You don’t really know what you’ve written until after you read it aloud. One of the two rules in my “Time to Write” craft classes is that you can’t apologize for your writing–something people are inclined to do before they read aloud. I tell my students, Treat your writing as you would a friend you brought to a party. You wouldn’t say, “Allow me to introduce you to my friend. I know she has spinach in her teeth and that blouse is kind of horrible, isn’t it? She tends to run late, too.” No. We must accept our writing as we learn to accept our loved ones: their imperfections are often the cause and condition of their greatness, and who are we to seek perfection? So we read our work aloud without apology, treat it like a friend and–lo and behold–it surprises us.

The critical voice gets so loud when we write. It says, “This is terrible. Artless. So boring. So melodramatic. So plain. Ack, purple prose!” We can’t do anything right if we listen to the critical voice; its job is to question every single thing we do, thought we have. But if we remember to translate the voice, it can help us to keep going. All those mean and contradictory judgements? They translate into only three words: You are writing! The voice tells you, “That is the dumbest thing I ever heard. Nobody’s going to want to read this, even you.” Remember all it means is: “You are writing!” It tells you that what you are creating or remembering is flat, unrealistic, so awkward, pointless? Nod. Smile. You are writing.

When you’re done or on pause, read the work aloud. If you have another set of ears or a group, so much the better. That “reader” energy will infuse the work, because it’s meant to be read by someone, anyone, outside your head. But you can read it aloud to yourself to good effect, too. Discover what is actually there. Keep breathing. You are writing!

Do you have that critical voice in your head? What other techniques do you have for dealing with it, silencing it, accepting it, enlisting it? Comment below!