My self-editor

My self-editor doesn’t like me. We have a love-hate relationship. I liken her to a teacher I had in the 8th grade whom I didn’t get along with very well. She was an English teacher and really caused me a lot of grief because I left her class halfway through to go to the academically gifted program. I feel that she thought that program was a waste of time. We could have done more in my AG class, but what I didn’t receive in some areas (grammar), I had so many doors opened in others. My AG teacher introduced me to classical music, computers (this was 1984!), vocabulary, Shakespeare and creative writing.

I love writing. More importantly, I love expressing myself creatively. I can be a very logical “left-brain” type of person. I think it’s because I married an economist. Let’s blame him. An economist who is a classical violinist. He can be very creative and after being married for 9 years, I just recently found at that he is more of an optimist than pessimist. I had no idea, I seriously thought that he was a pessimist. If you spoke to him, you would think the same thing. However, he doesn’t use his creative side or “right-brain” that often. He burned out. Badly.

Me? I quit writing for a long time due to many issues. My biggest one is my lack of self-confidence. I fail miserably in that area. Second, I am a procrastinator. I love nothing more than waiting to the last minute to do something. I do my best work that way. However, I am fighting that step by step. Part of the steps I am taking is setting deadlines for myself. I have to create the mindset that I am going to have a deadline and that my writing has to be at a certain point. This way, I will force myself to write well for a better part of the time.

While I realize that I am going to get behind…like when my muse decides to go on vacation. That’s not often and the more that I write, the more ideas I receive from my muse. She wakes me up in the middle of the night and I use the voice recorder on my phone to mumble whatever it is I am thinking of. I used to try and write it down, but my handwriting is hard enough to read at times, let alone after writing it down bleary eyed in the middle of the night. However, my editor is turned off then.

I love it when my editor turns off, but that is rare. I have to actually work at turning off my self-editor. My self-editor turns on and says “every word you are writing is complete dribble. What do you think you are doing woman? You need to rework that sentence. How can you leave it hanging there?” I would really like to respond and said “buggar off you daft cow”, but I am not sure she would listen.

So, that is where I am at…progressing, while trying to block out that nagging voice in my head. One day, I will win–or at least just learn to ignore her.

Hyperventilating in Barnes and Noble-Nearly

I have a hard time getting into “right-brain mode” lately. I have always been able to go between both modes, however more often than not, my analytical side seems to take over.  I actually prefer to holistic, intuitive mode of using my right-brain. When I turn on my left-brain, I over-analyze, over-rationalize, and just pay attention to parts of things–not the whole picture.

So, how does that relate to my nearly hyperventilating in Barnes and Noble? Well, I was in there to look at reference books and then meandered over to the children’s section with my dear son. He grabbed a “Magic Tree House” book that he had been wanting and I headed over to the picture books. I have a few that I thought I had finished–that is, until I picked up and browsed through a couple of Mercer Mayer and Robert Munsch books. It was at that time that panic set in. Now, I haven’t even queried anyone. Nobody, nunca, Nada, zip. So, I have had no feedback whatsoever.  However, all of my doubts came bubbling up in an overwhelming wave of nausea when I was supposed to casually reading. I felt my teeth start to go numb, bile rose in my throat, and my legs wouldn’t move. I seriously thought that I was going to upchuck all over the kiddie reading area.  I pictured the manager coming to escort me out of the store before handing me a bill for $5,000 dollars for the books I had ruined and carpet that would need replacing.

I managed to move from the children’s section to the business section that my husband was hanging out in and gasped that I needed a cup of coffee, now. One very large caramel macchaito later, I was able to talk to him and told him what happened. He swears that what I am feeling is most likely normal and that I shouldn’t worry about it. He’s also my biggest fan, so he is probably just a little biased. Although, sometimes I wonder. He is straight as a die and shoots straight from the hip and doesn’t mince words. It’s refreshing. However, I still question his unfeigned criticism. Would he still show the same candor if he weren’t my husband? I hope so, but it is my own doubts that make me question not only him, but myself.