Poking Holes in Reality - the ReBoot

    Her hand grips mine tightly, her babble runs free Little legs pumping briskly to keep pace with me I notice and slow, though my thoughts flit ahead To the comings and goings all planned before bed She reaches for flowers, she reaches for rocks I cajole and discourage with urge-along talks Blue eyes fill up quickly, frustration so clear A trembling lip heralds tears drawing near With a sigh kept internal and resigned, knowing smile I return to the riveting rock and twig pile Again, erupt giggles and sparkling eyes A pleased-with-self grin that’s a little too wise As we ooh and we ahh over non-descript stones Many people stream by, ears pressed to cell phones Ensconced in the moment, testing which twig might bend I no longer hear Time and its march without end  

  As a writer, your inner critic is the one you truly need to silence. And yes, by silence I do mean in the manner of a mobster. You must slide your hands around her throat and squeeze until she ceases thrashing. She will of course reanimate, as she is an undead monstrosity that lacks the need for oxygen, sustenance, or internet connectivity. She feeds on the juices of your crushed spirit. So be resolved in your requirement to silence her again and again. Flex your fingers and exercise your grip strength with a stress ball, because you will need to perform murder upon her many, many times. She, this internal critic, is far more destructive than any external critic. External critics are plentiful and hovering, ready to pounce. At the ready with a pitcher of cold water for your smoldering dream. Not those that you seek out, humbly, for advice. Not those precious critics that you respect and who care about you and/or your work. Their constructive criticism is a valu...