1. If at all possible, arrange to be born in a small town, raised with traditional values, which you can laud as building your backbone. The insular environment can be reworked to other purposes; you escaped in the nick of time, with only your wits and a battered hand-me-down suitcase, as soon as you could save bus fare from your job shoveling pig swill. It does not hurt to have been poor, or at least poorer than your stupid neighbors. You can mock those gomers later, when you're a degreed city dweller.
2. Your childhood ailment should be far more extreme than anyone else’s. Overcome your disability by sheer pluck, but remember, you have suffered, and will continue to be miserable in your soul for the rest of your life. Make your readers FEEL your P.A.I.N. Good writing, like the devil, is in the details.
3. Hold grudges. These are precious fuel. Hopefully, you were tormented by the other children for being different. You should Never, Ever forget their cruelty, especially that of Homer Finkelheimer, who will don a different disguise and appear in Every Single Thing you write. Your repeated mutilations of his sorry carcass will become the art for which you will be famed. To be a "Finkelheimer" will become part of the common lexicon, synonomous with the nether regions of the male anatomy.
4. On a related note, pick your parents wisely. You have a choice in ideal fathers, either remote or brutal. The best mothers for writers are of the domineering variety with tendencies towards passive-aggressive manipulation. It helps if you are still in therapy, so you can get that stuff out all over your writing. Don’t hold it in, for God’s sake. Hate must drive you onwards.
5. Read everything, and cultivate a big vocabulary. Never waste an entire day lolling in sheets you can’t remember when you last washed, under an old down comforter, breathing your own fusty odor; sloth only begets Twitter and Facebook updates. That big vocabulary is vital if you are to bludgeon your readers with your precocity; remember, your aim is to impress.
6. Write something, anything, each morning. Word count matters. Some books recommend journaling. It is in this daily devotion to your own thoughts, that you will cultivate your singular voice. Do not pay attention to anyone else. If you must, blog. The goal in the latter is not quality, but to cultivate a following, the more hits the better, and if you have nothing important to contribute to the world, fall back on wit. Pander or perish.
7. Heartbreak is a bonus. Do not bury dead loves, but allow them to roam like recurring themes in your wistful pieces. You must not fully resurrect these zombies with soft lips and charming quirks, or your stories will end up in the $1 cart at Goodwill. Squandering the best thing that ever happened to you is the best policy, if you are to be taken seriously as a writer.
8. Once you achieve the stature you have spent a lifetime cultivating, that of Superior Writer, you will find younger writers looking to you for guidance. It is important not to encourage them for a couple of reasons. First, your own mojo will diminish if you let go of your resentments – it is best if you transfer these to all ongoing relationships, so you can keep filling your creative coffers. Slicing the outstretched wrists of witless admirers will reveal the vermillion detail for which you have become famous. The New York Times Book Review's blurb of your book will read, "expertly filets humans, like a cold-eyed fishmonger during Lent." Second, you really are doing them a favor to question whether they have the personality to write. Dispense with the usual advice of sticking to commenting on their writing - that will just keep the nitwits quivering and leaking drivel. Unlike other fields, self-confidence in writing should develop in an environment of mistrust and loneliness. It worked for you, so give back what you got. You are superior, after all.