Introducing Gretchen, My Inner Censor and Critic

It’s been nearly two years since my Muse, Sarabelle, introduced herself to me. Those of you who have read my occasional reports of Sarabelle’s influence know that she tends to be a bit feisty at times.

This morning as I sat musing about some seldom visited memories from long ago, Sarabelle tapped me on the shoulder and delivered some surprising news: She is only one of the entities on my Inner Writing Team. In short order she introduced me to Gretchen, my Inner Censor/Critic, and Betty, my Inner Editor. Then, as suddenly as she appeared, Sarabelle vanished, leaving me to my own devices to get acquainted with her colleagues.

With a bit of trepidation sparked by her forbidding appearance, I choose to begin with Gretchen. I’m immediately transported to the hallway of a prison, in front of iron bars across gray cells. The cells are surprisingly bright, lit by a small barred window, high on the wall. Despite the light, there is no color in this scene.

Gretchen stands before me, a study in black and white herself. Her austere black leather outfit and knee-high boots match her stick-straight, raven tresses, in sharp contrast to her pale complexion. Her eccentric outfit bares her right shoulder for ease of motion as she keeps unwanted memories and stories at bay. Measuring no more than five feet in height, and wiry in build, she’s surprisingly small for someone who appears so menacing. She stands facing me, silent and staring, with arms tightly crossed, black whip clenched in one hand, and a huge ring of keys on her other wrist. She is not the sort of person I generally care to deal with, but I must get acquainted. The significance of her sudden appearance is immediately apparent.

“Gretchen, I’m pleased that we are finally meeting. I appreciate all the fine work you’ve done over the years guarding my darker memories. Now I need your assistance in visiting them.”

“That is forbidden!” she barks in reply. “They are locked in here for good reason. They will make you unhappy and hurt you. They can hurt other people. It’s for your own good that I do this!” Her earnest fierceness is almost comical in its intensity.

“I understand. I have no intention of opening the gates and letting these monsters run amok, but I need to talk with them to gain some important insights. I’ve been getting appeal requests from several and need to evaluate their cases.”

She responds with a long string of admonitions warning me of dire consequences, questioning my motives, my judgment, even my writing skills, and generally tries to scare me off. My resolve begins to weaken, but then I recall why I’m here. Those memories are part of me, and I’m determined to know them better, liberating the ones that can be absolved. Many have served their sentences and are due for release. Others may have gotten a bum rap to begin with. I realize that reason will not work. I’ll have to pull rank to get past her.

“Thank you Gretchen. No one can fault you for lack of dedication. Here is a list of four memories I wish to visit today. Please bring them to me in my study. I’ll expect them to arrive in five minutes. That will be all.” With that, I return to my study, settling into a comfortable chair with a cup of fresh coffee and a pad of paper, ready to proceed with the interviews.

Right now I have my work cut out for me dealing with those old memories. I’ll find Betty some other time.
Write now: about your muse, Inner Censor, or Inner Editor. Do these entities have names? What do they look like? How do they act? What do they say when you talk to them? If you’ve never had a conversation with any of then, do some writing practice in dialog form and see what emerges. You are bound to be as surprised as I was at what emerges.

Inner Critic — Guide, Guard, or Enabler?

You will never, ever, in a million years be that creative and write that well!

With nuclear force, Gretchen (my Inner Critic) burst onto the scene shouting these words and a stream of related ones as I began reading Three Bites, a 675 word life story by Leslie F. Miller, found on the most excellent Brevity28 website. Leslie’s imaginative description totally blew me away and seemingly raised the bar out of reach. I knew what was happening; still, I was stunned by Gretchen’s outburst. What was this all about?

Two days later, still reeling from that attack's aftershocks, I journaled about it, using the technique I’ve evolved of posing questions — to myself or whatever source of inspiration may be floating around — and then just writing without further thought. I’ve found many powerful answers that way.

The answer that morning seemed ambiguous. It didn't address Gretchen's outburst at all. Within a sentence or two, my words turned to the day my hubby and I set out to climb Cathedral Rock near Sedona. We both wanted the heady experience of scaling the sheer slopes. He wanted to take pictures. I was curious about the vortex energy Native Americans and mystics associate with the site. I wanted to experience it myself — or not.

The first half of the trail wound gradually up and around the base. Then we had to scramble up a fairly steep rocky area. Did I really want to do this? Was it worth it? “Come on. This is nothing. Keep moving!” Hubby urged. I kept going. Sure enough, in minutes we were on the next level and moving along a fairly level path.

Finally we came to the last ascent, and it seemed to go straight up to heaven, figuratively if not literally. Well, maybe only maybe a couple of hundred feet, but still ... In truth, my fear was not about climbing up. I knew I could make it up with no problem. Getting down again was another matter. Heights make me queasy, and I’m more aware of them going down.

“I don’t think it’s worth it. I don’t need to go clear to the top. This is good enough,” I whined. “You go on up if you want, I’ll poke around down here.”

“You’ll always regret it and hate yourself if you quit. Come on.” His voice was gentle, encouraging, and I knew he was right. I would hate myself later if I wimped out. Up I went.

The view from the top was spectacular, and he got some great photos. I sat for about half an hour gazing out, and I wish I could say I was transported somehow, but if the energy is there, my receiver was not tuned into that frequency. All too soon we headed down again, hoping to also make it up Bell Rock several miles away. The slopes I’d feared descending turned out to be no big deal, and the exhilaration I felt from having overcome my reluctance surely equaled anything The Force could have offered.

Recalling this adventure reminded me that Gretchen could be doing any of several things. She could be posting trail markers to help my stay on the path that makes the best use of my talents. She could be guarding me from danger. Or, she could be giving me the excuse I need to wimp out and avoid the challenge and exhilaration of scaling new heights of achievement.

In the final analysis, I decided that this time Gretchen was functioning as an enabler for my Inner Wimp. Guides and Guards give reasons.
Enablers use fear and intimidation. I won’t be deterred by stories that seem to eclipse my humble efforts. I shall continue to approach reading as a source of inspiration and use it as a springboard for expanding my vision rather than lapsing into meaningless comparisons. And I’ll keep writing, revising, and writing some more, honing my skills with practice.

Regardless of the whines of my Inner Wimp, I’ll take the next steps, writing and revising, slowly scaling my way to that peak, strengthening my writing muscles in the process. Climbing that rock is a robust metaphor for writing. I’d hate myself if I quit trying to improve. My work will never sound like Leslie Miller's because I’m not Leslie Miller. But I can do a fine job of telling my stories my way, and what more could anyone hope for?

Afterward: Perhaps the joke was on me. I recently learned that the Cathedral Rock vortex is not at the top of the rock as I thought, but down at the bottom, across Oak Creek, nearly a mile away. We actually did hike there another day, passing the site without realizing it. But I’m still glad I climbed the rock, and now I know that the most powerful results may not come from the most strenuous effort.

Write now: have a freewriting conversation in your journal or on scrap paper with your Inner Critic about (her?) motivations. Explore previous times, perhaps unrelated to writing, when you have overcome your fears and consider how that relates to your writing. Did you have coach or cheerleader urging you on? Where can you find that sort of support for your writing?

Reactions to Gretchen

After posting my introduction to Gretchen, my newly emerged Inner Censor, I read it to a writing group. The first response was, “Is this fiction or what?”

“No. It is not fiction. Strange as it may sound, I did meet Gretchen, and she is quite real — at least to me.” That explanation sparked a lively discussion of reality, truth, writing about arcane events and beliefs and all sorts of good things. Somebody mentioned that it’s normal for children to have imaginary playmates.

“Sarabelle and Gretchen are not imaginary.” I assured them. A few eyeballs briefly rolled at that. If they didn’t know me so well by now, I have no doubt that some would suggest medication or exorcism!

After several minutes, we collectively agreed that I had accessed some deeper well of creativity in my right brain, and all considered it a fun story and intriguing concept, whatever the source. That seems to represent comfortable common ground for all belief systems, from secular to sacred, and it’s a tidy and functional way of putting things.

This discussion poses an interesting dilemma. If I put the story of my Inner Writing Team and all the conversations I have with seemingly imaginary people in a collection of stories for future generations, they may well think that Granny was a total nutcase, assume that these conversations are purely creative writing, or both.

Obviously, if I want them to be taken seriously, I must place these stories in a larger context. I could take the easy way out and simply explain them as the workings of various aspects of my creative subconscious, but I’m inclined to be a little more explicit. I do believe there’s more to it than that, but the alternate explanations are highly intuitive and fuzzy in my mind. It's a matter of degrees of self-disclosure. For strangers and casual acquaintances, the easy answer is fine.

One major challenge I face in writing such a story is that it keeps changing. My understanding continues to evolve as I learn new things and explore various aspects of what I already know. I anticipate this will be the case as long as I live, so whatever I write can be only an approximation. Perhaps I need to take my own advice and remember that “anything I write about this is better than writing nothing.”

Write now: about a non-traditional idea you have, whether in the “woo-woo” realm or simply questioning common wisdom and beliefs.

Write on,

Sharon Lippincott, aka Ritergal

Joy Writing

Photo by Jurvetson

You know the image of the writer as a starving, tortured soul, each agonized word blurred on the page by sweat beads dripping from his brow. He writes in longhand, on a hand-hewn log desk, by candlelight, wrapped in rags against the wintry blast, with only a crust of bread to sustain his unworthy efforts, and page after page of tormented efforts are wadded into balls and tossed into the fireplace for a bit of added warmth. He makes frequent stops to sharpen the quill with which he writes or to fill the inkwell into which he dips that plume. He may occasionally resort to chopping kindling to gather his erratic thoughts, mind churning in sync with his stomach. In the depths of his heart, he knows these efforts will pay off. His words will be pressed upon millions of pages and stir the hearts of readers with passion second only to his.

You know the image. You may even relate to that image and fear to write because of it. I say to you now, forget it! It’s only a myth. Writing doesn’t have to be this way. Listen to your muse. Loosen up. Write for the sheer fun of it.

“Fun?” Your unspoken question reverberates even unto my heart and ears. Yes! I said fun. Joy. Pick up your pencil and take a joy break.

Maybe before you take write for joy, a little physical action is in order. When was the last time you zoomed around your yard, arms dipping and rising like an airplane? I admit this is not one of my daily activities, but I did try it last summer. I swooped around, dipping and diving, making airplane sounds. I marched like a majorette with knees rising high. I whirled and twirled, stopping just short of falling in a heap on the asphalt. After six or seven minutes, I felt loose as a goose, both mentally and physically. I felt young at heart, and considerably younger in body.

You can do the same thing indoors, moving wildly to magic music, something with a strong beat and lots of energy. For now, try it alone. Or blow some bubbles if you have a bottle around. Catch a few on your hand.

Now, you are ready to write. Start a story with “Once upon a time there was a little (girl or boy, your pick). S/he lived in ...” You take it from there. Make it wild. Transcend gravity. Fly. Swim under the sea. Leap tall buildings with a single bound. Be totally outrageous. Nobody is going to read this, unless you decide to share.

How did that feel? Why don’t you write this way all the time? Because your inner critic won’t let you, that’s why. Talk back to your critic (in my case, Gretchen). Say something like, “Gretchen, I know you have my best interests at heart, but I need a break. I need some joy. Please sit back, have some milk and cookies while I write. You can check it over later.”

By the way, your words will surely flow most freely if you write by hand, on paper, but that’s only one option. Do what feels write to you. Write it your way, with joy.

Start out with easy, childlike topics, and as you grow more comfortable, you’ll find it ever easier to write joy-fully, even about dark topics, knowing that your playful spirit will find the hidden blessing within. You’ll have a fresher attitude, less stress, brighter descriptions. You’ll knock away your blocks with a writer’s rush, and generally juice up your writing. Your writer’s voice will sing. But best of all, it’s fun!

Just in case you were wondering, this child-like joy writing originates on the creative, write side of your brain, not the reasonable, rational, linear left.

Write now: with joy. Follow the directions above and write something fun, like blowing bubbles and hopping inside one to travel away to a magical place.

Magic Spell to Brighten Dingy Gray Writing

Writing from an adult state of mind often results in dingy gray writing that has all the appeal of instruction manuals for installing dishwashers. The roots of gray writing go all the way back to childhood. Remember when you first started coloring in a color book? The day you made the sky bright orange and scribbled the grass purple and put pink leaves on the tree? And your mother looked aghast at your proud efforts. “You know the sky is blue. Why did you make the grass purple?” And you knew failure.  Even if you don’t remember, your Inner Critic was born that day, and life became a little less fun. So here you are now, wanting with every fiber of your being to amaze your family and friends with wondrous webs of enchanting words, and you sit staring at blank paper with your solar plexus squooshing your guts up into the back of your throat and you think of orange skies and you can no more write brightly blossoming words than fly to the moon.

TAKE HEART!
BE BRAVE!

Reclaim your right to chose your own colors. Release your Wild Child, listen to your heart, then color and write on your own terms. That’s the only way to amaze anyone with wondrous writing.

If you dare to try something zany, here’s a special magic spell Sarabelle taught me for keeping Gretchen out of my way. To cast the spell, you’ll need a medium-sized glass jar or drinking glass, your favorite pen or pencil and plenty of unlined paper (best for writing outside the lines, which this spell is all about). Place the jar next to your paper and pen.

Now, sit comfortably in your chair, ready to write, and rest your write hand on your paper. Place your other hand over your solar plexus (the soft triangle where your ribs begin to spread apart). Press gently and notice any sensation of tension or tenderness there. Close your eyes and take a deep, slow breath, filling your lungs comfortably full. Concentrate on the feeling of your breath entering your body. Exhale gently, relaxing and feeling peaceful as the breath departs. Feel your solar plexus relax. Repeat six times, feeling more calm and relaxed each time.

On the seventh breath, fill your lungs completely. Raise your write hand and place it below your mouth in a cupped position. Push on your solar plexus with your other hand as you exhale forcefully, “blowing” the Inner Critic out into the palm of your waiting hand. Quickly close your hand and grasp the critic firmly to keep it from slipping away. Use your other hand to raise the glass jar to one side, and slip the critic underneath, quickly snapping the jar down to capture it inside. You may or may not be able to see it. That doesn’t matter. Know it’s in there, and promise to call it when you need it, but be firm in telling it to sit there quietly. Slide the jar to the back of the desk.

You are now free to write all the
wondrous words you dream of.

To celebrate your freedom, pick up your pen and write a story about the most beautiful flower you’ve ever seen or can imagine. Write about seductive scents and ethereal lighting. Write about running around the yard blowing soap bubbles. Write about your favorite toys. Write about swinging clear up to the sky and digging to China in the sand. Write with joy and abandon and don’t worry at all what it sounds like.

Inner Critics often need lots of training before they'll stay put in their jar, but you can repeat this magic anytime yours gets loose and turns your writing dingy gray again.

Write now: about other joyous memories. Write about scary things as if you are a child telling your Grandma. Write a story about your IC. When did it appear? How does it influence you? What would you write if it were to disappear? Let your words whirl, soar and spin with joy and glee. Write like nobody is reading, and ... HAVE FUN playing with words!