The Voice that Nags

In every person’s mind there is a voice that nags.  I tend to believe that this voice is a little old man, no bigger than a thumb, right behind my left ear.  His face has wrinkles and there's a wart that rests above one eyebrow.  A long silver beard falls to his chest, and he leans against my head, with a look of pure evilness.

When I was twelve I discovered the little man.  He made his presence known, by exclaiming what a dunce I was at spelling.  I at once felt utterly offended and tried to silence him, but the more I attempted to concentrate on my school, the louder he became.

In our elementary school years, my younger sister Annie and I would perform plays.  Our plays were very simple, with little to no scripting, and sometimes fan-made from already existing works.  We started out with our own Broadway version of Peter Pan.  From there on we explored many fairy-tales, legends, and plenty of Shakespeare, in hope of creating something good enough to someday turn into our own amateur stage production.

As we feverishly searched literature for new ideas, we began to do something that I don’t believe most children nowadays do.  We both began to write books!  Shakespeare inspired us to take all of our wit and humor, from the plays we had performed, and translate them into little novels, creating something quite different from our child-like productions.

Truthfully, Annie began her "career" as an author before I did.  When she was around eleven, or so, all sorts of stories began popping out of her head.  Her ambition was to write a book that revolved around horses, similar to those of Black Beauty and My Friend Flicka.  As time progressed, her stories and the worlds that she created, became more and more realistic.  I couldn't, for the life of me, understand why she was so excited; when one day explaining an elaborate battle scene, where two stallions fight to the death, first involving great tragedy and then victory for the hero.  For a while I was left in the dark.  Not sure what I wanted to do with myself, as far as writing was concerned, I kept on creating little plays in my head, wondering if Annie would return from the world of books.

Then my family moved across the country to North Carolina.  Moving over a thousand miles can have a great effect on a person.  Being uprooted from your home, everything and everyone that you know your entire life, can be a nightmare.  For a while, I do believe, that I was in some kind of shock those first few months.  Looking back now, all I can remember is a blur of myself wallowing in instability. As hard as it was the first six months, it was even worse the next six months, as the shock melted away.  Suddenly, I found myself writing.  It was a totally new thing to me, but I liked it. Opening doors to understanding myself, scribbling on an old notebook turned my mind around completely. I found myself being able to cope with a new home.  Soon I began to understand Annie’s fascination with pencils and paper.  Now that things were changing, I could hardly get enough of them.  Ideas and curiosity about books began to pop up in my head.  In essence, I felt as if I was striding alongside the greatest authors of all time.  Inside I felt like Shakespeare: the greatest author of all time.

 Then the ball dropped when I realized, about a year later, that I had no talent.

I read through every page of my notes, scanning through my journal with a bright red pen.  Some things were bad (very bad), but some were so funny that I often burst out laughing.  Then, the further on I read, the less horrible my work seemed.  By the time I had finished (reaching a short essay I wrote on my nose), I had to admit, that I wasn't a total loss.  Although, I was far from being Shakespeare.

From then on the little voice in my head would constantly nag me.  Every time I would sit down, to write a chapter, or edit a scene of my book, the little man would scream, “You stink!”  As time went on, he became louder and louder.  Sometimes the sight of my notebook would inflict pain in my head.  I wanted to be perfect, but the voice wasn't allowing me to be perfect.  Inside I felt a horrible feeling of loss and wished that I could go back to enjoying writing, as I had the year before.

After a while, I resolved that Shakespeare shouldn't be my inspiration anymore.  This was a huge step!  Shakespeare had long been my idol of a perfect author, with Jane Austen a close second.  I told myself, as I still do, that I didn't have to be perfect.  

Perfection cannot be achieved in writing, especially by a seventeen-year-old with little experience.  That little voice that says inside your head, “Your writing stinks!” needs to be shut down completely if you ever hope to accomplish anything.  This applies in all areas of life, not only writing.  Not long ago, I realized that hard work—not talent—is the key to success.   If I wanted to become a good writer—just a plain, ordinary writer—I would have to discipline myself so that I could become just that.

I began to write again, this time with a better mind set.  Annie and I both are now are exploring the world of poetry, which we find fascinating.  Sometimes we will share our stories with each other, laugh at our mistakes, and nod approvingly at the good parts. 

The nagging voice is in my head to this day, but I have learned to say,  "Be quiet!"