Who Are You to Write? A Conversation With The Critical Voice That Tries to Keep Me From Writing
On Giving Yourself Permission to Be Creative
Whenever I write, I hear a voice that criticizes me. This inner critic adamantly tries to keep me from writing, especially from sharing anything publicly. Last time I was working on a text, she was particularly persistent. But instead of giving in to her arguments and giving up, I wrote down our conversation.
I: I see you’re writing again.
R: I am.
I: I thought you’d given it up?
R: I did, for a few months. I had just started a new job and all the projects I had on top of it felt overwhelming. I was not only writing every morning but also working on new plant-based recipes. I decided to drop the writing, because the recipes were for a research study I had been asked to help out with; writing was just a personal project.
I: You picked up writing again because . . . you wanted to be overwhelmed?
R: Well, no. By midsummer, I had finished a set of recipes for the study. I got back to writing the morning pages — two pages of stream of consciousness text right after waking up — , and as I predicted, it ignited the desire to write.
I remembered why I write: I love the elevated focus that I feel when I’m typing and editing at 7 am.
I had been thinking a lot about my body image and one morning I felt the urge to write about it. I filled three pages in one sitting and it made me feel light and energized, as if the honesty of my words had released something inside of me. I remembered why I write: I love the elevated focus that I feel when I’m typing and editing at 7 am.
I: Yes, I’ve seen you set an alarm for 6:15 to squeeze in writing time before work. You could start working on your real job, but no, you waste your optimal focus time on a hobby.
And I know how long it takes. I tracked the hours once: You spent twenty-three hours on a text that takes eight minutes to read. Twenty-three hours! That adds up to three weeks if you writing an hour a day. You take all this time without knowing if anyone’s even going to read it.
R: I know. But if someone does read my texts, I want them to be good. Doing things well is part of the magic. It heals my perfectionist soul to work on something until I’m satisfied with the outcome. The first draft only takes an hour or two; rewriting and editing consumes the rest. I clarify my thoughts, delete redundancies, look up synonyms, and google punctuation rules.
I: You’re talking as if you knew something about writing. Some people have actually studied literature or the English language! Or they have been writing since they were little. While they were scribbling in their notebooks and diaries, you were making bracelets with colorful beads or sketching dresses and high heels.
R: Are you only allowed to do things you loved doing as a child? Is there no room for developing interests later on?
And perhaps an interest in writing showed up differently in my childhood. My family used to call me “papupata” — a pot of beans — because I talked so much. I always finished dinner last; I had been talking instead of eating. At night, I would sneak into my parents’ bedroom, sit on my mom’s belly as she lay in bed, and tell her all about my day: Today the geography teacher brought in a TV, put on a documentary, and left for the rest of class! On my way home from school, I saw a man dressed in a suit and a top hat on the train. Did you know that the sea is blue because it reflects the blue sky above?
I’ve always had a strong desire to share my observations about the world with others. So many things fascinate me. I want to know if they fascinate others, too.
I’ve always had a strong desire to share my observations about the world with others. So many things fascinate me. I want to know if they fascinate others, too.
I: Who cares about your little observations? There are people who’ve built companies or traveled from Anchorage to Addis Ababa and you have the nerve to share your story?
R: Is writing reserved for the inventive and the adventurous only? Do you need to have done something grandiose to gain the right to write?
To me, writing isn’t about telling big stories. It’s about dealing with questions that bother me and thoughts that are yet to be woven into a narrative.
To me, writing isn’t about telling big stories. It’s about dealing with questions that bother me and thoughts that are yet to be woven into a narrative.
I: Can’t you just talk to your friends?
R: I can. But my peculiar and incomplete thoughts don’t always resonate with them. They may not have experienced anything similar. And sometimes I’m disappointed by their response: They immediately search for a solution whereas I’m usually just looking for someone to be confused with.
Writing allows me to grapple with things in the length and honesty that eludes everyday conversations. And by sharing the finished text, I make myself vulnerable. It’s like asking if people will still love me after I’ve revealed this ugly thing about myself.
I: That’s the thing I don’t get. Why do you need to share these shameful personal stories? The world doesn’t need to know everything.
R: I know, but after working on a topic for hours and sharing it publicly, it tends to bother me less. The process is cathartic.
Talking about catharsis, there’s something I want to say to you. I know that writing every morning doesn’t make sense to you. It consumes a lot of time. It isn’t evidently useful like work is. Many people are more suited for it than I am. Many people are better at it than I am. But sometimes you can do things just because you feel like it, because you’re curious about the uplifting and slightly urgent energy it carries, or because it’s one of the few things where you enjoy the process and not only the outcome. That hasn’t always been easy for me.
I have a tendency to give up things that don’t lead to something, things I can’t put on my CV or mention in a job interview.
I have a tendency to give up things that don’t lead to something, things I can’t put on my CV or mention in a job interview. They feel frivolous and superfluous, a waste of time.
I think it’s because of how I was brought up. It’s not that my parents denied creative projects from me. In fact, my mom used to tell me I can do whatever I want. For some reason, I just never really believed her.
The true message came in all the small gestures. When I spent hours studying for exams during the weekend, my mom sometimes delivered apple slices to my room to offer a snack for her admirably diligent daughter. Occasionally, she freed me from household chores like vacuuming if I continued studying instead. One year my sister and I got two euros for every grade one (A in the North American grading system) and one euro for every grade two in our report cards. My report card had a clean column of ones. When I complained about the hard work I had needed to put in to accomplish this, my mom said that dad and her never insisted we get straight ones. My sister and I were dumbfounded.
When words and behavior are put against each other, behavior is the one you listen to.
When words and behavior are put against each other, behavior is the one you listen to. And behavior told me to work hard and ace exams. On top of the numerous small external rewards, creativity was simply badly understood in my family.
Creativity came with preconditions and precautions. Growing up, my mom told me I could take up any new hobby as long as I was doing some kind of sport. When I found out about a local crafts class and told my mom that I wanted to start going there, she pointed out that the sign-up fee was quite high (it was 135 € for six months which we could afford). She wanted to make sure I would actually go. I ended up going every Monday for seven years, but the combination of actions, conversations, looks, and tones of voice taught me that creativity came in second.
Since I sketched and crafted nevertheless, I occasionally felt like an outsider in my family. By doing things my parents didn’t really understand, I placed myself above and apart from them.
Since I sketched and crafted nevertheless, I occasionally felt like an outsider in my family. By doing things my parents didn’t really understand, I placed myself above and apart from them. I claimed to be special and I claimed to be different, which was forbidden.
I still feel this way today. When I work on something creative, I carry with me my parents’ internalized confusion and fear about what this is all about, where it may take me, and whether it’ll help pay the bills. That’s why I’m so proud of myself for writing.
I: What do you want me to say to that?
R: A few words of encouragement perhaps? I wish someone would tell me this is OK. You’re allowed to do it. You should keep exploring. You should keep playing. We’re excited for you! We support you in anything you do. And to say it honestly, to actually mean it.
I: You think I will say those words?
R: I mean . . . I . . .
I: I’m not going to do that.
R: Oh.
I: You keep waiting for someone to tell you it’s OK. But bugging you is what I do. I don’t care if you write or not. You want to focus on your job single-mindedly? Great! You want to start making sourdough bread? Fine. You want to keep writing? Alright. I’ll be waiting for you the moment you start typing.
