There's so many things, styles, words, feelings, stories, and ideas that are considered "cliche," but they're genuine to me. I think they're genuine to most people who write cliche. But cliches are still cliches, and apparently those spell doom (another cliche) for writing.

I'm picturing the cliches, little pastel faeries, fluttering around in the innocent world of an amateur writer's mind, soft gold haloes floating above their heads, but as soon as the writer starts to move the pen, demonic little smiles cross their faces and they jump down the chute onto the paper, yelling "Wheeeee!" as they go down, tripping out of the pen and then placing themselves sweetly in a sentence, smiling angelically at the writer, assuring her that they are great, deep, wonderful ideas, no one has thought of them before, we belong to you, only you, O writer, we are yours, and we will bring you praise. But cliches are devious creatures, and only reveal their true forms in the presence of a more experienced writer, who will denounce them for what they really are, leaving the new writer humbled and disappointed, feeling vaguely betrayed but not knowing by whom, so just deciding they're not really great writers, and it is their own fault. And later, when the writers have gained the power of the pen, they write well, and look back at their first attempts with embarrasment, softly berating themselves for not knowing better, wondering how they could have been so dumb. And the cliches peer through the peepholes they have left in the writer's mind, and giggle at their invisible triumph. Sometimes one of the more clever ones will still slip through, tiptoeing onto the paper disguised as a true Idea. They won't leave a writer, not for good, unless it's Shakespeare or some other genius, and even he used others' ideas sometimes. But their favorite prey is an amateur, being the most fertile, pure atmosphere for them to thrive. I wonder if they have little field guides, to search out their prey:

Amateur:

This common specimen is usually identified by its eager stance, hopeful eyes looking hungrily at someone who are reading their story, and tilted head with a pink aura of Idealistic Dreams. They live in the cotton-candy woods of their First Story, eager for praise and full of hope for publishing early, being a genius, gaining long-time fame, not necessarily in that order.