Chapter 17: It’s All Crap!

“I’ve read what you gave me to read,” said the muse, after reading what I’d given her to read. “All 20,154 words, not including this chapter, of course. That count does not including the editing changes that you keep making in the draft I have. Next time, don’t edit while I’m reading! It gets me confused. And it fucks up the word count.”

“And?” I asked, anxiously.

“I hate to say this,” she said, loving to say it, “but it’s all crap. It’s 20,634 words of crap with the latest editing changes. And of course it’s more crap if you include this chapter.”

“This is hard to say,” she continued effortlessly, “but it’s clear you’ve learned nothing at all while you’ve been writing. This chapter is your latest effort, and the first seven paragraphs in this chapter, right down to this one are crap.”

“Four paragraphs,” I corrected her. “I’ve been editing.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “It’s still crap. And it’s not getting any better.”

“I have to tell you the truth,” she said, lying. “You don’t have much talent. And what talent you do have, you use badly. Your ideas are stale. Your dialog is stiff. Your characters are weak. Your descriptions are boring. You’ve got bad work habits. You have no self-discipline. And your feet smell awful.”

“So what can I do?” I asked. “I really want to finish this book.”

“Despite all your many flaws and defects,” said the muse. “I can help you.”

“You can?” I asked hopefully.

“With everything but the feet,” she said.

“Yes,” confirmed Thomas Edison. “Inspiration is 90% perspiration, and perspiration will make his feet smell worse.”

“I can live with smelly feet,” I said. “What do I do first?”

“Throw out what you’ve written and start over,” she said.

“What!” I said. “I mean ‘“Why”?’ I asked.’”

“Do you want the truth?” She asked, not caring what I wanted.

“Yes,” I said, not wanting to hear it.

“What you’ve written is so bad that it can’t be reworked. You need to start over.”

“Isn’t there another way?” I asked.

“No,” she lied. “Delete it. Find all your backups. Delete them. We’ll start fresh tomorrow.”

“I really have to get rid of the whole thing?” I asked desperately.

“Every last word,” she said. “I’ll keep the last copy. I’ll explain why, later. You look worried.”

“I am,” I said.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ve done this hundreds of times before,” she said, thinking of the hundreds of times she’d kept books from being written.

“Alright,” I said reluctantly. “I’ll do it.”

“Good,” she said. “Get ready for some real creativity!!”

“When?” I asked.

“In the New Chapter 1!” She said with excitement. “Finish this crappy Chapter 17. Destroy it and all the rest. And then meet me in New Chapter 1!”

Finally!

“Listen to that muse!” my inner critic said. “Finally someone else who tells it like it is. You can count on her to help. And you can count on me.”

“I can count on you to criticize,” I said.

“You can count on me for honesty,” my inner critic said. “She’s absolutely right. All 20,634 words of it are crap. You really haven’t learned a thing while you’ve been writing. You don’t have much talent. And what talent you do have, you use badly. Your ideas are stale. Your dialog is stiff. Your characters are weak. Your descriptions are boring. You’ve got bad work habits. You have no self-discipline. And your feet do smell awful. Really awful!”

I said nothing.

“The truth is the truth,” said my inner critic. “I don’t know if she can help you, but I do know that you need help. Your book is going to continue to suck without help.”

“Go away and leave me alone,” I said to my inner critic.

“The truth hurts,” said my inner critic, “If what we’re telling you hurts, then must be the truth. You can’t fight logic.”