A visit from my inner critic

It happened last week.
The bug of creativity had bitten, and I was sitting rigidly at my desk, typing as fast as my sore fingers would allow. So far I had been up for twenty-five hours straight, and though I didn't know at the time, the lack of sleep was greatly influencing my work. However, inspiration (or something like it) had struck, and I wasn't about to just ignore it. Even if it meant that I would soon die of sleep deprivation.
I was so exhausted that it came as no surprise to me when a small figure materialized on my spindly old desk, right in front of my crusted, bleary eyes.
My visitor couldn't have been more than a foot tall. It looked like a human woman, with straight brown hair in a bun and a sharp, beaky nose. It had rimless glasses that were on a string around its neck. Its clothes were very basic: khaki slacks and a crisp blue collared shirt. All in all, it looked a lot like every teacher I had ever met rolled into one.
"Good evening," it said in a high, prim voice.
I blinked, wondering if small beings appearing on desks was a normal occurrence I had somehow forgotten about. "Uh, hello."
I looked around for my coffee, and spotted the blue mug resting on a sheaf of paper adorning my desk. I seized it gratefully and took a sip.
"So…who are you?" An idea occurred to me. "Are you my Muse?"
The creature snorted derisively. "Certainly not! Whoever that poor creature is, she has her work cut out for her, that's all I can say…"
"What's that supposed to mean?" I snapped, offended. Had this little entity just criticized my work? "Who are you?"
"I am, for your information, your inner critic," she said, drawing herself up to her full height and smiling smugly.
I choked on my second sip of coffee. "Pardon?"
"You heard me, Miss Howard," she said sternly. "I'm your inner critic."
I stared in disbelief. Was I asleep? That would be nice.
"But--that's impossible. There's no such thing--well, I guess there is, but it's just a figure of speech. Not a real, living being!"
"Ah, but that's where you're wrong," my inner critic informed me. "Everyone has an inner critic. However, you can see me only in a sleep-deprived state."
"Oh, well, I guess that makes sense…" I muttered. The world was not being kind to me tonight. "So, why are you here?"
My visitor adjusted her glasses and said primly, "To be frank, Miss Howard, the quality of your work has been truly dreadful of late. You have sunk to a new low in your writing, which is simply unacceptable for a respected columnist such as yourself. I am here to improve your work and prevent you from being fired."
I was lost for words. Then I got angry. "What do you mean, 'sunk to new lows?' my writing is fine, thank you very much! I certainly don't need a--a leprechaun in khakis to help me with anything, either! Get out!"
"Tsk, tsk, tsk," my inner critic sighed, shaking her head. "I can see we have a lot of work to do, Miss Howard."
She ambled over to the screen of my hideously out-of-date computer and pointed at a part of my writing. "Here, for instance, the word 'excoriate' is not at all appropriate. I believe that you have confused it with 'excommunicate.' Also, you have spelled 'propinquity' wrong. I suggest you consult a dictionary."
She looked at me and caught the full force of a very nasty glare. "I told you to get out. Go on, get lost. Magic yourself away, even. Just let me write in peace!"
She raised her eyebrows. "Now, now, you don't really mean that, do you? After all, even you have to admit that your writing hasn't been at all up to par lately. In fact--"
She was abruptly cut off when I seized her around the middle and brought her up to eye level.
"Listen, lady… I don't know why you're here, or anything about you. Heck, I don't even know if you exist. You might just be a hallucination or a really bad dream. But I do know one thing: I don't want you here. You're not helping, and I really want to finish my story without you correcting my grammar or criticizing my spelling! I don't think that I need you for anything, because I know I'm a good writer, and if I have problems, I can certainly work them out myself, because I'm the writer! I don't need your help! Now, I'm going to give you an ultimatum. If you are not out the door in three minutes, I am feeding you to my cat, and all that will be left of you are those stupid, stupid glasses! So get out!"
She stared large-eyed at me, and suddenly burst into tears. I dropped her, startled.
"I--I'm sorry, but it's just so hard, and everyone hates me so, and I'm only doing my job, but whenever I just try to make a suggestion, it's always 'go away,' or 'shut up,' and--and…" She broke off and sobbed.
"There, there," I muttered, feeling really uncomfortable. I grabbed a tissue from the box beside my computer and tried to hand it to her, instead dropping it squarely over her head. She didn't notice though, and simply blew her nose loudly and continued. "Sometimes I wish I wasn't the one stuck with this job…it's so horrible, trying to talk to these people, and--and--they can be so cruel. You're not the first who's tried to feed me to something, you know, and I've had even worse from some of them, believe you me…"
I stared, nonplussed, at her crying figure. "Um…I'm sorry, I guess, but why do you have this job if you hate it so much?"
She looked up and sniffled, "Because they made me do it!"
"Er…who?"
"The National Association of Criticism (Literary Division), of course!"
"Can't say I've heard of them."
"Of course you haven't. You're a human. But truly, they are the most horrid people! So demanding."
I looked at her with sympathy. "I know how you feel," I said kindly. "My editor's like that sometimes. How's this: When you get back, you ask for a raise. Or some life insurance, at the very least."
"Do you think I could do that?" she asked hopefully.
"Of course. You're a valued employee; you deserve a benefit every so often. If they complain, just threaten to quit."
By now, my inner critic had a gleam in her eye. "Yes…" she breathed. "Yes, I think I'll do that. Thank you so much, Miss Howard."
Suddenly, she was gone, leaving only a wadded-up tissue behind.
I sat in silence for a few moments, amazed at what had just happened. Had my inner critic really just visited me?
Then, sighing, I turned back to my computer. Stories don't just write themselves, you know.

(117942 words not counting this)