I’m working on a personal piece of writing this week, but the go is slow. There’s a dark scowling editor hovering over my shoulder making all kinds of judgements. Every time I get a few sentences down, he rolls his eyes. I’ve hardly got a full page done.
“Don’t tell that,” he hisses. “Don’t even hint or wink a knowing wink about it.”
I delete my words and try again.
“Stop! You can’t tell people about that!”
I try again.
“Put a smile on your face and play nice,” he warns, tapping the delete button for me.
I know better than to listen to my inner naysayers during a creative phase, but this guy has me completely blocked. He’s panicked. For me, or himself, and I can’t tell which.
His hands raise as I type my words now, just waiting for me to step out of his comfort zone. I tense against his criticism, and only let an edited version hit the page where he can see. The rest of the story is stuck in my shoulder area, sharp and brittle.
I keep typing anyway, but soon, something even more unsettling happens.
Those unsaid words begin to loosen up and drift piece-by-piece down my arm to my elbow. I type faster and feel a few of them gather dangerously close to my wrist.
If I don’t stop them soon, they will fly out of my fingers for everybody to see.