When I arrived at my friend’s home for her holiday party, cars overflowed the driveway spilling onto the narrow road. I checked my pant’s pocket for my business cards. Just printed earlier that day, they had my website’s URL and Twitter name in white script on a deep-blue background. These are my friends, I thought. I’ll let them know I am writing a weekly post. I’ll give them my business card and ask them to stop by my website. Maybe they could click “like” or add a comment.

I rang the doorbell and pushed open the door. A burst of laughter floated to the foyer on cinnamon scents. My thumb and forefinger reached into my pocket. I whispered, I’ll be brave and share my writing. I heard my hostess’s footsteps in the hallway, and then a voice. But it is not she who spoke. It was my nay-sayer, my nemesis, my inner-critic, tapping holes in my confidence, word-by-negative-word.

• You don’t know a past participle from a predicate, and you think you write?
• Do you have an opinion about anything?
• You know you will make a mistake, and then another and another.
• Does your post even have a point?
• Your writing is childish.
• No one cares what you think.

Much like Saturday Night Live’s (SNL) Stuart Smalley, I tried replacing the critic’s unkind words with generous thoughts by telling myself, “I’m good enough. I’m smart enough. And doggone it, people like me.”

My critic was still chuckling at my bumbling confidence-boosting when the hostess rounded the corner from the kitchen. She called out a hearty greeting. I pulled my empty hand from my pocket and followed her into her kitchen.

This is not a sales call, I told myself. My friends are not here for a pitch about my blog. They are here to have a good time. And so, my critic won that round.

That night though, after returning home from my evening out, I challenged my inner critic.

“I do have opinions.” I removed the business cards from my pocket and tossed them on the coffee table.

“Name one,” my critic countered.

I opened my mouth. Closed it. What if I opined something that was wrong? Better to take a different tack.

“People who read my blog say kind things.” My voice had a defensive whining pitch.

“That’s what friends do. But you know it was a piece of fluff.”

“Well, maybe, but I was playing with the technique.” There was truth in those words, so I added, “I wanted to get those memories in writing.”

“How self-indulgent of you,” my critic said. I imagined him with arched eyebrows.

“Yes, it was a bit self-indulgent, but…”

“And you know, your article doesn’t make sense to the outside reader.”

“I thought it was kind of cool–”

“Did you check your spelling? Your grammar?”

“I suppose I could do a better job of that.”

 “Well, good. That’s a start.”

The critic was silent then and I had a moment to consider our conversation. I realized he was right. I should give readers a take away; a reason for visiting my site other than entertainment. I decided I would work on that for my next post.

If my critic hadn’t been watching me with a smug smile, I might have thanked him for the insight.

Today, I understand that my inner critic is not always right. But often, if I listen closely, I discover he provides insight into aspects of my writing that I subconsciously know is weak. In the exchange above, rather than fighting my critic, I explored the message behind the scorn and accepted that my writing needed improvement.  

Now though, despite my inner critic telling me this post could be much better. I tell him it is late, and I am done for the night. I hold open the door for my inner critic, ask him to return when he has helpful ideas, and I click “Publish.”

This post was first published on December 29, 2013.