"You're No Jane Austen!"

and other rants by my Inner Critic

Photo credit: Tama66 from Pixabay

Skitters is my Inner Critic. She lives in the attic of my brain and sleeps on a bed of rags. She used to be quite active, lecturing me all the time about how I didn’t need to write because, in her logic, “Every story has already been told and by people who are better at it than you.” Then she’d finish up with a taunting, “You’re no Jane Austen.”

In 2020, though, I took a workshop from Caroline Donahue, who taught me how to understand and work with my inner critic. That class led to a series of clashes with Skitters. During one of our biggest face-offs she pulled out her Austen line and I said, “Jane Austen wasn’t Jane Austen until she was Jane Austen,” by which, of course, I meant, becoming known overnight is not much of thing. You do the work, you put it out there, ya takes yer chances.

But Skitters fears risk more than anything; public humiliation runs a close second. Doing something which has been done beautifully by others seems a certain path to ruin. So, I assured her that writing a book, much less publishing one does not guarantee a damn thing besides a sense of accomplishment. I suggested her worries were about a danger which is highly unlikely. Assuaged, she told me to run off and play with my little stories (she can be terribly dismissive) while she took a very long nap.

The other morning, however, she woke up absolutely ravenous. To be fair, she hasn’t had any good, juicy fear to feed on in quite a while. Sick to death to discover I planned to publish this week, she phoned Anxiety, determined to work me into an equal state of hysteria. Anxiety, however, let the call go to voice mail.

Skitters slammed the phone on what passes for her bed, setting a billion dust motes dancing, and coughed. “This is not our deal. You can write, but you’re not allowed to be seen.”

Then she intoned the Ominous List of All Which Could And Probably Will Go Very Wrong. “The book won’t sell, you’ll have wasted time and money, everyone you know will laugh at you, and your writing group will kick you out. Or maybe the book will sell, which is infinitely worse because if anyone reads it you’ll for sure be embarrassed, judged, or cancelled.” She started to quiver. “Oh, cripes. What happens if you are fêted, praised, or even a teensy bit successful? Ever think about the consequences of inviting that level of criticism and rejection? Haven’t you heard about review trolls? My gods! What if someone invites you on their podcast?”

I usually start snickering when she works herself into high dudgeon, which she really hates so she changed tack, arguing I should content myself with being creative, that writing for myself, as I’ve done for years, is enough. This, however, didn’t come off as authentically as she hoped since she’s often questioned whether I, in fact, possess any creativity at all. “And if you do want to publish—which is madness—at least wait until you’re a better writer.”

Skitters, however, isn’t clear on what “better” means except to compare me to aforementioned Jane or another of my beloved authors. She doesn’t understand the process of ‘getting better’; how each work informs the next, which suggest each book improves over the ones before it. (At least, that’s how I hope it works.) A debut novel, like a first draft, is perfect by virtue of existing. But Skitters absolutely refuses to believe there is room in the world for one more voice, especially mine.

“I’ve spent the last five years grudgingly keeping silent. I’ve kept my interference to a minimum, but this is too much! This isn’t merely writing-as-a-regular practice or making yourself vulnerable to critique groups and editors. This is an outrage!” With fury-reddened cheeks and streaming eyes she shouted, “Publishing is beyond the pale—the most reckless, dangerous, stupidly brave thing you have ever done and I. Am. Not. Having. It!”

I told her about some of the books I’ve read lately, including lovely ones by first-time authors. “Skitters,” I said, gently as I could. “You’d be amazed by how many people can find fresh ways to tell stories. But we’d never know it if they kept it to themselves.” I gave her a pie. “There’s more where that came from, if you want it.”

She picked up on the analogy and didn’t appreciate it, but she loves pie.

“It’s going to be OK,” I said.

“How do you know?” She wiped a genuine tear from her eye.

“I don’t,” I said. “What happens next is a mystery. I just know it’s time.” Then I made her a cup of tea, something soothing and herbal as she does not need caffeine right now. I thanked her for wanting to keep me safe but patiently explained there’s no going back from this decision. Then I asked her, when she feels up to it, to look over the last batch of notes from my editor, give me her thoughts on them, and, if she likes, draw the writing map for my next book. Skitters adores a project and is surprisingly meticulous.

Exhausted by slamming shite and shouting, she curled into a fetal position and whimpered, “Just put it off a little bit more. You’ve waited this long; what’s one more week/month/year/decade?”

“Eat your pie, Skitters,” I said.

Poor little thing. She’s spent her entire existence protecting me from my dreams. She has focused so hard on saving me from failure and cannot understand how someone so introverted and thin of skin could possibly be this foolish. She’s grudgingly aware, though, that I’m not as weak as when she first moved in. She liked me much better when I didn’t talk back, but she knows when she’s lost a battle.

Meanwhile, I’m back downstairs, carrying on. The attic has gone quiet.