How To Kill The Internal Editor

If you're a writer - aspiring, amateur or professional - you know what I'm talking about. You're hit with this brilliant story idea. You've even come up with an original plot you're all excited about. The first sentences flow out faster than you can type them. But then suddenly you start hearing this voice inside your head.

"Why don't you read back what you've got so far?"

That's when the trouble starts.

"That sentence doesn't flow right."

"You should really find a better expression for that word."

"That is not descriptive enough."

"Do you call these people convincing?"

"I'm not sure if that plot will work."

"Come to think of it: that story idea isn't really that brilliant."

"Nor is it original."

"Actually what you've written there is total crap."

That's your internal editor talking. I call mine 'Bill'. He's the little voice in the back of your head that always keeps nagging that everything you write just isn't good enough. He gets you to start rewriting those first sentences... or paragraphs... or chapters... then rewriting your rewrites, then second guessing the rewritten rewrites... and before you know it, hours, days, weeks pass where you're just sitting there, staring at a blank page like a lobotomised psychiatric patient. And while you're trying to come up with ways to get out of the impasse and further the story, Bill constantly comes up with really important other things to do; cleaning the kitchen, mowing the lawn, changing the spark plugs of the car, vacuuming the crawl space under the house or counting the sugar lumps in the bowl on the breakfast table.

"It's useful work to get done and it will clear your mind," he says. "Afterwards we can get back to writing with a completely fresh mind set. And trust me: then you'll get into the flow again."

That's all Bill, tricking us like an experienced politician.

Think about it: when we're speaking we're easily averaging between two and four words per second. So theoretically we could churn out a 12,000-word story within an hour if we could type fast enough. Even slow typists should be able to commit 7,000 words to paper, PC or laptop within a few hours. So why is it that most of us are hard pressed to even reach 7,000 words a month?

It's all Bill's fault.

I worked it out: this year I wrote around 60,000 words in nine months. If you do the math you'll find: I averaged less than 7,000 words a month.

But there have been occasions where I easily managed to write a 12,000-word story within three days. That always happens when you're dead set on meeting a nearly impossible deadline. So the potential is there. But how to unleash it?

You just have to shut up Bill. But that's easier said than done.

Today I've finally found the solution.

I got up from my word processor and made a life sized papier-mâché doll, sitting on the old wooden chair in the corner of my office. I used felt tip pens to give him a pair of brown eyes and eyebrows (exactly like mine), short hair with a bald spot (exactly like mine), a moustache and goatee (you've guessed it: exactly like mine). Then I went into the wine cellar to get a bottle of red wine. And I used that to christen the doll 'Bill'. No, I didn't crack the bottle over his head. Why waste good wine on an editor? It took me three hours to make the doll and one hour to drink the wine, toasting at Bill's health. They were four hours well spent.

When I got back behind the word processor, I took a penknife from my desk and put it next to my keyboard. Job done. Finally I was ready to really write.

Sure enough, within two minutes (or a hundred words, whichever method of telling time you prefer) I heard Bill's voice again.

"That sentence will never work. You have to change that comma for a full stop."

Immediately I snatched the penknife to thrust it into Bill's chest, exactly where the heart should be. And I happily got back to writing, knowing I'd finally killed Bill.

Unfortunately as it turns out: internal editors don't have a heart. Mind you: I'm not so sure about external editors either. But that's another story.

Anyway, I realized that my plan of shutting Bill up by shoving a knife into his heart had failed, when I suddenly heard a sardonic laugh behind me, accompanied by these words, spoken slowly in a deep voice that sounded a lot like mine:

"That's a double negative right there, you idiot!"

Now I'd had it with Bill.

I got up from my chair, threw Bill over my shoulder and carried him outside. I got a rope from the garage and tied it into a sling. I put the sling around Bill's neck and carried him to the old pine tree at the back of the garden.

"No, don't do it," I heard Bill's voice at the back of my head. "How can you ever write a good story again without your internal editor? Think of your readers. How they're going to suffer. Think of your reputation, of the poor quality you're going to put out. You're going to lose your job. Face it: you need me."

"I'll show you how much I need you, Bill," I said as I started throwing the rope around that forked branch, high up on the right. It took three tries, before the rope looped around it and came back down the other side.

"Think of all the things we've accomplished together," Bill said as I caught the end of the rope and started pulling. "Don't... ugh..."

I hoisted the rope up until Bill's feet were dangling four feet up in the air. Hey, I wasn't taking any chances this time! I tied the end of the rope around the tree and stood back. The sun suddenly came out from behind the clouds. The old pine tree was bathing in sunlight. And there was Bill, hanging in the shadow of my tree, not uttering any sound anymore. Finally I'd managed to shut the bastard up. I turned to go back inside to my word processor, when I suddenly heard a voice behind me. The words came out all muffled and throaty. But I could clearly understand them.

"Don't think for one minute you're going to get away with this," Bill's voice said. "No reader is going to buy into this bullshit story about hanging your internal editor."

"Damn!" I shouted while I ran back into the garage. I opened the trunk of my Mustang and grabbed the jerry can. When I ran back to the old pine tree, I noticed how Bill's body was being blown left and right by a gust of wind. It looked like he was dancing a jig to mock me.

"Ha, you'll never get rid of me," the muffled voice blowing in the wind said. "I'll haunt you forever."

I opened the jerry can and dowsed Bill with gasoline. I threw the jerry can a safe distance away and whipped out my lighter.

"Any last words, asshole?" I asked Bill. But internal editors don't speak when you ask them. So he just kept dancing that silly dance in the shade of the tree at the end of his rope.

I had to step back when the flames shot up into the air. I felt the scorching heat on my face. Bill was engulfed in flames, moving left and right in the wind. I'm pretty sure he was kicking his legs and waving his arms to free himself from the fire that was licking his body all over. Somewhere inside the roar of the flames I heard a muffled scream, just before his face turned black. Sparks and scraps of burning paper started to fly up into the air in the up draught of the heat. Bill's left leg was the first to fall off. It fell to the ground in a rain of sparks. I put my hands up in the air and danced like I'd just won the Daytona 500, not taking my eyes off the fire for one second. Then, as a spark from the fire hit me in the face, I had a burst of inspiration and ran inside.

And as I hear the sirens approaching, I can safely say I've finally cracked the problem of the internal editor. You just have to burn Bill!

It will work and I can prove it. For immediately after I performed the ritual, I churned out these 1,500 odd words in a ten-minute typing frenzy.

So, writers of the world, take my advice. Give your internal editor a name and a face. Make a doll in his image and burn the motherf***ing bastard to kingdom come!

Power to the authors!

P.S.: I'm kind of wondering now: is this story any good? I can't really tell anymore, now that I've killed my internal editor.

P.P.S.: What's that you say, officer? Me, a clan member? Now, why would you think something like that? No, there's no need for those cuffs. But can I take my laptop, please? Then how about a pen and some paper?