You Are Your Own Worst Critic

Perhaps my brain is just too busy. It's a burden that creative people face day-to-day. We are our own martyrs. As well as our own worst critics.

I went to the doctor's office for a physical, and during the physical they ask you a series of questions. My favorite question of all is "do you consider yourself depressed, or sometimes feel hopeless, helpless, or like you can't get out of bed in the morning to go to work, or be social?"

I laughed when she finished reading the question and answered truthfully.

"From a realist's perspective, yeah. You bet your ass."

"It sort of comes with adulthood," the doctor said.

"That's why I write," I decided to say. "It keeps me from driving around at night, by myself, listening to sad songs and wondering what would happen if I just got on the highway and drove until the wheels fell of my Chrysler."

And you know something, I think she understood me perfectly.

I hope that doctor went home and wrote a poem of her own. Something that she didn't have to share, but something that she could stick in a drawer somewhere in her fancy house with all the others. Each one a loyal reminder of a dying dream.

I know... It got a little deep and depressing. I'll turn the tide now. But it will turn slowly.

I received my quickest rejection letter ever today. It only took them four hours to read, consider, and fire my short story out of an ass cannon. It was after reading the email that I began to reflect back on when I first started doing this, how little I care about what some editor thinks of my work, and how I beat myself up over content and during the revision process (editing my own work is my least favorite thing to do, but the most important).

For the record, it takes a lot out of me to re-read these posts and make sure they are somewhat grammatically correct.

I had this job as a medical editor (please don't fall asleep [even though I did one time]) and, well, I hated it. Liked my coworkers (miss some of them), but could not tolerate the editor above me (I was the Assistant Editor). She was in charge of giving me work, but never helped me learn my position. Now, I hooked the job with my charm, but I didn't know AMA Style to save my life; however, that didn't prevent me from trying my damnedest. My work was never good enough, but even when it was, she would still find flaws because I didn't do it her way. She also stole a few of my ideas and took all the credit. I had had enough. And, when I have had enough, an outlaw does emerge. And a filter becomes harder and harder to locate.

One day, out of the blue, we were talking about books (we both read during lunch every day), and how the creative process works. Now, she's an editor first and nothing second. Her life is just rules and routine. I am a writer first, all the fun stuff in between, and an editor dead last. So, in this instance, I had the upper hand in the conversation. So, I gave my viewpoint about the creative process being a painful, but amazing one. And then I finished by saying that "a writer is their own worst editor."

That comment pissed her off. She couldn't fathom how someone who wrote something couldn't edit their own work (she completely missed the part where I talked about how a writer is also hesitant about what they want to delete, add, or change to their story). So, she threw a hissy, and I followed with "Well, it doesn't matter because you'll never understand something like that. You're not a writer."

Boom-shaka-laka.

She hated me for three months after that. Then they let me go to bring back an old employee who was friends with the editor.

I would just like to add that the morning I was let go, she, the editor, cried. My supervisor also cried. I did not. The director of yada-yada-blah-blah-horseshit had to "fire" me because she never took the time to get to know me. She just judged me from afar. So, it was easy for her.

I think that the company was against true individuals with personalities.

I was so happy when it was all over. I went back home, ate breakfast, took a nap, mixed a drink when I woke up, made a phone call, and, four days later, I had another full-time job as an innkeeper (we'll talk about that shit later). Looking back, the job had a positive outcome because I'm a better editor, it led me to live where I do now, and it was the turning point towards finding the awesome job that I have now. I also got some stories and poems out of it all.

Poems and stories that I have to spend time editing, submitting, and beating myself up over.

Gotta love it.

Yours,

~Torres