My Inner Artist

In a writing exercise, I was instructed to write a letter to my “inner artist” and discuss the dreams she has for me. This proved to be valuable because I am a writer who has great difficulty actually writing.

I read about “how” to write constantly. I have every book ever written about “how” to write. I take classes in writing—how to write a novel, a poem, a screenplay, a memoir, an essay, a short story. I attend events where I listen to other writers read what they have written. I meet with a writer’s group once a week. But, basically I do not write. Instead, I think about writing. It’s so much easier than writing.

What I have discovered is that my “inner artist” is in conflict with my inner piddler, my inner child, and my inner bitch. What’s even worse, my inner piddler is winning the contest, although my inner bitch runs a close second.

The dictionary says that “piddle” means to dilly-dally, to idle, to putter, to potter. My God, this is my resumé. After years of therapy, twelve-step groups, meditation groups, exploring-the-meaning-of-life-through-crystals groups, running with the wolves, and reading all Deepak Chopra’s books, I have found my identity in Webster’s. I no longer think of myself as a writer. I think of myself as a piddler. I can’t tell you how much better I feel.

Tomorrow, when I begin to write, my inner artist now knows the drill. I’ll sit down at the computer. I’ll stare at the page. I’ll re-arrange all the papers on the desk, ready for my muse. Then my inner bitch will start complaining that she’s bored and needs to go to the bathroom. I take the bitch to the bathroom to shut her up.

Returning to the computer, my inner child notices that it’s time for lunch and starts whining for food. While making lunch, I’ll notice alien life forms in the refrigerator that have begun to ooze. Oh, no, I’ll think! What if I am murdered in my house and the CSI team comes to investigate and finds jelly-like substances oozing from my refrigerator? So, I clean out the refrigerator. Then I feed my inner child.

It’s time finally to write, but first I walk the dog so I won’t be interrupted. The dog and I run into a friend. She wants to chat, but I tell her I don’t have time because I’m writing today. It takes me two hours to tell her that. Finally, I’m back at the computer. I stare at the blank page. I type today’s date. Then, I sigh with relief and decide that I have drained myself of creative expression for the day.

After all, like Scarlett O’Hara said, “Tomorrow is another day. I’ll think about it tomorrow.” So, I’ll think about writing tomorrow. My inner piddler will cheer and my inner artist will take a nap.

Now if I can get my inner bitch to relax and my inner child to stop whining, my inner piddler can have her way. And, if she is occasionally interrupted by my inner artist who wants to write, she’ll just smile indulgently because we all know who’s in charge here.

Copyright 2009 Susan Matthewson