Every time I start a new piece of writing, be it a poem, an essay, et cetera, I confront my editors. I have my internal editor, the one that wants to nitpick every sentence as it appears on the page. The other editors are external. They’re things like audience and approval ratings. All are hazardous when in the act of writing. They have to be silenced.
It isn’t easy. The editors rage. They clamor. They beg for attention. I plow through them, my hands covering my ears. I want to close my eyes but heed the danger: one of the editors could extend a foot. There I am, bruised and bleeding on the sidewalk.
Eyes open then. I train them on a free area of space and make a run for it. Freedom. A breath, another.
It’s appropriate, the breath. The internal editor is a boa constrictor. He strangles until no words come forth. The smirk. Kaa with his crazy eyes. I sit before the laptop, fingers poised above the keys. They’re frozen in place. Ice cubes or stones. Nothing comes, nothing comes.
The external editors have to be confined, usually to a soundproof closet or other room. The audience is important, but it can’t be the priority when writing. The writing has to come first, the tale unfolding. It has a message to impart, but it will only get drowned out if the concern becomes the marketplace and its desires.
The audience will say to write a certain way, to write about certain subjects and avoid others. It’s the safe choice. It can bring some short-term success, but it isn’t writing that will last. It isn’t silver or gold, what Bret Lott calls “a residual element of the soul of the story’s maker.” It’s a house of cards. The slightest touch makes it fall to pieces.
To get to the soul, I have to silence the editors. My internal editor has a role to play but only after the words on the page. The external editors have a role to play, too. They’re my readers. I care about them because of that, but I mustn’t let their approval dictate my words and actions.
Ultimately, I’m not writing to please my internal editor (if ever) or the audience. I’m writing to please the One who made me, saved me, and gave me this gift. Because of who He is and who I am in Him, I tend to it as a faithful, loving servant and steward. I silence the editors as best I can, whisper a prayer, and get to work.
Image: Shawn Rossi (Creative Commons)