Inner Critic

“So late again,” said my Inner critic. You know, that little voice in your head who is your mother, father, teacher or any authority figure who rode your a** continually.

“Not my fault they started the class early.” I replied silently.

“But you did extend your vacation.”

“I did check my e-mail and I did check with the teacher.”  Feeling smug, I finally had the upper hand on the Critic. So he took another tract.

“What do you have to offer to this class? It’s discussion about story writing.”

My heart sank a little. He was right. What did I have to offer?

This is stupid. I don’t have to defend myself. I am a 47 year old South Carolina woman. There is nothing I can't do and I can do this. This class is about learning to write well. I have been writing stories since I could pick up a pencil and draw storyboards (or comics as I called it then) to illustrate them. I have published three poems and one short story, so technically I am an author. Stories with a twist interest me, no matter the genre. My strengths, I’m told, are realistic characters and emotions. My weaknesses are plot length and grammar. I have several novel ideas floating in my head, but I’m not sure how to start them. And I would like to do some inspirational writing.

*Snicker*

“Now what?” I asked. I wanted to roll my eyes, but that would be useless.

“It takes more than three poems, a short story and a pen name to be an author.”

“I suppose so, but Lani is a very nice name and I like being called that. I do have something else that every successful author has.”

“What’s that?”

“A relentless need to write and to find an audience for those words. I haven’t always had it, but somehow the unread word seems sad to me. And for that Mr. Critic I thank you.”

“Me?”

“Yes. Without you, I wouldn’t be here in this class or at WDC or sending out my work or writing this piece. So, thank you.”

And, finally, the Inner Critic was quiet for the night