Tuesday, September 9, 2025
The hardest part of writing is getting past the inner inspector-bully. Writing is heavenly joy, proofreading is torturous hell. The inner inspector-critic won’t let anything through. “Start over, you baboon!” “This is absolute garbage!!”
The inner critic is a Nazi. He won’t let anything past the gates of hell unless it’s perfect. He knows there is no perfect. If he does let it slide, and others read it, the inner critic feels the work is “pretty bulletproof,” only to discover vulnerability can never be stripped from creative work.
I used to hate performances. My choirs were never ready. Oh, that I could spend eternity in rehearsal! No product at which to scoff. It’s bad enough that your inner critic isn’t satiable, but allow me to introduce you to “the world,” the most insatiable leviathan in the universe. They’ll spit on it, tear it to shreds, call it garbage, and put the inner critic on his knees, begging for mercy. The inner critic is Pollyanna compared to what’s to come.
If you have an inner Nazi-inspector, wait until “others” see you and scrutinize your creative work. Imagine, someone condemning the music of J.S. Bach as “boring.” In his day, his own sons thought him to be washed-up. People still turn their nose up at his vulnerable, creative work – sublime, perfect, heavenly “trash.”
Let me tell you, the inner critic is a boob. An even bigger one? The outer. Just a floppy titty pretending to be a rigid sergeant. Don’t forget who you are – just an innocent child sharing love that you colored onto a piece of construction paper. Inner critic/outer critic – two stooges of the same ilk. Critics and artists, vulnerable babies, together in a womb of ignorance. Ultimately, it’s just love. I beg you, Mr. Nazi, let it slide. It’s just heavenly “trash.”