Am bad. Am suffering vile seeping acid of jealousy at success of other writers. Aware that jealousy is pointless emotion which sours stomach and is likely to lead to awful disease; must conquer it or will end up as lonely, sickly person stuck in chilly flat like dried-out half-lemon forgotten in fridge, drinking nasty old-lady sherry and telling overworked and  uninterested health visitor how I Nearly Made It but was Betrayed By Life.

Am great believer in Louise Hay, You Can Heal Your Life, state of mind affects body etc., etc., but increasingly aware that this can lead to being even more paranoid than usual about state of both mind and body. If get pain in arm search brain for source of same, terrified will discover nice juicy new paranoia or unresolved conflict lurking in depths; and horrified when catch self thinking morbid thoughts about writing, for fear arms will drop off. Mens insana in corpore insano.

Helplessly add fact that have forgotten almost all of O Level Latin to swelling pile of negative thoughts. First novel languishing unsold despite valiant efforts of wonderful agent, therefore novel self-evidently pants, or self so unappealing that novel never going to sell however good it is. Two more stories rejected and not yet sent out to new markets, so both stories and self's own commitment to Business of Writing also bearing strong resemblance to underwear. Current novel still not at end of first draft, despite promising self and various writing buddies that am Nearly Finished since at least November. Am therefore, personally, entire underpant factory. Every other writer in world more popular, productive, and well-balanced than self, and is all Own Fault for being bad person with negative thoughts. 

Suspect there is logic flaw in here somewhere, but too confused and depressed to seek it out.

As result, go on even deeper rampage of negativity. Have also not finished two short stories languishing on hard drive, written new poems for forthcoming reading, cleaned up 300 assorted e-mails awaiting sorting or deletion, organized workshop for fellow writers, or read stories for next critique group. Have not been to dentist, done vast pile of paperwork, redecorated flat, or defrosted fridge and removed ancient lemons therein. 

Unexpected and somewhat acidic voice from subconscious points out that have not cured cancer, created world peace or become President of Known Universe, either, and might, just possibly, be setting unreasonable goals. Have also not, to best of personal knowledge, committed crime for money, murdered anyone, or created entire sub-class of depersonalized slave-beings. So might conceivably not be that terrible a person, either.

Am paralyzed with shock to realize voice sounds a lot like much-hated Inner Critic. Lean inwards and listen. 

Voice, acidity now reaching levels unknown to school chemistry lab, asks me what I am waiting for and suggests that if really want to feel better about self, might be slightly more effective to start off with one small task and actually complete it, instead of usual method of thinking should sort entire life, plus world, out in one go and then being paralyzed at self-evident impossibility thereof and beating self up for failing. 

Hate to admit it, but Inner Critic may in fact have a point.  

Decide to take her advice and complete one new paragraph of novel. Will not re-read every word searching for imperfection, will not worry whether novel is life-changing Literature or mere frivol, will not, in fact, think. Will write one paragraph.

Meanwhile am mentally wide-eyed and gasping at fact that Inner Critic appears to have, if not soft, at least helpfully practical side. 

Perhaps have been maligning her all this time. Perhaps should offer comfy chairs, tea, and girly chat.

On second thoughts, should perhaps leave her stomping around her chamber of bones in back of head and just get on with it, before she notices that I have noticed. Or something like that. 

Realize that above image indicates am not entirely sane, but if can be mens insana in corpore moderately sano, in productive way, cannot really force self to care…after all, at least will have written new paragraph.
  

Gaie Sebold's short stories have appeared in, among others, Black Gate, City Slab, and Legend and she has received an Honorable Mention in Year's Best Fantasy and Horror. Her first fantasy novel (first publishable novel, that is) is now with an agent and she is currently working on her second. She is a member of T Party Writers and commits occasional poetry readings. Her first poetry collection, Urban Fox (The Tall-Lighthouse, 2001) is available at Amazon.co.uk. Contact her at urbancat<at>talk21.com.

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