Tuesday, April 7, 2009

Meet my inner critic. I call him Edmund.

There are times when I’m simply bursting with ideas and observations, when I want to sort out events or feelings, or write down things to remember forever, even though I know I’ll never come back and read them. Those are the times when my words really flow, because the editors in my mind don’t have time to keep up. I wish I could take my whole inner editorial staff out for a couple of drinks, and make friends with them. If they knew me and where I was coming from, if they had some sympathy for my point of view, I don’t think they’d be so harsh. They might loosen up and have some fun, or at least, be more constructive with their feedback.

I’ve never thought of befriending these entities before – these inner voices from years ago and who knows where. Perhaps I should pour a little glass of brandy as an offering to my critic before I write or set about doing my work – maybe my critic would become a muse.

This would be a dramatic transition. Right now, my main inner critic is definitely a rather portly man. Not rough around the edges like Lou Grant, either, but a real snob. Basil, the dramatic critic character in the Canadian TV series Slings and Arrows is about right. And this muse I want to bring forth with offerings of brandy is more of a mother goddess type. So, this is a doozey of a transformation I’m proposing. I don’t think an instant transformation a la “nutty professor” would be convincing, so I’m imagining a gradual shift.

With continued practice, which my portly male inner critic – let’s call him Edmund – informs me I am constitutionally incapable of (that’s his opinion), perhaps my Edmund incarnation would soften and begin wearing brightly colored shirts. From here, his creased trousers might give way to some casual khakis, and eventually golf pants, or perhaps cruise wear. When I can picture him in loose, raw linen drawstring pants and “mandals” (man sandles), I’ll know that I can win this, and eventually I’ll be able to rehabilitate the insufferable Edmund, and have him undergo the gender re-assignment process that would help my mother goddess muse emerge.

If I were Edmund, I would seriously consider cooperating with this plan, because all of my others involved eliminating him from my inner editorial staff, not rehabilitating him. Of course, he doesn’t think I have the authority or nerve to fire him. We’ll see…

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