Sometimes—too often—my brain wages war on me.
It goes a little something like this:
Me: Today’s writing went well. Some good scenes.
Brain: Let's be real. Today’s writing was amateurish and cliched. You won’t be able to use any of it.
Me: Maybe parts of it need work, but the section with Callie and her mother made me smile. I did a solid job developing their relationship.
Brain: It was shallow and trite. The humor fell flat.
Me: Hmmm. You could be right. But at least my first book was decent. I actually finished writing a novel. I’ll bet you never believed I could.
Brain: Nothing distinctive about your silly book. The plot plods along, the characters are dull, and the language is unremarkable.
Me: That’s not what my husband said. Or my daughters. They said they enjoyed it. My husband even said, “It was like I was reading a real book.”
Brain: Do I even need to dignify that with a response? What else would your family say?
Me: But the editor who read it said it was one of the best early drafts he's seen in a long time. Though now I'm remembering he added that it wasn’t perfect…
Brain: He was too polite to elaborate about exactly how “imperfect” it is. Perfection and your book exist in separate galaxies. No amount of revision can save it. Face it, you’re wasting your time. This writing thing is not for you. You might as well go watch another Dateline rerun.
Me: I guess you're right. You’re my brain, after all. Why would you lie to me?