There are two kinds of writers in this world that I absolutely cannot stand.
Psuedo-intellectual/High-brow: You know these types. They are the ones who agree with Harold Bloom that Harry Potter is a piece of shit, they only talk about "classics" or "acclaimed novels" (ie: Pulitzer or Nobel winning) and think they're smarter than everyone else because they also happen to only read the New York Times book reviews and have vocabs that come straight from GRE exercises. They believe all genre fiction is bad fiction, and live in some weird alternate reality where really "being a writer" also means fancy exclusive library readings followed by whiskey in cigar rooms and then jetting off to the Sorbonne. They talk about intellectual things ("in theory") all the time. Also, they believe the only real writers that have made it, have made writing into a white collar job. Everyone else is a poser.
Indie/Tortured Artist: These are the stereotypical "artists". You know, bohemia a la Rent. They're starving and poor and hopped up on drugs and resent the idea that you can be a true writer if you aren't any and all of those. So how do you fit in? Hate the establishment. Be angry at everyone else doing somewhat better economically (socially, physically, hygenically) and scoff at the idea that you'd ever want their lives. Throw in a couple of tie-dye shirts, and you're golden. Also, don't forget that when you read (in some adequately smokey, run-down dive bar filled with people with nappy hair), you have to wave your arms around a lot and punctuate your sentences with your fingers pursed and use some weird monotonous sing-song-ish rhythm that doesn't really enhance the poem/excerpt in any way, but makes it sound really cool and, well, tortured.
I HATE these kind of writers. Why? Because they're both extremes of pretention. Why can't these people just admit that they are NORMAL people who HAPPEN TO LIKE TO WRITE? Just be yourself for goodness sake, no one is going to think you're "not a real writer" if you happen to, you know, have a mortgage, a couple of kids, maybe a dog, a lawn, a minivan, and flowers on Valentine's Day. Or, if you so choose, a messy apartment, a couple of loose mice, a weakness for sushi and tacos, a warddrobe from the Gap, a fondness for bad pop music and an unlimited MetroCard.