Why Do I Listen to Myself?

I have given in at times...

I've backed away from a challenge when people suggested I wasn't good enough to do something. I've held back from trying when I knew no one expected me to make it.

But I've also proven people wrong so many times. I wasn't supposed to marry my hubby--it wouldn't work, my family said--but we're about to celebrate 20 years of marriage. I was told not to try being a teacher (it wouldn't suit me), yet I've managed to get three degrees in English and teach for nearly as many years as I've been married. And I'm a good teacher. I'm interesting, I'm effective, and I'm fair but tough.

I've learned to ignore what people say. They are too quick to give up on me, to likely to be skeptical about my abilities, too likely to brush over me, dismiss me, ignore me.

But then my own inner voices come... and they tell me the same things... and I don't ignore them. I let them shove me down, pull me back, shiver me into a corner. I back away from challenge. I hold back, I keep quiet, I shut myself up entirely.

Why? Why do I listen? Why don't I slap those nasty voices into next week (oops, there's a bad pun), toss them in the trash where they belong, wash myself free of them in the shower, letting them go down the drain and disappear for good?

Better yet, why don't I try to SHOW them? I do this with outside people, but I don't challenge my own voices. Why don't I just see this as a challenge?

It's because they are me. They are my caution, my tact, my defensive mechanisms. These same voices keep me from saying stupid or mean things out of anger. Sometimes shutting up is the best choice, and I'm grateful when they help me make it, too.

I can't just chunk them out a random window. They are as much me as the determination, the work ethic, the sensitivity, the everything of me. But they need to go to their room sometimes, and let me work. They need to leave off. They need to go take a nap or something so that I can get back to writing without them screaming at me.

Wow. They're listening. I'm amazed. I can see their shoulders hunching a little in shame. I can see their sad looks. Their off to their rooms to think about what they've done. Are they giving me the day off? I sure hope so. I could use the afternoon for writing. Without their looking over my shoulder.

Now I'm off. If they pop their heads out, I'll just glare until the heads disappear. If they start grumbling, I'll turn on the radio to drown them out.

Maybe I should turn on the radio NOW.

I'm Not a Writer

I'm not a writer.

I've been trying for years to CALL myself one, to LIVE the life of a writer, to THINK like a writer, to BE a writer. But it isn't working. I can try harder, or I can accept the fact that it simply won't work. I'm not the next J.K. Rowling. I'm not even the next Barbara Cartland. My writing sucks.

I've been writing plays since I was six, but I'm not a playwright. I'm a thespian with quite a bit of theatre experience, but merely a fashioner of inane dialogue. My characters are sappy and lifeless, and they don't seem to accomplish anything while onstage. Boring, truly boring. My favorite genre, it seems, is "kitchen sink" drama, which most professional theaters specifically request not to read. I even have one full-length play that takes place in a kitchen. No joke. The whole play. And there's a sink. And people cook and clean and eat and drink tea in it. Just like a real kitchen. You can't get any more kitchen sink-ish than that.

I'm not a novelist, either, just a writer of very long, highly craptacular prose. It's awful, really, even after eleventy-seven revisions. Don't believe me? Just post your e-mail address in the comments, and I'll send you a sample. You'll believe me then.

And I'm not a poet. Sure, I can put some pretty images together, give them a bit of meaning. I can even rhyme poetry, too, though I avoid that as much as possible since the moment I start rhyming my poetry starts to sound like a toothpaste commercial. Don't worry, if you bother coming back here again (and you probably won't), I'll post some lovely samples of my best toothpaste-y sounding commercial/poems. Fabulous stuff. It'll make whatever you wrote at thirteen--you know, all that "Jenny broke up with me so I want to die" poetry?--look brilliant.

Realizing I'm not a writer is quite freeing. I don't have to make my query sound good anymore. Why bother, when the novel itself sucks? I can send out chapters without the angst. I can go through life without being disappointed when somebody hates what I've written. Of course they hate it, I'll be able to say. It sucks! What else were they supposed to do with it?

Even better, I can stop writing. Completely. No more writing. Except for some awful poetry, since it isn't really writing. And these blog posts. I've had all sorts of people tell me that's not really writing, either, so I can still do those. I can keep working on all that other crap, too, without the pressure of having to somehow miraculously make it not crap. I can even give all of you a few days a week to post your own crap. Yeah, that will make me feel better, to know that I'm not the only one who isn't really writing.

Not that you'll come. I mean, who would? So don't come back. You won't like it. Go find some encouraging blog to tell you that you'll make it some day if you keep working hard, that you just need to find the right agent, or not say stupid things in your query, or get the right beta readers.

But if you come back, don't whine. I told you not to. That you can't follow directions only means you're destined to suffer. As am I. If I see you here again, I'll just know you're hopeless.

Just like me.