Holding Back
While I ran toward the marker of my last mile today, I saw something white and shiny up ahead, and the following dialogue went through my head: White and shiny stranger: "Ahoy there, are you running the road today?" Me: "Yes, I made a loop with Rudsboro and Old Dana." Stranger: "Nice, that's an easy one, we just finished running up the mountain. You should try it sometime."
I actually created people waiting to judge me up ahead, and I thought about how satisfying it would be to wish them a good day and call them Judge Judy or something clever like that. When the shine came into focus as a Chrysler SUV, and there was no one to voice what I do judge myself for, that I have never run up the mountain I live next to, I was disappointed. The opportunity or me to say the right thing at the right time presents itself infrequently. Because I'm nice. And slow with the comebacks. But this was different: imagined judgment and the succeeding sorrow for the disappearance of my Judge Judy all occurred in my head. As it had many times before.
Then it came to me. This dialogue was me talking to the mean little voice that's inside all of us: you know, the one who says 'Why try?' Many writers have named this voice, and many books have been written on the subject of silencing or harnessing the voice for good. It's called the Gremlin, or the Demon, the Inner Critic, or just negative thinking. I imagined a dialogue because it created an arena where I could tell off the mean voice.
I'm writing a book, so this voice has become a frequent visitor to my writing desk. The first time I recall giving it a sentence, I was hiking the Appalachian Trail. "This is too hard; you'll never make it." Which was funny to echo around in my manic brain because I was high on endorphins and already certain that I would, indeed, make it. But there was that message. A little Gremlin. Condemnation from my own anima. Judgment. When everyone hiked faster, I gave it volume enough to voice "You aren't strong enough." Never once did I believe the saboteur, but I didn't think to silence it either. How could I, if it were me?
Now that I sit and type and choose words to share my story, I was lucky enough to learn some exercises that silence and dilute the power of the Gremlin. My favorite is early in the process, while creating content, which is the whole fruit.
I am not allowed to delete.
I type and type and overshare, describe to my heart's content, lay down the thick skin of my exposition, write background for every scene and setting, and juicy stuff the pith bleeds onto the page, when the tension and my vulnerability weave into my scene like a brilliant scar, I am not allowed to omit for fear of retribution or judgment. Maybe it won't make the final cut, but that isn't coming for months. When the content gets revised, edited, peeled to the pith, then I'll employ a different exercise. Because the Gremlin will change again to hold me back.
My friend, the life coach and my teacher, the writing coach inspired the other exercise, which is to listen to your body. At every moment with any experience our body is reacting. If we can read our body language, we can discern the creative voice from the negative one. It is well named as exercise. It requires presentness. So if I struggle to choose the perfect word rather than using five common ones, finding myself at the dictionary and thesaurus more than at a new page; if I sit and struggle to choose a topic; or write about tension without thinking about my reader and my expression of tension; most likely the Gremlin is urging me to hold back.
The message is in my shoulders or jaw or my fingers not moving. If it weren't silent, it would be saying "You're not a good enough writer to pull this off" or "This subject isn't interesting after all, maybe do something different" or "Don't share that feeling, they will think you are weak." My reaction is to tense up, or freeze the flow of words, or do something else altogether. If I can remember to be present, and listen to my body, I can hear those sentences, I can loosen the tight hold on the fount of my creativity.
The creative voice, my writing coach reminds us, only opens doors. She likes to emphasize that to write a book, you are not safe. So what purpose does this Gremlin serve? It protects me from defeat or embarrassment and judgment while preventing triumph and accomplishment. Write it a letter, she tells us, and propose a treaty. Acknowledge its service while prohibiting its meddling in this endeavor. Thank it for keeping us alive as children and helping us to avoid trauma, and then dismiss it as a trusted advisor in adulthood.
So as I finish this post, thinking about the difficulty of the chapter I'm about to write, how vulnerable I must be to accurately write it, and how it will welcome judgment upon me, it occurs to me that this post has been my unfriendly treaty letter. And that the only judgment I have ever been sure of is my own.
Stop holding back now.
I actually created people waiting to judge me up ahead, and I thought about how satisfying it would be to wish them a good day and call them Judge Judy or something clever like that. When the shine came into focus as a Chrysler SUV, and there was no one to voice what I do judge myself for, that I have never run up the mountain I live next to, I was disappointed. The opportunity or me to say the right thing at the right time presents itself infrequently. Because I'm nice. And slow with the comebacks. But this was different: imagined judgment and the succeeding sorrow for the disappearance of my Judge Judy all occurred in my head. As it had many times before.
Then it came to me. This dialogue was me talking to the mean little voice that's inside all of us: you know, the one who says 'Why try?' Many writers have named this voice, and many books have been written on the subject of silencing or harnessing the voice for good. It's called the Gremlin, or the Demon, the Inner Critic, or just negative thinking. I imagined a dialogue because it created an arena where I could tell off the mean voice.
I'm writing a book, so this voice has become a frequent visitor to my writing desk. The first time I recall giving it a sentence, I was hiking the Appalachian Trail. "This is too hard; you'll never make it." Which was funny to echo around in my manic brain because I was high on endorphins and already certain that I would, indeed, make it. But there was that message. A little Gremlin. Condemnation from my own anima. Judgment. When everyone hiked faster, I gave it volume enough to voice "You aren't strong enough." Never once did I believe the saboteur, but I didn't think to silence it either. How could I, if it were me?
Now that I sit and type and choose words to share my story, I was lucky enough to learn some exercises that silence and dilute the power of the Gremlin. My favorite is early in the process, while creating content, which is the whole fruit.
I am not allowed to delete.
I type and type and overshare, describe to my heart's content, lay down the thick skin of my exposition, write background for every scene and setting, and juicy stuff the pith bleeds onto the page, when the tension and my vulnerability weave into my scene like a brilliant scar, I am not allowed to omit for fear of retribution or judgment. Maybe it won't make the final cut, but that isn't coming for months. When the content gets revised, edited, peeled to the pith, then I'll employ a different exercise. Because the Gremlin will change again to hold me back.
My friend, the life coach and my teacher, the writing coach inspired the other exercise, which is to listen to your body. At every moment with any experience our body is reacting. If we can read our body language, we can discern the creative voice from the negative one. It is well named as exercise. It requires presentness. So if I struggle to choose the perfect word rather than using five common ones, finding myself at the dictionary and thesaurus more than at a new page; if I sit and struggle to choose a topic; or write about tension without thinking about my reader and my expression of tension; most likely the Gremlin is urging me to hold back.
The message is in my shoulders or jaw or my fingers not moving. If it weren't silent, it would be saying "You're not a good enough writer to pull this off" or "This subject isn't interesting after all, maybe do something different" or "Don't share that feeling, they will think you are weak." My reaction is to tense up, or freeze the flow of words, or do something else altogether. If I can remember to be present, and listen to my body, I can hear those sentences, I can loosen the tight hold on the fount of my creativity.
The creative voice, my writing coach reminds us, only opens doors. She likes to emphasize that to write a book, you are not safe. So what purpose does this Gremlin serve? It protects me from defeat or embarrassment and judgment while preventing triumph and accomplishment. Write it a letter, she tells us, and propose a treaty. Acknowledge its service while prohibiting its meddling in this endeavor. Thank it for keeping us alive as children and helping us to avoid trauma, and then dismiss it as a trusted advisor in adulthood.
So as I finish this post, thinking about the difficulty of the chapter I'm about to write, how vulnerable I must be to accurately write it, and how it will welcome judgment upon me, it occurs to me that this post has been my unfriendly treaty letter. And that the only judgment I have ever been sure of is my own.
Stop holding back now.
posted by Sara Haxby at
2:42 PM
<< Home