The internal editor is an issue for every writer. Either it doesn’t speak enough or it never shuts up. For most, it’s the latter, and this has been the case for me.
I call my internal editor Helga, the name of my music instructor in college. She was one of those teachers who stopped you every two measures to correct your form. Her interruptions were so frequent that by the time of a recital I’d never performed the piece without stopping.
Helga, my internal editor, has restricted my writing for years. Free-write prompts in writing class? I’d squeeze out at best three sentences in fifteen minutes. And writing sprints? Forget it. Helga had me on a short rope. “Choose an active verb,” she’d scold. “Remove passive voice,” she’d chide just as I was finding my groove.
But this past summer, Helga unexpectedly took a vacation. The reason? Pitchwars.
I had submitted my query at the beginning of August. Surely, I’d finish those last 35,000 words before the deadline. (Wrong.) Besides, my chance of getting selected was remote. (Wrong again.)
It was as if Helga and the Pitchwars gods had conspired against me. With 30,000 words to go, one of my prospective mentors requested the full manuscript.
I fretted. I paced. I even cried. Then I told my husband to pull bedtime duty and I locked myself in my home office. I started writing and, true to form, had added a whopping 1,000 words by midnight. Helga insisted I cross-check spellings. She demanded I consult a thesaurus.
Enough! There was no way in hell I was going to have something to submit. Yet, I would never forgive myself for blowing the opportunity. Something had to give.
So, I did something I’d never done before. I ignored the red squiggles under misspellings. I didn’t stop to rearrange my sentences to remove was’s. Helga was finally in the penalty box and I was going to capitalize on my power play.
With little sleep, aching fingers, and a lot of caffeine, I cranked out my story in just under thirty-six hours. It wasn’t pretty, and it was shy of my predicted word count by about 5,000 words, but I had accomplished something. Not only did I have something to submit, but I’d finally silenced the control-freak, Helga.
I didn’t get picked for Pitchwars with my fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants novel. And I’m also not condoning writing benders. If I’d continued them, I would inevitably end up a divorcee with a meth addiction. What I do suggest is to give yourself permission to ignore your internal editor, even if it’s just for a few minutes a day. Your muse, readers, and publisher will thank you.
Wendi is a mathematics professor from Central Virginia whose muse frequently interrupts my grading. An avid traveler and chaser of a rambunctious toddler, Wendi enjoys writing about women’s issues and intercultural experiences. Information on her books and short stories is available on her website.
Wendi’s story “Joyride” appears in Black FoxIssue 16.
