Since I can remember, I've had this negative voice in the back of my head. If this voice had a human embodiment, it would look something like Faye Dunaway circa 'Mommy Dearest' without the extreme physical violence. She is pacing around an elegant, but claustrophobic room filled with gaudy, velvet-covered furniture and 1920s style lamps, smoking a cigarette in a long holder. Her voice is raspy, bitter, and constantly critical.
My Madame Negative usually only comes out in force when I'm looking at myself in a mirror or shopping for clothes. I go out determined to buy something to nice to wear. I have money in my pocket, and prep myself with positive reinforcements, yet come back with gifts for my husband and daughter, because Madame Negative reared her ugly voice and pointed out every physical inadequacy I have.
Fortunately, having lived with Madame Negative's criticism of my body since the age of 12, I've learned to turn her down. Perhaps in turning her down, I empowered her to regroup in a more damaging and vicious way.
There are two things in this world that I know how to do; one is produce non-profit auctions and the other is write. The auctions became an expertise gained after several years of practice, but writing was always second nature. I've never had to work at writing. I could whip out a flowing beautiful paper in no time flat. I used to fake rough drafts in school, because I never needed them. Writing was the one thing I could do well, and without effort.
Three years ago I began writing a book. For me, writing a book was a way to fill an unwritten expectation. In the 5th grade, at age 11, I had pledged to my class and my teacher, Mr. Gerhauser that I would write a book someday. My mother had always pleaded with me to write a book. I wrote 200 pages of a story about a very green entertainment journalist that enters into a toxic relationship with a rock star, and then it happened; Madame Negative read those 200 pages and told me that the story was cliche, and unreadable. She asked me how I could be a fan of George Orwell and Margaret Atwood and churn out such garbage. I abandoned my book.
For a short time I regrouped by writing essays, and blogging, but after doing draft upon draft of an article for a feminist magazine, I realized that for the first time in my life I was suffering severely from writer's block. This happened two years ago. I tried everything to break it, but the lack of confidence and the element of doubt haunted me in everything I wrote.
Despite my writer's block, everyone encouraged me to soldier on. My stepfather, on his deathbed, pleaded with me to continue writing the book. An old friend from high school, after hearing my dilemma, told me to basically 'get over it, stop wasting endless hours on computer games, and finish the damned book'. She now regularly brings it up, so I won't have any excuses.
I finally regained my confidence this week. A work-related project required that I write a tribute to a doctor we were honoring at our event. I was also asked to write a detailed script of the entire program. Since there was no one else to do it, I sat down at my computer and spent two days hammering out, what was to be, an amazing tribute and a detailed, spotless program script. Once again, I found a way to turn Madame Negative's voice down.
I don't know how long it will be before I revisit my book, but I think I've figured out a way to re-tool it. I've thought about making the characters a bit older, and far more interesting by making them equals. I can't say for sure how the book will turn out, but at least I'm writing again.
For those who have followed this blog, many apologies for the absence, especially in the past two years that had a monied and powerful American administration leaving office in shame, the election of the first black president (it's about time), and watching American society virtually collapse. Have no fear, I will address all of it with the candor and whit I thought I had lost to the angry, old crone and her death rattle voice.
