We all have a “Watcher,” a little being that sits on our shoulder, like a conscience, that reminds us of how terrible we are as writers, or artists, or as whatever we’re deciding to be that day. It’s inevitable that at several points in our lives, we will be over-taken by the words of our watcher, put down our tool of choice, and walk away with the feeling of utter frustration and pain. We are, after all, our own worst enemies, and the watcher is our own creation. In my Creative Writing class, I have my students draw a picture of their watcher, and explain its origin. It’s always interesting to see how many students draw their mother, or father, or a former teacher. I always wonder if it’s more than one of those people pushed them to work harder, and not simply that they were their toughest critic for the sake of being a critic.
In Gail Godwin’s essay, “The Watcher at the Gates,” she tells us that we must “outsmart, pacify, or coexist with your Watcher.” She gives us tools to work with when our watcher wants us to be constant pencil sharpeners, or dictionary lookers, or coffee drinkers. Setting timers when we write. Writing until the teapot sounds. For me, I write like to write where I know I’m being watched: my classroom while students are working (as I’m doing now), in a crowded mall where I feel uncomfortable, on a park bench in downtown Portland, or on a very specific tree at Cannon Beach. I guess in a way, I like my watcher to feel like it is being watched as well. It’s harder to doubt oneself, when the watcher feel uncomfortable.
It is not easy to avoid self-doubt. It’s the one thing that holds the majority of us back. I’m no stranger to the watcher. I finished a novel more than five years ago, only to be told that I needed to revise it one more time before the publishing company would take another look at it. I was upset, and frustrated, and chose the road most taken – which was to unfortunately shelve the book, and not do what I needed to do in order to possibly call myself a published novelist. I was scared of something, and frankly, it was the fear that I wasn’t as good as I thought I was. When I wrote the original draft, I wasn’t thinking about how anyone else would feel. I was just writing. It came out naturally, and easily, and a lot faster than I had ever imagined. But when I was told that someone else had issues with certain parts, it hurt me, and I didn’t take it as constructive criticism, but rather just criticism. I should have said “thank you,” hung up the phone, and completed the re-writes over the next few weeks. Instead, it sat until this last summer when I finally decided I would finish it up. Now, I’m sitting on it again, waiting to submit it, all because of the mystery watcher that questions if it’s really all that good.
As Elmore Leonard points out, we cannot “worry about what [our] mother[s] think of [our] language.” If we do, then we are bound to fail. Art is not about what other people think – at least not in the early stages. Creation is our job. Once we are finished with a product, and that product hits the world of public opinion, it is everyone’s to judge, but as long as we are satisfied, then it should never matter.
