The World’s Stupidest Novel

“The World’s Stupidest Novel is the world’s stupidest title for a novel, even if it is the title of the world’s stupidest novel,” says my inner critic.

My inner critic’s yammering voice has echoed in my head for as long as I can remember. It never misses a chance to point out the mistakes I’m making; to remind me of the mistakes I have made; to predict the mistakes that I will inevitably make; and to make sure I know that nothing that I do will ever, ever be good enough.

“ The World’s Stupidest Novel is not the title I see,” says a reader. Perhaps that reader was you, the person reading this sentence.

“That wasn’t me,” says another reader. “But I don’t see that title either.”

“Me either,” says yet another.

“That not the title anymore,” I explain. “I changed it while I was writing the first draft. That old title was just a placeholder.”

“Self-referential metanovel Writing for D*mmies: a self-referential metanovel?” Asks my inner critic after I change the title. “At least I understood The World’s Stupidest Novel. It was appropriate. Your novel really was stupid. Still is. You need to change it again. No one will understand the new title.”

“The title stays,” I say. “I like it.”

“Well, I don’t like it,”says my inner critic. “And the whole book is stupid. Not just the title.”

“You never like anything, do you?” I ask my inner critic.

“I like criticizing,” says my inner critic.

“Aside from that,” I say. “Have you ever said anything nice about anything that I’ve done?”

“That’s not my job,” says my inner critic. “My job is to criticize. Your job is to do things that I can criticize.

“And I must say, I do my job far better than you do.”