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Lupe's Adventures in Spain's avatar

Thanks for this reminder, Rena. I wrote about my "editor" a couple years ago, here's what mine looks like:

Let me tell you about my editor. He (oh yea, it’s a he) is small and sinewy and he cultivates his bitterness like a master gardener nurses her most temperamental seedlings. He is almost naked, with nothing but a torn, filthy loin cloth hanging from his hips, his body in a permanent squat. An evil caricature of Gandhi. He has never known connection, but rather an unrelenting, desolate isolation. And his most precious skill, his special talent, his most prized super power, is the ability to cut me down. All the way down. To remind me with the conviction of a zealot that I am no better. That I cannot escape, as much as I might delude myself otherwise, from the same abysmal, eternally desolate life. He’s very effective. Yea, he’s damn good at his job. I try to fire him periodically. He just laughs. He’s here now, actually. Squatting on his haunches, smelling of sweat and stale cigarettes, perched on my right shoulder. Looking down at my scribbling. Smirking. His most effective weapon is deceptively non-threatening. “Who’s going to read this awkward amateurish shit?” That’s it. I have been primed enough by other forces. He doesn’t have to work very hard to shut me up.

There's more, but that's the meaty bit. It's interesting to notice that as I have increased my writing practice over the last year, the force of this ugly little guy has waned, or at least gotten easier to ignore. Wouldn't it be fun to write a collaborative story about a bunch of these internal creatures feeling banished?

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