The Internal Critic

This is just too much damn fun to stop.?

The saying goes that we are our worst critic. I would like to believe that I understand this at its core truth. No one beats up my consciousness better than I do.?

Every morning I am up at the ass crack of dawn, which is about 4:00 am in my reality, to fumble in the light of the desk lamp as I line up my pens and papers for a day of world-building.?

I nestle in with a cup of coffee, a smoke burns to my left, and the dog arranges herself somewhere in the house waiting for me to finish.?

And every morning I ask myself at one point why am I here.?

The answer is always the same.?

Recently I’ve noticed a small uptick in my audience. To date, June was my best month of reads, views, and payment for the scribbles I so painstakingly enjoy writing down.?

Minuscule compared to many of the hardened creators out there, but frankly, I would do this shit for free if asked nicely.?

There is just something about reading and writing that makes my toes curl in a cerebral ecstasy that can only be best described if I use a lot of sexual metaphors.

Which I won’t.

Yet, every morning as I compare my metrics to yesterday, I still have to ask myself if what I am doing is making any impact in my life or the lives of the few who happen to pass my prose.?

Now this isn’t a solicitation for extra reads or comments. I am being legit in my internal conversation with myself, and expressing it the best way I know how.

Through words.?

Yet this constant question keeps coming up time and time again. Is what I am doing worth it??

Does it have value? Does anyone see me?

I write out my response every chance I can between the margins of my notebook to remind myself why.?

Recently I read a few books about creatives. It is redundant to list them here. There is a whole section at the library if you are interested.?

Check it out.?

What I understood about creating is this. There is no right way. Sure we can romanticize all we want, and try to Freud ourselves an answer or two, but every definition is different.?

Each author, artist, or creative will pull a few quotes out. And each one will share with you the critic that holds them in check whenever they feel the need to express in words, notes, or hues of color.

Some get it as equally wrong as they get it right. Which is why I believe there is no answer.?

Part of the process in anything we do is to question ourselves.?

Even now as I self-edit my train of thought, I can’t help but wonder if what I am saying has any real value. Does this matter in the slightest??

There goes that critic again.?

What I walk away with is the same answer over and over.?

It’s not something I found in a book, though it led me down a path that reinforces my belief that what value I am obtaining from this is more worldly than I like to admit.?

It has nothing to do with likes or comments.?

And it certainly doesn’t measure using analytics of any kind. I do this because I like to do it.?

Simple in its explanation.?

I can’t see myself doing anything else. This is just do damn fun to stop.?

It’s self-serving. I like the rush I feel—especially the highs and lows of battling my emotions to put out even more.?

There is untapped power in the written word. Playing with it like putty is an art project I will come back to time and time again.?

Reading those books about creatives, I felt no connection to this deep feeling of artistic endeavors.?

Not once did I feel like there was something unique in the way I think that warrants my writing to be anything other than for me to entertain my ego.?

Selfish in my self-expression.?

Express with words is why I am here. With or without an audience, I am addicted to playing with paragraphs. Building civilizations up on paper only to destroy them with an asteroid is what I live for.?

Making subtle innuendos with a script so I can sneak in a joke or two for the few people who read my ramblings is a high I go back to.?

I am fascinated by books. I love the raw power of what sits between a book jacket, and I want to yield that sword more than anything else.?

Not to conquer, but to create. Because the power in prose is an infection that I do not want the cure for.?

I remind myself every day that even though I live in a world of billions of people trying to make their voices heard, I am sitting on top of a mountain of my own creation.?

The critic inside of me wants to quantify my time. I get it. We are all like that. We want value in our lives. Some more than others.?

It’s natural to want to feel like you are more than the sum of your believed worth. Now more than ever.?

Why I am here is because I don’t want to be anywhere else. Even if it is alone.?

I am willing to sacrifice everything as long as I get to play with nouns and verbs. I might not be trained in the traditional sense to have any merit, but who cares??

The critic’s death scene is in the next chapter. And I already wrote it. It’s a grizzly and painful way to go, but I turned the page a long time ago.?

This fight between the two halves of myself will rage on. I am sure of it. At the same time, I will always know what side of my history I will fall on the sword of.?

The internal critic will always be there. He or She will use every method at their disposal to call into question your output. Some days it will be harder than others.?

If you find yourself asking why you enjoy doing the things that you do, just remember this.?

It’s just too much damn fun to stop.

And for that sexual innuendo. Who doesn’t like a little mental masturbation??

Especially with a dictionary. ?