I’m writing this post to help me figure something out. I’ve got a new work-in-progress novel, you see, and am trying to be rather clever in how I structure it, but I ran into a brick wall today. So here I am, wondering if I’ve got it wrong, and perhaps should start from scratch - yet again, because this is iteration three of this particular narrative.
Now, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that the effort has been a waste of time, because nothing is ever wasted in writing, and even by taking a wrong turn, we can learn something new about a story and its characters. Still, I prefer to get it right from the outset, which is likely a hangover from my tech industry days, and my desire to be efficient in the execution of a project. Also, I feel the ticking of the universe’s clock, and am aware that precious time is slipping away.
I’ve written about this stuff before, about having the courage to risk failure, but when one is down in the trenches and has just spent weeks putting the bones of a new long-form project together, the sense of failure can sting more than the strength of one’s courage to overcome it. I find I’m second-guessing myself, and doubting what my gut is telling me, which is that I just need to keep writing to find the answer. The story will reveal itself to me, and dang, it’s only the first draft. I’ll have plenty of time to edit, rewrite, whatever I want to do, because this is my project and I’m the boss of it.
Total creative freedom, yeah?
But that’s also a scary place to be, because…
Because I might get it wrong, and wouldn’t that be awful!
Yes, the sky would fall, and the very fabric of our fragile reality would be torn asunder. Or not. It’s hard to tell right now, I mean it feels like I’m about to destroy the entire universe, but on reflection, it seems unlikely.
Hmm… [wicked and insane laughter]… or is it?
The noisy brain
The inner critic, the second-guessing pain-in-the-butt who looks over my shoulder and says, ‘Are you really sure about this?’ in her squeaky, irritating voice, is always ready to question what I’m creating. Sometimes, she lurks in the shadows, waiting for me to finish a piece, then springs nimbly into the light, executes a graceful pirouette, and says, ‘Yeah, but what about that part?’
What she does is make my brain a noisy place, and fills it with a buzzing when it should be calm and quiet, so I can concentrate.
What if you did this, what if you did that? Oh, you spelled that wrong! Why does this character have to have dark eyes? How come everyone in this novel is so tall?
Her questions are often endless, and I guess if I spent ten years in therapy, I might learn that she sounds just like Mrs. So-and-so, my most critical teacher in school. Really, it would make no difference to know this, because I have to deal with what is in front of me. Or inside of me. Whatever.
I’m not saying that little Miss Nag is always wrong. In fact, if I’m being totally honest, I’d have to say that she does have her uses, but problems arise when she becomes pestering, and exceeds her brief. Like right now, as I write this post.
Is it good enough? Should you do some research, get some statistics? How many inner critics can dance on the head of a pin, that sort of thing? What did the old masters say about it? Everybody else’s posts seem to be so much better than yours, so maybe you’re no good at writing them. In fact, maybe you’re no good at writing, period. You should just curl into a ball and whimper. Yeah, solid plan, you should do it!
I’m writing from the heart here, and this is just you and me talking. From the heart, then, let me say that the person most likely to screw up one of my projects is me. Not my dog, not my readers. Just me, and the means by which I do so is most often telepathy.
The telepathic writer
Inner critic on one shoulder? Check! But she doesn’t work alone.
On my other shoulder, you’ll find a motley crew, namely:
An amorphous reader;
My agent;
A faceless, nameless commissioning editor at a Big 5 publishing house;
A wizened grand mage of a literary critic who’ll be the first to get his hands on my published novel.
The telepathic writer tries to read their minds, egged on by the inner critic, to find out if they like it, or perhaps will like it at some future point. Even to get from them some hint of positivity.
Mostly, I get some.
Other times, it goes like this:
‘But darling,’ says the literary critic, rubbing his hands together as he subjects me to a torturer’s scrutinous gaze. ‘The prose is just so dreadfully parochial, and terribly, terribly dull. Why don’t you try writing like what’s-her-name? You know, that good writer.’
‘But, my dear,’ says the commissioning editor, not unkindly. ‘I’m not entirely falling in love with this manuscript.’
‘I like it,’ my agent says. ‘I can see the potential, certainly. BUT…’
And the reader? Well, the reader folds her arms, taps her foot, and sighs.
They’re not always present, of course.
When I’m in the flow of a project, when I hit my stride and know what I’m writing is top class, I’ll see neither hide nor hair of any of them. Though I suspect that, even then, they are conspiring in the shadows with my inner critic, waiting for my eyes to leave my screen so they can ambush me in one great balletic rush.
Shut up, you lot!
I’m very much solution and goal oriented, so what can this telepathic writer do to quieten them enough for me to figure out the best course of action to take with my new project?
Meditation or a mindful practice of some sort are definite possibilities, but I’ve never been what you might call contemplative, at least not in that way. Playing golf is another of my preferred ploys, but the weather is dire.
Anything else in the toolkit, Jennifer?
Yes, there is one thing!
Redirecting my creative energy in an entirely different and unexpected directon can, I find, give me some clarity, and catch my inner critic and her cohort off guard.
Here are some of the things I like to try:
Drawing a pencil potrait of my protagonist. Now, I’m no artist with a pencil, but it doesn’t have to be good - which is sort of the point, really, because doing something I know I’m not good at really catches my crew unawares. It’s a useful exercise; try it and see. If you’re like me and can’t draw a straight line, you’ll still be able to create a vision in your mind’s eye of what your character looks like. Is she well dressed, or a member of the pyjama brigade? Hair tidy or messy? Is she smiling or frowning? These little details can help me find attributes I might otherwise have missed.
Trying the above, but with a scene from the novel. Hey, why not turn it into a graphic novel?
Writing an essay, or a craft post, to discuss my artistic ideas, and my vision for my story.
Alternatively, writing an essay, just for my own use, about my wildest adventure or my greatest success, can give me a fresh burst of creative energy.
Telling the story in the form of a poem or a song, and setting it to music.
Talking it through with another writer.
Brainstorming wildly, without limits, and playing the what if game. Throw a curveball at my protagonist. Imagine their deepest, darkest secret, and their greatest fears. In this game, anything goes, and it really can help to unlock a new level of the novel.
Cleaning out my sock drawer - this one always works!
By derailing the judgement train by doing things I know I’m not good at (apart from the sock drawer clean-out), I can ease my mind towards a clearer vision of what I want to achieve with my project. When I return to it (which I will do in a few minutes), I often find that the answer has surfaced from my subconscious while I’ve been otherwise occupied, and little Miss Nag has gone for a nap, thus ensuring the safety of the universe for one more day.
Yay!
Update: the answer did actually come to me as a result of writing this piece, so that’s a win, and a happy ending! Thanks for reading!
Never related to anything more.
My inner critic ad nauseam—
“The prose is just so dreadfully parochial, and terribly, terribly dull.”
And then…I’m like…why am I even doing this? It’s boring, I’m boring.
BUT! I keep going anyway. Cause we have to. And the cycle repeats. Thanks for this perspective. Glad I’m not the only one.