My inner critic is a crotchety old man. He's always smoking an annoying cigar and looking too closely at me (mostly silently) as if he's about to wipe a booger off of my cheek. He appears when I'm searching for meaning in my patterns of creative expression.
He says “You'll never weave a complete story from all this rubbish. Who gives a rat's ass about what's happened to you? You think your experiences are unique? Hell no little girl, it's all been said before.”
From him I learn how to outsmart his pessimistic anachronistic presence. I write in order to get him to show me that almost imperceptible elevation in his left bushy grey eyebrow. Aha, what I've written gives him pause. He's at a loss for words. When he's quiet, I need to go forward down that road. The swinging gauntlet of giant medieval axes at the castle door is how I picture a bad day with Grumpus Criticus. But I can ignore him.
He teaches me how to persevere. I'll outlast him and tell him to shut up. He needs a nap now.