I have committed Literature. And sins against good writing, too. These are not the same thing, although there are places where they overlap.
If I am to enter the sacred halls of the Ultimate Author, I must confess my sins against good writing, repent, and sin no more. Hence I must warn those of a delicate disposition that they may find further reading to be deeply distressing, for surely no sin is greater and no soul blacker than those against the Author’s very nature as revealed in His ongoing saga.
Yea, I have committed infodump. And I deeply, sincerely repent of my infodumps and do penance daily by attempting to Heinlein my backstory seamlessly into the narrative. Forgive me Reader, for I have sinned.
I have Told Not Shown.
I have committed Mary Sue. And Marty Stu.
I have committed Talking Heads in Blank Rooms.
I have committed plot that goeth in ever-decreasing circles ere flying up its own fundamental orifice.
And literary onanism.
I was young, I admit, and I knew little, but still I sinned.
My offenses against good writing were never made public, so I did not commit public literary onanism, but that is truly a matter of sheer chance, and I still did these things.
Forgive me, Readers for I have sinned against you.
(interruption due to forcible kitteh-snuggle-fest where the four-legged fiends attacked and snuggled until I stopped being weird)
Um. Sorry. I think I broke my brain somewhere today.
I beg the company of great writers, the blessed Heinlein, and Pratchett himself to forgive my sins and grant me inclusion in the pantheon, amen