Holding debates in my head
Jan. 19th, 2012 06:12 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kasihyaSo the arguing with myself yesterday? I turned it into a mini-story. Then I had another crisis of confidence today. I find that by writing out exactly what the critic in my head is saying, it makes me realize how much of a bully he is, and how flimsy some of his arguments are.
Cast of Characters:
1. CRITIC: Inner Editor, That Nagging Voice In The Back Of Your Head That Tells You How Much You Suck. Appears in my head as a sharply-dressed stick figure made out of silver wires.
2. PHILOCTETES: the Muse, Inspiration, Source of Plot Bunnies (named after the satyr from Hercules, not the play by Socrates, unfortunately. I have no idea why my brain decided that this was an appropriate name.) I picture him looking kind of like a chubby Gumby.
3. WRITER, the one who does the actual writing. Critic and Philoctetes are the angel and devil on his shoulder. Appearing something like the guy on the bottom left.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The scene is a small, wood-paneled room lit only by a fireplace. In a semicircle around the fireplace are three high-backed leather chairs, the sort whose visual elegance offsets the discomfort of actually sitting in one. And in these three chairs sit three people. In the first, a teal blob of a being with wide eyes sits, holding a glass of champagne in one spindly hand with a pencil improbably suspended where an ear ought to be.
‘I want to write things now,’ he says. ‘It’ll just take a few thousand words! That’s nothing; we can do it in a day and go back to other projects tomorrow.’
‘That’s not how it works, Philoctetes,’ says Critic, who sits opposite the teal being and wears a black suit wrapped tightly around a wire-thin frame. ‘You know it. You’ll start, and never finish, and then in addition to having embarrassing written proof of your idiocy here,’ – he pauses to sweep an arm at the bookshelves which line the walls – ‘you’ll have yet another unfinished, underdeveloped story sitting around and hanging over you for the rest of your days. You’ll look back on this with regret.’
The wispy white Writer in the third chair between them stirs, but says nothing.
Philoctetes pushes himself further up in his chair and says, ‘But, ‘The Empty House’! Feelings! What about that Toni Morrison quote?’
‘If there’s a book you want to read, but it hasn’t been written yet, then you must write it,’ says Writer, gaining strength from the words.
‘Exactly! Now we can write exactly what we want to happen, isn’t that fabulous?’ Philoctetes claps his hands together.
‘No … no, I must object!’ Critic straightens, elbows on his knees and fingertips pressed together under his chin. ‘Look, you know you never actually finish everything, right? I can count on one hand the number of stories you’ve actually finished. Completed the rough draft, even.’
Writer slumps and curls up in the depths of the chair, as though trying to make itself as small as possible. Philoctetes reaches out and pats Writer on the arm, then puffs up his chest and says, ‘Remember Ghosts? What about – ha!’ He snatches the thin packet of papers that Writer obtains from underneath its chair, and flourishes them at Critic. ‘The story about Diana going dimension traveling! The one about the hallucinating teenager? See! You can’t count to thirteen on one finger, not even you with your polydactylism!’
Critic remains dour and unconvinced. Philoctetes takes it as a sign to continue his excitable shouting.
‘This is going to happen, and then I’ll get back to the one about Atahualpa. Then I can return to Song of Three until I get stuck. And then I’ll figure out where I went wrong with Nixtamal. Possibly not in order, but it will all happen.’
Critic rolls his eyes and slumps back. ‘… All right. But you’ve got to plan it out from beginning to end, and you can’t skip the middle, before you write it.’
Philoctetes jumps up, throwing the papers everywhere. Some land in the fire, causing a burst of flame from the fireplace, but as he pulls Writer to its feet and spun the two of them around, as Critic collapses in defeat, no one seems to care.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Writer sits in the library behind an enormous oak desk, handsomely carved, in a chair more comfortable and functional than the retiring chairs of last evening. By day, the library is a much starker place, less cozy and inviting, but with more clear spaces to think. Writer opens the notebook on the desk, picks up a pen, and stares. The pen hovers over the page as Writer thinks, processes images to try and turn them into words, and finally sets the pen down with a small whimper.
Critic walks into the room, and leans over the chair to see what Writer has put down so far. Writer brings knees to chest and hugs them, face buried as the chair rocks back and forth. ‘You idiot,’ beings Critic, ‘ what right do you think you have to even hold a pen? You’re dumb, and amateurish, and you have no right to go messing around with other people’s characters. You have no right to try to create something based on what other, more talented people have done.’ He picks up the notebook between two fingertips like it might be toxic, peruses it for another second, then snorts and tosses it back down onto the table in disgust. ‘You have no right to try to write about serious thing, because you know you can’t. You know you’ll just turn it into a train wreck, and it’ll be cringe-worthily awful. You make a mockery of something that is good, you turn it into trash and muddled, out of character nonsense.’
Writer makes a small noise that comes from the back of the throat, face still hidden, and curls in even tighter upon itself. ‘I wasn’t going to show anyone. I liked that thing I made yesterday, though. That was good.’
Critic walks around to the opposite side of the table, the better to lean across the table and get into Writer’s face. ‘Shut up. No one wants to hear about you, no one cares what you think or what you did today. No one cares about your writing; it’s just one more mediocre contribution to a mediocre slushpile that no one will ever read because there are so many people out there who are better at writing than you are.’ He leans back and folds his arms, pleased with himself.
Writer flinches with each blow, but at the end of Critic’s speech, lifts its head. ‘No, stop it! I am good, I know so! I was one of the good writers in my writing class.’ It draws strength from the idea, and clenches its fists. ‘I do essays well. I’m good at creating characters and a sense of their previous existence. I have every right to write what I want to, because my responses to the creative works of other people are valid.’ The last sentence is punctuated by a fist pounding on the table.
At this precise moment, the door to the library bangs open again, and Philoctetes enters, waving around a pen and a looseleaf notebook. ‘Hey! Hey guys! I’ve got an idea! Let’s write out this bit of dialogue now, and see? See, Critic? I did write something out from beginning to end so that I’d have an outline, and there is even some substance to it!’ he shouts triumphantly.
‘Shut up, Philoctetes,’ Writer and Critic say in unison. ‘We’re having this discussion without you,’ Writer says by itself. Philoctetes, chastened and subdued, drops his hands to his sides and vanishes backwards through the door again, shutting it with a click.
Critic turns to Writer and bows. ‘Thank you, Writer. I wish you’d agree with me more often. Your introductory paragraph, for instance.’ He picks up Writer’s notebook and runs his finger down the page. ‘You do know that it’s shite, right? Melodramatic, unrealistic shite that adds nothing to the story and shies away from anything specific that would tell the reader anything about the character.’
Writer shrinks back. ‘I know, but I’m just writing this for myself, so,’ –
‘Bullshit.’ Critic cuts Writer off. ‘You tell yourself that, so that you’re not disappointed when your little experiment turns out to be awful, out of character crap. But I know you. I know that on the inside, you’re secretly hoping that it’ll be good enough to show to other people. You’re hoping that this will be it, this will be something you do that other people will notice, and like, so that you’ll be interesting and maybe have people to talk to who like you. And then you’ll berate yourself for thinking such foolish, shameful thoughts.
Writer stands up. It’s Writer’s turn to loom over the desk at Critic as it shouts, ‘You know what, Critic? You shut up! You’re just a bully. I’m allowed to be human, I’m allowed to want approval from other people. So yes, I admit it. I’m doing this for myself, but I also want attention. But that’s not an awful, terrible thing to want, is it?’
Critic stands back calmly, with a small smile on his face. ‘I never said it wasn’t. And you may be right, but I will never, ever go away. I will always be here to judge you.’ And with that, he sweeps out of the room, shutting the door behind him and leaving Writer to work things out without any help.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sometimes my inner critic has good advice to offer, but he thinks that I should just start over with Nixtamal entirely now that I stopped getting awesome new ideas for the novel for a few thousand words. It's one of those times when Inner Critic as stupid as Philoctetes, and one of the few times when I'm the one who has the right idea to just keep plugging along.
And once my inner writer realized how stupid some of Inner Critic's arguments were, I was able to move on with life and continue writing. I'm really enjoying it so far, and I think I'm not doing such as a bad job of it after all. It's rather nice to just go with it for the hell of it.
Cast of Characters:
1. CRITIC: Inner Editor, That Nagging Voice In The Back Of Your Head That Tells You How Much You Suck. Appears in my head as a sharply-dressed stick figure made out of silver wires.
2. PHILOCTETES: the Muse, Inspiration, Source of Plot Bunnies (named after the satyr from Hercules, not the play by Socrates, unfortunately. I have no idea why my brain decided that this was an appropriate name.) I picture him looking kind of like a chubby Gumby.
3. WRITER, the one who does the actual writing. Critic and Philoctetes are the angel and devil on his shoulder. Appearing something like the guy on the bottom left.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The scene is a small, wood-paneled room lit only by a fireplace. In a semicircle around the fireplace are three high-backed leather chairs, the sort whose visual elegance offsets the discomfort of actually sitting in one. And in these three chairs sit three people. In the first, a teal blob of a being with wide eyes sits, holding a glass of champagne in one spindly hand with a pencil improbably suspended where an ear ought to be.
‘I want to write things now,’ he says. ‘It’ll just take a few thousand words! That’s nothing; we can do it in a day and go back to other projects tomorrow.’
‘That’s not how it works, Philoctetes,’ says Critic, who sits opposite the teal being and wears a black suit wrapped tightly around a wire-thin frame. ‘You know it. You’ll start, and never finish, and then in addition to having embarrassing written proof of your idiocy here,’ – he pauses to sweep an arm at the bookshelves which line the walls – ‘you’ll have yet another unfinished, underdeveloped story sitting around and hanging over you for the rest of your days. You’ll look back on this with regret.’
The wispy white Writer in the third chair between them stirs, but says nothing.
Philoctetes pushes himself further up in his chair and says, ‘But, ‘The Empty House’! Feelings! What about that Toni Morrison quote?’
‘If there’s a book you want to read, but it hasn’t been written yet, then you must write it,’ says Writer, gaining strength from the words.
‘Exactly! Now we can write exactly what we want to happen, isn’t that fabulous?’ Philoctetes claps his hands together.
‘No … no, I must object!’ Critic straightens, elbows on his knees and fingertips pressed together under his chin. ‘Look, you know you never actually finish everything, right? I can count on one hand the number of stories you’ve actually finished. Completed the rough draft, even.’
Writer slumps and curls up in the depths of the chair, as though trying to make itself as small as possible. Philoctetes reaches out and pats Writer on the arm, then puffs up his chest and says, ‘Remember Ghosts? What about – ha!’ He snatches the thin packet of papers that Writer obtains from underneath its chair, and flourishes them at Critic. ‘The story about Diana going dimension traveling! The one about the hallucinating teenager? See! You can’t count to thirteen on one finger, not even you with your polydactylism!’
Critic remains dour and unconvinced. Philoctetes takes it as a sign to continue his excitable shouting.
‘This is going to happen, and then I’ll get back to the one about Atahualpa. Then I can return to Song of Three until I get stuck. And then I’ll figure out where I went wrong with Nixtamal. Possibly not in order, but it will all happen.’
Critic rolls his eyes and slumps back. ‘… All right. But you’ve got to plan it out from beginning to end, and you can’t skip the middle, before you write it.’
Philoctetes jumps up, throwing the papers everywhere. Some land in the fire, causing a burst of flame from the fireplace, but as he pulls Writer to its feet and spun the two of them around, as Critic collapses in defeat, no one seems to care.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Writer sits in the library behind an enormous oak desk, handsomely carved, in a chair more comfortable and functional than the retiring chairs of last evening. By day, the library is a much starker place, less cozy and inviting, but with more clear spaces to think. Writer opens the notebook on the desk, picks up a pen, and stares. The pen hovers over the page as Writer thinks, processes images to try and turn them into words, and finally sets the pen down with a small whimper.
Critic walks into the room, and leans over the chair to see what Writer has put down so far. Writer brings knees to chest and hugs them, face buried as the chair rocks back and forth. ‘You idiot,’ beings Critic, ‘ what right do you think you have to even hold a pen? You’re dumb, and amateurish, and you have no right to go messing around with other people’s characters. You have no right to try to create something based on what other, more talented people have done.’ He picks up the notebook between two fingertips like it might be toxic, peruses it for another second, then snorts and tosses it back down onto the table in disgust. ‘You have no right to try to write about serious thing, because you know you can’t. You know you’ll just turn it into a train wreck, and it’ll be cringe-worthily awful. You make a mockery of something that is good, you turn it into trash and muddled, out of character nonsense.’
Writer makes a small noise that comes from the back of the throat, face still hidden, and curls in even tighter upon itself. ‘I wasn’t going to show anyone. I liked that thing I made yesterday, though. That was good.’
Critic walks around to the opposite side of the table, the better to lean across the table and get into Writer’s face. ‘Shut up. No one wants to hear about you, no one cares what you think or what you did today. No one cares about your writing; it’s just one more mediocre contribution to a mediocre slushpile that no one will ever read because there are so many people out there who are better at writing than you are.’ He leans back and folds his arms, pleased with himself.
Writer flinches with each blow, but at the end of Critic’s speech, lifts its head. ‘No, stop it! I am good, I know so! I was one of the good writers in my writing class.’ It draws strength from the idea, and clenches its fists. ‘I do essays well. I’m good at creating characters and a sense of their previous existence. I have every right to write what I want to, because my responses to the creative works of other people are valid.’ The last sentence is punctuated by a fist pounding on the table.
At this precise moment, the door to the library bangs open again, and Philoctetes enters, waving around a pen and a looseleaf notebook. ‘Hey! Hey guys! I’ve got an idea! Let’s write out this bit of dialogue now, and see? See, Critic? I did write something out from beginning to end so that I’d have an outline, and there is even some substance to it!’ he shouts triumphantly.
‘Shut up, Philoctetes,’ Writer and Critic say in unison. ‘We’re having this discussion without you,’ Writer says by itself. Philoctetes, chastened and subdued, drops his hands to his sides and vanishes backwards through the door again, shutting it with a click.
Critic turns to Writer and bows. ‘Thank you, Writer. I wish you’d agree with me more often. Your introductory paragraph, for instance.’ He picks up Writer’s notebook and runs his finger down the page. ‘You do know that it’s shite, right? Melodramatic, unrealistic shite that adds nothing to the story and shies away from anything specific that would tell the reader anything about the character.’
Writer shrinks back. ‘I know, but I’m just writing this for myself, so,’ –
‘Bullshit.’ Critic cuts Writer off. ‘You tell yourself that, so that you’re not disappointed when your little experiment turns out to be awful, out of character crap. But I know you. I know that on the inside, you’re secretly hoping that it’ll be good enough to show to other people. You’re hoping that this will be it, this will be something you do that other people will notice, and like, so that you’ll be interesting and maybe have people to talk to who like you. And then you’ll berate yourself for thinking such foolish, shameful thoughts.
Writer stands up. It’s Writer’s turn to loom over the desk at Critic as it shouts, ‘You know what, Critic? You shut up! You’re just a bully. I’m allowed to be human, I’m allowed to want approval from other people. So yes, I admit it. I’m doing this for myself, but I also want attention. But that’s not an awful, terrible thing to want, is it?’
Critic stands back calmly, with a small smile on his face. ‘I never said it wasn’t. And you may be right, but I will never, ever go away. I will always be here to judge you.’ And with that, he sweeps out of the room, shutting the door behind him and leaving Writer to work things out without any help.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sometimes my inner critic has good advice to offer, but he thinks that I should just start over with Nixtamal entirely now that I stopped getting awesome new ideas for the novel for a few thousand words. It's one of those times when Inner Critic as stupid as Philoctetes, and one of the few times when I'm the one who has the right idea to just keep plugging along.
And once my inner writer realized how stupid some of Inner Critic's arguments were, I was able to move on with life and continue writing. I'm really enjoying it so far, and I think I'm not doing such as a bad job of it after all. It's rather nice to just go with it for the hell of it.
