Gary Bloomer | SHAKING THE TREE # 257
Most writers have an annoying voice in their head. One that never shuts up.
Perhaps you know it.
Perhaps you’ve heard it, maybe even listened to it.
It drones on and on, reading over your shoulder as you type, muttering, “What the fuck’s that? Are you sure you want to say it like that? Are you demented? Is that really the best you can do? Jesus Christ!”
It’s the voice that stands in front of a fresh canvas with its hands on its hips, or that peers over the top of its glasses at the new business plan you’re working on, or that crushes its cigarette out on that fledgling idea and delivers the verdict with a surgeon’s cold precision: “Pfuh! I wouldn’t bother if I were you.”
It’s the faceless ghost in the machine of your creativity, a permanent, uninvited resident that, if you let it, lives rent free in the workshop of your mind.
The standard advice for dealing with this voice is to silence it.
To starve it.
To look in the mirror, puff out your chest, and shout it down with affirmations.
In my experience, this is like trying to put out a fire with gasoline.
The critic doesn’t disappear; it just waits for you to get tired, or hungry, or cranky before it returns with a quiet, despotic vengeance that cuts deeper than any shout: “Did you miss me? You’re never going to get rid of me. You’re pathetic.”
I propose a different strategy. Stop fighting it and start negotiating.
This begins with a fundamental shift in your perspective: Your inner critic is not trying to destroy you. It is, in its own terribly misguided way, trying to protect you.
Think about it.
The critic’s primary function is to stop you from changing, to stop you from taking risks, and therefore to stop you failing, and from looking and feeling stupid, or useless, or pointless.
The voice is there to point out how every possible flaw, imperfection, and doubt amplifies every potential for embarrassment, and thereby vividly illustrating every scenario of failure.
As odd as this sounds, its goal is to keep you safe, small, and out of the line of fire.
Its methods are brutal, its bedside manner is appalling, but its original intent was and always has been survival. It’s the overzealous bodyguard who thinks a poetry reading is a potential war zone and tackles you to the ground before you can even approach the microphone.
So, the first step in overcoming it is to stop seeing it as a demon and to begin seeing it more as a dysfunctional guardian angel. And to do that, you need to learn its name.
Is it “The Perfectionist,” who would rather you produced nothing than something flawed?
Is it “The Imposter,” constantly comparing your behind-the-scenes to everyone else’s highlight reel?
Is it “The Pre-Emptive Quitter,” who tries to get you to abandon ship before it can be sunk by external judgment?
Mine is the second one: The Imposter. It’s the voice that used to try telling me I wasn’t good enough. It sits on a chair in the corner these days, muttering to itself.
I even gave mine a name. Reginald.
Reginald is a fastidious, weary bureaucrat in a threadbare suit. He has a perpetual headache, aching feet, sweaty palms, and his sole purpose in life is to stamp “REJECTED” on any idea that might cause any sort of fuss.
By naming him I drained his power. He’s no longer a terrifying, omnipotent phantom; he’s just Reginald, a balding, jumped up little paper-pusher with an outsized sense of caution.
Once you know its name and its role, you can begin the negotiation. This is not a battle; it’s a conversation.
When Reginald leans over my desk and says, “This article is derivative nonsense. No one will care,” I don’t scream back that he should bugger off because all that’s going to do is escalate the conflict.
Instead, I say, “Thank you, Reginald. I appreciate you pointing out the risk of being unoriginal. Your job is to maintain standards and protect my reputation. Message received. Now, be quiet.”
This acknowledgement validates Reginald’s misguided purpose, thereby draining any emotional charge.
I need Reginald to know that while I hear his concern, we are proceeding as planned. We are moving forward because this idea has value that I believe outweighs the risk.
Reginald needs to know that I’m going to write the first draft. whether he likes it or not and that I’ll need his help—and only when I ask for it—at the editing stage, because that’s when I’ll need another set of eyes to help me root out the clichés.
Meanwhile, I need Reginald to take a seat in the corner because his input at this stage in the creative process is counter-productive.
This does three things.
It sets a boundary.
It assigns the critic a future, useful role (the editor, not the saboteur).
And it reaffirms that I’m the one in charge of the creative process, not him.
I think it’s important to understand that while your critic, like mine, is a major part of your creative machinery, it is NOT the CEO. It’s not the decision maker or the main voice. That’s YOUR job. That’s MY job.
Over the years I’ve found that the more I’ve given Reginald a set of stern and quite direct instructions, the quieter his voice has become, which means his strong hold over me has steadily reduced, sometimes almost to the point of silence.
I’m not saying I hear voices. I don’t. I’m using a set of analogies to indicate that the fearful, overly-analytical voice you hear telling you that your work is crap should never be allowed to set the overall strategy.
In just the same way that I know I’m stuck with Reginald, your inner critic will probably never fully leave you alone.
But as I’ve said, with direct intention, that voice can be managed. It can be retrained.
By giving it a name, by understanding both its motives and its twisted loyalty, and by engaging it in some sort of dialogue instead of entering into a cage fight, you can transform it from the role of being a creative saboteur into a it being a (grudging) member of the team.
The goal is not to produce an empty, silent mind. Instead, the goal is to foster a well-managed mind in which ideas flourish and in which there is room and scope for a softer, supportive voice.
So, the next time your inner voice of negativity pipes up, don’t tell it to shut up. Instead, look it in the eye, offer it a seat, and ask it what it’s so afraid of.
You might be surprised by what you learn.
As always, thanks for reading.
—Gary
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Next time on Shaking the Tree: Creating in a new field
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Originally from the U.K., Gary Bloomer is a writer, branding advocate, marketing specialist, and an award-winning graphic designer.
His design work has been included in Creative Review (one of the UK’s largest design magazines). Since 2009, he has answered over 5,000 marketing and business questions in the Know-How Exchange of MarketingProfs.com, placing him among the top 3% of contributors. He lives in Wilmington, Delaware, USA.