I have a critic. He has made it his life work to follow me, hound me wherever I go. When I’m online. In the car as I’m driving. I’m taking a shower and look, he’s there again.
He’s not only persistent and annoying (and kinda creepy), he’s also a master of disguise.
He assumes the voices of readers of works that I haven’t published, offended by what I’m about to say. And he whispers, don’t say that.
He is the looming presence of a lecturing conservative father. Keep that bottled up, dude. No one wants to see your dirty laundry.
He is the shrill voice telling me I’m not a talented writer, and never was. What a joke… that post, that book? That sucks dude.
He is the placid voice of the common man, urging me back to the safe middle. Don’t write that. Do another top 5 sword-and-sorcery list—that’s what people want. Play it safe.
He reminds me I’m not worthy to write about certain topics because they’re too complex, the field too well-sewn. That I’m out of my depth. What could you possibly say about heavy metal that Chuck Klosterman and Ian Christe and Eddie Trunk haven’t already said, and better? Who gives a shit about your story when we've got Bruce Dickinson's?
That critic is me, of course.
I fight the battle with him every day. Sometimes his voice barely rises above a whisper, other times it drowns me with a deafening roar. I push on.
I’m currently reading Moby Dick (yes, I’m a glutton for punishment—but not really. Moby Dick is far more accessible than you think, long diversions into the details of whaling aside). It is worth reading because it’s a book loaded with rich, imaginative writing and profound wisdom applicable to all of mankind.
One chapter relevant to this post is “The Lee Shore.” In it Melville describes the primal urge to turn away from the safety and surety of the shore and embrace the unknown of the treacherous deep. The courage to be at sea when dry land calls.
So it is with Bulkington. He arrives home after a long whaling voyage, and immediately signs on with another, back out onto the tempestuous ocean. Not because he loves the sea particularly, but because he must, for some reason, be at sea, there being some intolerable pain that assaults him on the land.
I have to go to sea, again and again. I don’t know precisely why, other than being on land for too long grows intolerable.
My critic is on my shoulder now, as I type this post. Aren’t you mixing metaphors? Are you just showing off by saying you’re reading Moby Dick?
Hey, merciless critic, fuck you. OK?
Today I’m feeling worthy to be on this shelf.
1 comment:
A relatable and excellent post!
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