms over her chest, the way she did when she was cold or upset. (can you hear the author? "Say awwwww") But she didn’t look up. The conversation went on around them: who was going to kiss who, what was going to happen. Hopeless rage (what is with all the cheesy phrases?) rose up in Jace’s chest, and as usual, found its escape in a sarcastic comment. (Yay for over-explaining corny, over-used quirks!)

“Well, I’m not kissing the mundane,” he said. “I’d rather stay down here and rot.”

“Forever?” said Simon. His eyes were big and dark and serious (is that supposed to be hot or something? Why is this sentence here?) “Forever’s an awfully long time.” (Do teenagers usually say "awfully," or is she just going with the first corny tone that comes into her head here?)

Jace looked back at those eyes. Simon was probably a good person, he thought. He loved Clary and he wanted to take care of her and make her happy. He’d probably make a spectacular boyfriend. Logically, Jace knew, it was exactly what he ought to want for his sister. But he couldn’t look at Simon without wanting to kill someone. (so impressive) “I knew it,” he said nastily. “You want to kiss me, don’t you?”

“Of course not. But if—”

“I guess it’s true what they say. There are no straight men in the trenches.”
“That’s atheists, jackass.” Simon was bright red. “There are no atheists in the trenches.”
(Note: when somebody never makes jokes that don't rely on anything inappropriate... it's usually because they can't. That's regardless of whether you mind it or not. Romance jokes are no more original. It's relying on the topic to impress people. Combining both is classic fanfiction territory.)

It was the Queen who interrupted them, leaning forward so that her white neck and breasts were displayed above the neckline of her low-cut gown (Why? why?). “While this is all very amusing, (amusing is another good word for fanfiction points. It's not a bad word in itself, it just happens to come up a lot for some reason. Usually because the author thinks it makes them sound smarter.) the kiss that will free the girl is the kiss that she most desires,” she said. “Only that and nothing more.”

Simon went from red to white. If the kiss that Clary most desired wasn’t Simon’s, then . . .the way she was looking at Jace, from Jace to Clary, answered that.

Jace’s heart started to pound. He met the Queen’s eyes with his own. “Why are you doing this?” (Because the author is immature and curious about pathetic love scenes that she abuses her characters for by using them as stepping stones to explore her unhealthy, over-emotional fantasies?)

“I rather thought I was offering you a boon,” she said. “Desire is not always lessened by disgust. Nor can it be bestowed, like a favor, to those most deserving of it. And as my words bind my magic, so you can know the truth. If she doesn’t desire your kiss, she won’t be free.”

Jace felt blood flood into his face (now it just sounds clown-ish). He was vaguely aware of Simon arguing that Jace and Clary were brother and sister, (nice plot) that it wasn’t right, but he ignored him. The Seelie Queen was looking at him, and her eyes were like the sea before a deadly storm, and he wanted to say thank you. Thank you.

And that was the most dangerous thing of all, he thought, as around him his companions argued about whether Clary and Jace had to do this, or what any of them would be willing to do to escape the Court. To allow the Queen to give you something you wanted — truly, truly wanted — was to put yourself in her power. How had she looked at him and known, he wondered? That this was what he thought about, wanted, woke from dreams of, gasping and sweating? (Again, this does not sound sincere at all. It's just patheticness for the sake of being pathetic) That when he thought, really thought, about the fact that he might never get to kiss Clary again, he wanted to die or hurt or bleed so badly he’d go up to the attic and train alone for hours until he was so exhausted he had no choice but to pass out, exhausted. He’d have bruises in the morning, bruises and cuts and scraped skin and if he could have named all his injuries they would have had the same name: Clary, Clary, Clary. (Riiight then)

Simon was still talking, saying something, angry again. “You don’t have to do this, Clary, it’s a trick—”

“Not a trick,” said Jace. The calmness in his own voice surprised him. “A test.” He looked at Clary. She was biting her lip, her hand wound in a curl of her hair; the gestures so characteristic, so very much a part of her, they shattered his heart. (I think the author desperately wishes someone would over-analyze her this much.) Simon was arguing with Isabelle now as the Seelie Queen lounged back and watched them like a sleek, amused (over-using the word "amuse" might seem impressive at the time, but in the end has the opposite effect) cat.

Isabelle sounded exasperated. ‘Who cares, anyway? It’s just a kiss.”

“That’s right,” Jace said.

Clary looked up, then finally, and her wide green eyes (I think we get what color her eyes are) rested on him. He moved toward her, and as it always did, the rest of the world fell away until it was just them (a phrase rendered completely meaningless since the author utterly failed to ever prove it), as if they stood on a spotlighted stage in an empty auditorium. He put his hand on her shoulder, turning her to face him. She had stopped biting her lip, and her cheeks were flushed, her eyes a brilliant green (I said, I think we get what color her eyes are). He could feel the tension in his own body, the effort of holding back, of not pulling her against him and taking this once chance, however dangerous and stupid and unwise, and kissing her the way he had thought he would never, in his life, be able to kiss her again. (This sentence is stupid and unwise. Actually that's not just a sarcastic comment. I would take this 80% more seriously if the author could just keep her mouth shut instead of saying stuff like that.)

“It’s just a kiss,” he said, and heard the roughness in his own voice, and wondered if she heard it, too.
Not that it mattered—there was no way to hide it. It was too much. He had never wanted like this before. There had always been girls. He had asked himself, in the dead of night, staring at the blank walls of his room, what made Clary so different (*cough* Mary Sue *cough*). She was beautiful, but other girls were beautiful. She was smart, but there were other smart girls. She understood him, laughed when he laughed, saw through the defenses he put up to what was underneath. There was no Jace Wayland more real than the one he saw in her eyes when she looked at him. (Yup, you can really notice that always happening in the story... Not)

But still, maybe, he could find all that somewhere else. People fell in love, and lost, and moved on. He didn’t know why he couldn’t. He didn’t know why he didn’t even want to. All he knew was that whatever he had to owe to Hell or Heaven for this chance, he was going to make it count. (cheesy rambling is cheesy)

And then it goes into a trash making-out scene, but that makes fun of itself.

So how do you feel? Too harsh? Why or why not?
I welcome your comments. Long-winded theories about story-telling are appreciated.

Description
body div#devskin0 hr { }

I thought it would be interesting to write an example of a terrible story and explain which parts were badly written and why.
So I wrote a funny Snape and Lily fanfiction, but then I realized there was an even better example called The Mortal Instruments.
It's a series that was originally a Harry Potter fanfiction, and still has lots of the same problems as a regular fanfiction even though it's been published.

"But those aren't problems, maybe I like stories that have those things."

Okay, you like them. *That's* an opinion.

The FACT is that they're not very well-written (meaning they're not something any kid you find walking down the street/off google can't accomplish writing). Consider this: the majority of fanfictions are written by beginners. Is it a coincidence that it's the beginners who all write this way?

WHY do people grow out of it? COULD any of it possibly just be immature?

Here I have inserted some comments into the story to highlight what I found to be the most fanfiction-like (and by fanfiction-like I'm trying to say immature) parts of the story. As usual, I care more about general story-telling than anything too mechanical here (for that, you'll have to talk to one of those grammar Nazi people. I'm not really one of them, so if that's what you're looking for, you're better off talking to someone else). Here we go:

As the Queen and Court laughed, the icy feeling in Jace’s chest intensified. (the words "icy," "firey," or "ran-through-his-veins" are always a bad sign)

Clary (I like how she has the same name as the author) didn’t understand faeries, he thought. He’d tried to explain, but there was no explaining, not really. Whatever the Queen wanted from them, it wasn’t a kiss from him; she could have demanded that without all this show and nonsense. What she wanted was to see them pinned and struggling like butterflies. (note the transparency of the overly convenient story arc. You can see that the author obviously wants this to happen so badly. It might seem more strategic if there weren't so MANY set ups that cater to anything romantic... or over-dramatic for that matter.)
It was something immortality did to you, he’d often thought: dulled your senses, your emotions; the sharp, uncontrollable, pitiable responses of human beings were to faeries like fresh blood to a vampire (be sure to mention blood as much as possible for extra fanfiction points). Something living. Something they didn’t have themselves.

“Despite his charms,” (an example of how the author constantly abuses surrounding characters to force certain opinions on the audience instead of proving them) the Queen said, flicking a glance toward Jace — her eyes were green, like Clary’s, but not like Clary’s at all (unnecessary focus on favorite characters whenever possible for more fanfiction points) — “that kiss will not free the girl.”

“I could kiss Meliorn,” suggested Isabelle, shrugging.

The Queen shook her head slowly. “Nor that. Nor any one of my Court.”

Isabelle threw up her hands; Jace wanted to ask her what she’d expected — kissing Meliorn wouldn’t have bothered her, so obviously the Queen wouldn’t care about it. He supposed it had been nice of her to offer, but Iz (a classic fan-fiction cliche: making friends shorten each other's names as a cute way of being affectionate) , at least, ought to know better. She’d had dealings with faeries before.

Maybe it wasn’t just knowing the way the Fair Folk thought, Jace wondered. Maybe it was knowing how people who enjoyed cruelty for the sake of cruelty thought. Isabelle was thoughtless, and sometimes vain, but she wasn’t cruel. She tossed her dark hair back and scowled. “I’m not kissing any of you,” she said firmly. “Just so it’s official.” (It's always nice when the majority of humor revolves around romance...)

“That hardly seems necessary,” said Simon, stepped forward. “If a kiss is all . . .”

He took a step toward Clary, who didn’t move away. The ice in Jace’s chest turned into liquid fire (another classic fan-fiction phrase); he clenched his hands at his sides as Simon took Clary gently by the arms and looked down into her face. She rested her hands on Simon’s waist, as if she’d done it a million times before. Maybe she had, for all he knew. He knew Simon loved her; he’d known it since he’d seen them together in that stupid coffee shop, the other boy practically choking on getting the words “I love you” out of his mouth while Clary looked around the room, restlessly alive, her green eyes darting everywhere. She’s not interested in you, mundane boy, he’d thought with satisfaction. Get lost. And then been surprised he’d thought it. What difference did it make to him what this girl he barely knew thought?

That seemed like a lifetime ago. She wasn’t some girl he barely knew anymore (yes she is): she was Clary (oh, here we go. The author is going to start worshiping herself(-insert) any second now) . She was the one thing in his life that mattered more than anything else, and watching Simon put his hands on her, wherever he wanted to, made him feel at once sick and faint and murderously angry (for more fanfiction points, always make emotions as intense as you can. Use dramatic words like "murderous" as much as possible. Remember, the audience is too dumb to make up their own minds, and it will make you sound more credible than if you just leave them out!). The urge to stalk up and rip the two of them apart was so strong he could barely breathe.

Clary glanced back at him, her red hair slipping over her shoulder. She looked concerned, which was bad enough. He couldn’t stand the thought that she might feel sorry for him. He looked away fast, and caught the eye of the Seelie Queen, glimmering with delight: now this was what she was after. Their pain, their agony. (It's usually best to steer clear of such insincere sounding paragraphs.)

“No,” said the Queen, to Simon, in a voice like the soft slice of a knife (another phrase that drips with fanfictionness). “That is not what I want either.”

Simon stepped away from Clary, reluctantly. Relief pounded through Jace’s veins like blood (Again, really?), drowning out what his friends were saying. For a moment all he cared about was that he wasn’t going to have to watch Clary kiss Simon. (The author insists and insists her characters are in love in narration only. That can never make up for sincere character interaction.) Then Clary seemed to swim into focus: she was very pale, (pale is always good. Use as much as possible) and he couldn’t help wondering what she was thinking. Was she disappointed not to be kissed by Simon? Relieved as he was? He thought of Simon kissing her hand earlier than day and shoved the memory away viciously, still staring at his sister. Look up, he thought. Look at me. If you love me, you’ll look at me.

She crossed her arms over her chest, the way she did when she was cold or upset. (can you hear the author? "Say awwwww") But she didn’t look up. The conversation went on around them: who was going to kiss who, what was going to happen. Hopeless rage (what is with all the cheesy phrases?) rose up in Jace’s chest, and as usual, found its escape in a sarcastic comment. (Yay for over-explaining corny, over-used quirks!)

“Well, I’m not kissing the mundane,” he said. “I’d rather stay down here and rot.”

“Forever?” said Simon. His eyes were big and dark and serious (is that supposed to be hot or something? Why is this sentence here?) “Forever’s an awfully long time.” (Do teenagers usually say "awfully," or is she just going with the first corny tone that comes into her head here?)

Jace looked back at those eyes. Simon was probably a good person, he thought. He loved Clary and he wanted to take care of her and make her happy. He’d probably make a spectacular boyfriend. Logically, Jace knew, it was exactly what he ought to want for his sister. But he couldn’t look at Simon without wanting to kill someone. (so impressive) “I knew it,” he said nastily. “You want to kiss me, don’t you?”

“Of course not. But if—”

“I guess it’s true what they say. There are no straight men in the trenches.”
“That’s atheists, jackass.” Simon was bright red. “There are no atheists in the trenches.”
(Note: when somebody never makes jokes that don't rely on anything inappropriate... it's usually because they can't. That's regardless of whether you mind it or not. Romance jokes are no more original. It's relying on the topic to impress people. Combining both is classic fanfiction territory.)

It was the Queen who interrupted them, leaning forward so that her white neck and breasts were displayed above the neckline of her low-cut gown (Why? why?). “While this is all very amusing, (amusing is another good word for fanfiction points. It's not a bad word in itself, it just happens to come up a lot for some reason. Usually because the author thinks it makes them sound smarter.) the kiss that will free the girl is the kiss that she most desires,” she said. “Only that and nothing more.”

Simon went from red to white. If the kiss that Clary most desired wasn’t Simon’s, then . . .the way she was looking at Jace, from Jace to Clary, answered that.

Jace’s heart started to pound. He met the Queen’s eyes with his own. “Why are you doing this?” (Because the author is immature and curious about pathetic love scenes that she abuses her characters for by using them as stepping stones to explore her unhealthy, over-emotional fantasies?)

“I rather thought I was offering you a boon,” she said. “Desire is not always lessened by disgust. Nor can it be bestowed, like a favor, to those most deserving of it. And as my words bind my magic, so you can know the truth. If she doesn’t desire your kiss, she won’t be free.”

Jace felt blood flood into his face (now it just sounds clown-ish). He was vaguely aware of Simon arguing that Jace and Clary were brother and sister, (nice plot) that it wasn’t right, but he ignored him. The Seelie Queen was looking at him, and her eyes were like the sea before a deadly storm, and he wanted to say thank you. Thank you.

And that was the most dangerous thing of all, he thought, as around him his companions argued about whether Clary and Jace had to do this, or what any of them would be willing to do to escape the Court. To allow the Queen to give you something you wanted — truly, truly wanted — was to put yourself in her power. How had she looked at him and known, he wondered? That this was what he thought about, wanted, woke from dreams of, gasping and sweating? (Again, this does not sound sincere at all. It's just patheticness for the sake of being pathetic) That when he thought, really thought, about the fact that he might never get to kiss Clary again, he wanted to die or hurt or bleed so badly he’d go up to the attic and train alone for hours until he was so exhausted he had no choice but to pass out, exhausted. He’d have bruises in the morning, bruises and cuts and scraped skin and if he could have named all his injuries they would have had the same name: Clary, Clary, Clary. (Riiight then)

Simon was still talking, saying something, angry again. “You don’t have to do this, Clary, it’s a trick—”

“Not a trick,” said Jace. The calmness in his own voice surprised him. “A test.” He looked at Clary. She was biting her lip, her hand wound in a curl of her hair; the gestures so characteristic, so very much a part of her, they shattered his heart. (I think the author desperately wishes someone would over-analyze her this much.) Simon was arguing with Isabelle now as the Seelie Queen lounged back and watched them like a sleek, amused (over-using the word "amuse" might seem impressive at the time, but in the end has the opposite effect) cat.

Isabelle sounded exasperated. ‘Who cares, anyway? It’s just a kiss.”

“That’s right,” Jace said.

Clary looked up, then finally, and her wide green eyes (I think we get what color her eyes are) rested on him. He moved toward her, and as it always did, the rest of the world fell away until it was just them (a phrase rendered completely meaningless since the author utterly failed to ever prove it), as if they stood on a spotlighted stage in an empty auditorium. He put his hand on her shoulder, turning her to face him. She had stopped biting her lip, and her cheeks were flushed, her eyes a brilliant green (I said, I think we get what color her eyes are). He could feel the tension in his own body, the effort of holding back, of not pulling her against him and taking this once chance, however dangerous and stupid and unwise, and kissing her the way he had thought he would never, in his life, be able to kiss her again. (This sentence is stupid and unwise. Actually that's not just a sarcastic comment. I would take this 80% more seriously if the author could just keep her mouth shut instead of saying stuff like that.)

“It’s just a kiss,” he said, and heard the roughness in his own voice, and wondered if she heard it, too.
Not that it mattered—there was no way to hide it. It was too much. He had never wanted like this before. There had always been girls. He had asked himself, in the dead of night, staring at the blank walls of his room, what made Clary so different (*cough* Mary Sue *cough*). She was beautiful, but other girls were beautiful. She was smart, but there were other smart girls. She understood him, laughed when he laughed, saw through the defenses he put up to what was underneath. There was no Jace Wayland more real than the one he saw in her eyes when she looked at him. (Yup, you can really notice that always happening in the story... Not)

But still, maybe, he could find all that somewhere else. People fell in love, and lost, and moved on. He didn’t know why he couldn’t. He didn’t know why he didn’t even want to. All he knew was that whatever he had to owe to Hell or Heaven for this chance, he was going to make it count. (cheesy rambling is cheesy)

And then it goes into a trash making-out scene, but that makes fun of itself.

So how do you feel? Too harsh? Why or why not?
I welcome your comments. Long-winded theories about story-telling are appreciated.