My Editor

There lives inside my head an editor, trapped and howling. She shouts loudly that I am a hack, that I have been fooling everyone for years, that I am fooling myself to think I can write, that I should give up. She is damned powerful, and she pisses me off.

I imagine her with dark tangled hair, a bloated face, red thin lips, cigarette-stained teeth. She is ugly and wants me to be ugly too. She is sad and lonely and wants to keep me near her. When I am weary of fighting her off, tuning out her constant whine, sometimes I listen and believe.

And I stop writing.

What I know is this: I am not the best writer. But I am also not the worst. I know I need to improve my writing. And I know that to get better at this craft, I need to write. Often. So I need to figure out what to do with her.

Maybe, just maybe, all she needs is for me to listen. I don't have to believe. But if I hear her voice rising in pitch, sounding more urgent, I should stop, face her, and listen. And then very kindly, ask if she will take a seat off to the side and let me do my work.

Every writer has an editor. Some of us have learned long ago how to live with it. Some likely continue to struggle--have good days/weeks/months/years where their editor is quiet and docile. And then there are the bad days/weeks/months.

Here's hoping for a good stretch.