Inner Critic(n) a parasitic entity that feeds off of creative beings.

Piero Manzoni Artist's shit

What you know about it?

I’ve been trying to make an upgrade from a wanna-be poet/writer/artist-type chick to an individual that actually is successful in one of these mediums.   I would be able to do this if it wasn’t for this inner critic chick junking up my flow and throwing major shade by making comments like this:

“”Who do you think you are anyways, Emily Dickinson, Langston Hughes, freaking John Keats?”


“Seriously, my great-great-great-grandmother could’ve written better poetry than that and she was a slave (i.e. she couldn’t read or write due to her unfortunate circumstances).”


“Girl you know you can’t draw worth a damn.”


“Paint by number isn’t art.”

So you see what I have to put up with.

I’ve tried all the logical solutions to shut her up.  I’ve done the whole free writing, write-just-for- the-sake-of-writing for ten minutes and don’t worry about grammar or about punctuation or about making sense thing.  I ended up editing my results because they weren’t profound enough (ά la Jack Kerouac).  As for my art practices, I keep an art journal.  I rarely work in it for fear of messing up that expensive ass watercolor paper.  I mean really, how can I ever live up to my full potential if this chick is forever in my ear telling me I’m not good enough?  Oh and don’t get me started on referring to the internet for support.  I’ll get on the web and snoop around for inspiration from fellow artists/writers.  What usually happens is I’ll stumble across a blog or website of someone whose work I really dig.  After about five to ten minutes of enjoying the fruits of their labor, I’m reeling into a self-imposed pity party.  “Boo-hoo, I’ll never be as good as such and such.  Please pass me the lotion infused Kleenex,” I whine aloud to no one in particular.  Actually you know who is present and nodding, “I told you so.” I hate her.

Since none of the conventional methods of quieting my inner critic work, I have to take drastic measures.  I have to kill this bitch.  I invite you to murder yours as well.  We can all go down in history together as the coldest, baddest, inner critic murdering gangsters to ever do it.  Here’s the plan.  Pick up you pen, pencil, crayon, or use your fingers if you’re like me and cannot afford such fancy instruments and stab her ass.  Poke her, slash her, Lorena Bobbitt her, and get her out of your life.

*Trust me you’ll be a better artist for it.

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Oh you just don’t know

*You may need your critic for revising, so you probably shouldn’t murder her.  Maybe you can just stuff her into a closet or something until you’re ready for her.