I decided instead of poetry, I should write out my feelings in story-format. This might work better for me, so here goes (feel free to tear it apart):
I looked at the Home page of the YWS website and scrolled downward.
"It's not here," I mused. "Someone said that they saw it in the featured stories section, but it's not here. Perhaps it doesn't show you your own work?"
Why would it? I doubt it wants you to read over your own work fifty million times and obsess over it like you tend to, Eliza. Grow a spine and get over yourself. So you're not the best writer out there. So you're not the next Shakespeare. Suck it up.
The thought cut through me like a razorblade and I quickly shoved it into the back of my mind. I knew those things, but somehow pointing them out to myself made it painful.
I clicked on the "Recent Literary Submissions" page and scrolled down, trying to see what would catch my eye. I needed to work on my review count.
What, so you can post more things? Your work is crap, Eliza. Give up.
"Shut up," I hissed as I clicked on a title that looked promising.
No, I won't shut up. YOU shut up. Pretending like you know what you're doing; hah! You hypocrite!
Would the headvoice ever leave me alone? I KNEW, goddammit, I KNEW! Why did it tell me these things that were no mystery to me? I knew I was a bad writer, but I also knew that I was nothing without my words. Why did my thoughts torment me so?
I read the person's poem and made my little nitpicks about grammatical errors and word choice and whatnot. All the while, the headvoice was screaming at me to stop; give up and stop pretending that what I said actually meant something, because it didn't and it never would.
I KNOW!!! I wanted to roar. I know! I don't need you or anyone else to tell me that! But what am I, without these words aligning themselves in my brain? What am I without my keyboard? What am I without poetry, without novels?
I am nothing. And that's all I've ever been.
I pictured my inner critic tilt its head to the side and ponder this. At last, it said, Didn't you want to be a zoologist up until a year ago? I know you're hesitant about the whole disection-picking-up-poo-and-looking-at-genitals bit, but you love animals.
But that was the problem. My passion for words outshone my love for animals, like a supernova next to a small comet.
So? You're no good at words.
By now, I was ready to tear my hair out. My headvoice was only repeating itself, and the words stabbed deeper into my heart each time. I knew. Couldn't it see that? I knew.
You can't develop interesting plotlines, and you're all tell, but no show. You're strong with imagery and decent with metaphor and simile, but your poetry has no rhythm, no flow, and you fall through the cracks. Give up. Just. Give. Up.
My lips opened in a silent scream and the light from the computer suddenly became blinding. How could I silence the inner critic?
Simple. Show me that you can write well. Show me that you're confident with your work. It's not enough for your parents, teachers, and friends to tell you. You need to believe it.
How could I believe it if it wasn't true? I'd be deluding myself. But wasn't I doing that already?
Yes. Yes I was. Writing was a blood-sport, and I was paying for it with all the pain I had. Writing was pain, but not writing was agony. And having writ was joy. That is, unless you absolutely abhored your own writing. Then it was like a hot poker twisting around in your stomach.
But that was strength, wasn't? Doing what you had to do, despite how much it hurt. And wasn't that what I was doing?
Yes. And all the pain and anger in the world could not stop me from writing. Because I'd go mad if I didn't.
