It’s me. Myself. I.

And in its own pathetic way, the situation is quite funny.

I introduced myself to this alter-ego last night, after a promising-if-not-totally-satisfying full evening at the bookwork.

“This chapter…it isn’t good,” I told me. This was a different voice than the nagging “you’re a hack, what do you think you’re playing at?” voice. This persona was not punishing, not abusive. It sounded grave and fair. It sounded more like an editor.

Then a revelation. A redemption. Lynn-the-Levelhead stepped up; spoke to me through my recorder as I listened in bed to the playback of the evening’s work.

“Not so terrible,” I told me. I’d like to save the laugh that accompanied that reassurance. It was funny; it was me not taking Me so seriously.

I realized what I’d been doing. This was self throwing up roadblocks against Self. Again. It was “I don’t want to finish this” in a different suit of clothes.

Of course the damned chapter doesn’t have to be great. Not yet. Writing, I’ve realized, is often akin to painting: layer over layer, texture upon texture, color after color, until the image is true. Doesn’t happen in one pass. Doesn’t have to. So there.

So, for now, the Backstabbing Son-of-a-Bitch can go suck eggs. The better angels of my nature have spoken. And they make a lot more sense.

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