Yesterday I wrote about writer’s block (specifically about how there is no such thing) and today, dear Readers, I am thinking about the Internal Censor. I talk a lot about the Censor, but I don’t know if I’ve ever really gone in-depth into the topic.

The Censor is that voice in your head–usually the voice of someone you love and trust, for the Censor is a shapeshifter par excellence–that whispers fear and can kill your work before it’s even born.

Here are some of the things the Censor says:

* You’re stupid. You can’t write that.
* You’ll hurt ______’s feelings if you write that.
* You’re nothing special. You’ll never make it.
* Who would publish you? You’re a nobody.
* Are you kidding? This is terrible.
* Everyone is going to laugh at you.
* What makes you think you can do this?
* Everyone is more talented than you.

So on, so forth, ad nauseum. This is a short list, and by no means comprehensive. You get the idea, and by now, dear Reader, perhaps you can even name your Internal Censor.

It is imperative to separate the Censor from the person whose voice it mimics inside your head. The Censor doesn’t necessarily take the form of someone who has done you wrong. The most insidious form of the Censor is that, as I said, of someone you love and trust, someone whose opinion means a lot to you. Don’t blame this person because your insecurities choose his or her voice to berate you.

Now, when the Censor mimics someone who has done you wrong, perhaps someone who emotionally abused you or who laughed at your dreams, it is even more imperative for you to separate your own insecurities from the abuse, and deal with them separately. Your insecurities are your own, and you can control them, or at least make a good stab at owning them so they can provide fuel for characterization and plot. For the other stuff, visit a licensed professional of whatever stripe.

I firmly believe part of writing is taking back your own power. Of all the infinite permutations of the twelve (or nine, or five, or whatever the number is) classic stories floating around in the ether (an infinity of ways to tell each story for every human being on earth) the one you’re working on has chosen you because you’re the best person for the job. This alone can give one the strength to give the Censor the finger, so to speak.

Still, the Censor knows where you’re weak. Your biggest enemy when it comes to getting words on the page lives inside your skull, shares your food and your bed with you. (Isn’t that the way it always is?) If you have internalized someone else’s nastiness toward you, it’s going to hurt you more than that person ever dreamed. You know where you’re weak, and what you know your Censor knows.

I think the function of the Censor is twofold. Sometimes the only thing that keeps humans behaving reasonably is a disapproving voice with its attendant threat of social consequences. Not only that, but every good story needs some tension in the writer to push against, and the Censor provides that. Used properly, the Censor can be your best tool for making certain your story is as tight and good as you can make it.

But oh, it is so hard to use properly and so easy just to cut yourself with that knife.

My own Censor is probably a cliche. He takes my mother’s voice, and occasionally my stepfather’s voice. Who do you think you are? That artsy-fartsy crap won’t put money on the table! Get your head out of the clouds! Do some real work! And pretty soon I’m a wreck, the echoes inside my head threatening to drown the story that’s trying to come through. The what-ifs throw their own little party–what if everyone finds out I’m just a hack? What if my editor finds out I’m not a Real Writer? What if nobody buys the books? What if, what if, what if…

Finding the strength to make a rude gesture and an even ruder noise at the Censor is the defining struggle of most artists. We try, over and over again, to make something so good, so fine, that the voice in our head will shut up or even better, will tell us we’re okay now. That we’re worthy. Properly harnessed, this drive to make something wonderful can push us to refine our craft, to produce something we might not have made if we had stayed on the safe path of the tried and true.

The Censor can also bleed you dry. You have to recognize that voice will never be satisfied. (Death, taxes, and the Censor, these things don’t change.) You can either waste your time bemoaning it or find a way to throw the traces over that bastard so you can get some use out of him. He does work like a maniac once you get your hands and the harness on him. Just make sure he doesn’t slip free, for he is one slippery character.

Good luck, my friends. I wish I could say more, but I can barely keep the traces on my own Censor. Still, knowledge is power, and sometimes knowing that other writers have the very same polymorphic, sneering voice inside their skulls can help.

I hope it does, at least.