Stirring Point

Maybe you’ve heard the term “inner critic” before. I’m certain you’ve listened to the salty bastard jabbering in your ear on occasion. The self-doubter, the belittler, the defeatist—these are hallmark traits of the inner critic. It’s bound within our programming and uses the concept of comparison as a weapon. Why am I less successful than my friends? Why am I not a better painter? I’m stuck in this job; no one else will hire me. These thoughts are debilitating and steamroll perfectly good ideas. We talk ourselves out of things before ever attempting a first step in a new direction.

I harbor plenty of self-doubt. At times, it’s useful. It keeps me from car surfing like Teen Wolf at  42 years old, even though the desire is strong. It slows my thinking and helps me temper my reactions at work. But it also sets traps that hinder my progress toward growth. Why would it do this? Fear. And what does the inner critic fear? Failure. 

When I hear its voice, I search for my fear. If it’s difficult to find, I start a dialogue with my inner critic. Sound a little nuts? Maybe. But it allows the brain to engage its dueling narratives with an honest conversation. Does that sound crazy, too? It shouldn’t. We make pro- and con-lists all the time that help us measure the weight of our decisions. A conversation with the inner critic is an extension of this, but it excavates our internal narratives and puts our fears under the microscope.

I encourage you to take a moment in your day and write out a dialogue engaging your inner critic. The following is a great place to start: 

1. Think of something you want to do or are already doing in your life where you deeply doubt your abilities. Write the topic at the top of the page.

Examples: I fear public speaking; I need to lose weight; I want to change jobs; I want to share my art with the world. 

2. Let your inner critic fly. Let it belittle you, knock you down and tear you limb from limb. Write out its diatribe against you like a scene in a play. Let it tell you why you stink, why you’ll never lose weight, or why you’ll never be a good painter. Let it tell you why no one cares about your effort or how your work will never amount to anything in the world. Don’t hold back. Let it swing from its back foot. 

3. Sit with the above for a moment, then reread the tirade. Search for the fear embedded in the language. Think about that fear. Is it real? And when you’re ready, begin your retort. Tell the inner critic why you are capable. Start slow and address the fear. Build on your argument. Bleed on the damn page. Be vulnerable, be honest, and summon the courage to tell the naysayer within that you have firm footing; you’re balanced and capable. 

4. Let the conversation flow. Play the roles of both characters. They are both you! Throw haymakers from both sides. Let the activity be generative and organic. Toss sophistry aside. Abandon your neat little narratives or attempts to be clever. Let the words land fresh on the page. 

5. Be relentless. Know that fear—as a form of self-governance—poisons your growth. Root out your fear. After you’ve given it oxygen, it will balloon up, making it easier to locate. Then dig your toes in and push back.

The following is an example of this exercise, pulled from a 2022 notebook of mine:

The Fear of Writing Publically  

Inner Critic (IC), John (Me)

Me: Why are you badgering me?

IC: Well, it appears the almighty has decided to try his hand at writing, knowing full well he’s too late to the party. You’re a dollar short on ideas.

Me: I can learn. I’m still breathing, aren’t I? I have time—at least another 40 years. Is that not enough for you?

IC: 40 years? Let’s take a look at what you’ve done with the past 40 years on the page. A half-hearted travel blog, camouflaged neatly behind the premise of informality. You cringe when you read it now, right? So did all your readers 10 years ago. What have you done on paper over the last 40 years? Name one thing that was worth a damn.

Me: I get it; I should have done more. Distractions always found their way in and I was lazy. But I’ve planted a flag now and I’m all in this time.

IC: Even with 40 years of disciplined writing, your path will always lead to mediocrity.

Me: Why?

IC: There are two reasons: 

1. You have poor foundations. You never took writing, grammar and syntax seriously as a student. 

2. You’re only tangentially associated with your passions. You possess no mastery and never have. The world wants articulate mastery for the type of writer you want to be.

Me: I can’t master syntax and grammar with enough time and effort?

IC: Maybe. But knowing you, probably not. You’re generally disciplined and that may help. But your beer is already flat and warm. It’s not only past its prime, but it was brewed wrong from the get-go. You’ve always been, and will always be, a mile wide and an inch deep in your mastery. You float in the orbit of wise people, yet their gravity never pulls you in. You have no depth and your synaptic web is weak. A light breeze will pull you apart. Too many interests, too many hobbies.

Me: Maybe my voice will come from a panoramic view. There’s a place in this world for that. My success in writing may come from my odd web of connections. And maybe these connections will create something of value for other scatterbrains like me. 

IC: Do you hear all of those maybes falling from your lips? You’re 40! This was a conversation we should have had at 20, 25, or even 30 years old. Yet, here we are, paralyzed by our own excuses.

Me: But I’m not lazy anymore. I have a million resources waiting to be used. I write every day, no matter how pedestrian it may seem. I’m building a committed habit. I take writing classes and read as if I’ve been starved of books for most of my life. Isn’t that a start? Why are you such a defeatist?

IC: Defeatist? Why am I? Maybe because I’ve resigned myself to your pattern of mediocrity.

What have you given me to work with? Some run-of-the-mill effort? That’s the maximum we get with every damn thing you do. It’s not a matter of passion. That’s easy to come by for any conscious human. But a sustained passion, followed by a persistent and all-consuming effort, forcing its way into your DNA—that’s obsession. And that is where I need you now. If you give a shit about honoring this craft and demonstrating to you and only you that your mind is worth something in this world—that you haven’t squandered your brain cells—then show me for Christ’s sake. Commit to this! All in! You’re inadequate. So what. Lean into the fire, get burned, heal, build up scar tissue and do it again. That’s what you’ve never given me, and that’s why I’m faithless. That’s where you come up short. You dream, but you never realize the work. Take in this reality, and maybe then we can talk. But frankly, you’re not equipped for this. You’re in over your head.

Me: Why. Why can’t I do this? Who’s the gatekeeper here? 

IC: Everyone with taste! Any breathing, thinking human being with a touch of discernment—that’s who. You’re clueless; you’re a child playing dress-up in his father’s clothes. An imposter, a con man, a charlatan.

Me: How the hell do you know? Your viewpoint is always on the precipice of doubt! Your scope is narrow and your scale is limited. You see with only one eye and that distorts your long view. You only know dissatisfaction. You’re inept at judging.

IC: Satisfaction is the fulfillment of one’s needs and expectations. What have you delivered? You think any of this shit is worth a nickel? You think you’ve delivered one palatable bite of reality? Everything you’ve made here is an assault on my tastebuds. The fact that you don’t see that convinces me that you’re delusional.

Me: You’ve thrown fear in my face and have used my inexperience to cut me. But you only focus on what has been and you ignore the possibility of what can be. Do you think I’m ignorant of time? Do you think I’m unaware that I should have been doing this work 20 years ago? I screwed up. I know it! But I’m here now with a seat at the table and I’m hungry. Thoughts of where I “should be” are chidlish. You’re the part of me that has yet to grow, my arrested development, hell-bent on preserving face. If my work is rotten, I’ll be derided as a failure, right? This idea is unbearable to you because you lack a spine. You are the quivering cowardice we teach our children to overcome, while we, as adults, quietly fall victim to you ourselves. You’re stuck in the mud and my efforts will leave you behind. My work stuffs a sock in your mouth. It renders you futile.

END

This practice is vulnerable. You may say things to yourself that are hurtful and seem self-effacing. But to build a new habit, especially one involving ample resistance, we must dig around in our guts and see what we find.