by Madam Z
Even with my fingers in my ears, and chanting “La-la-la...” to myself, I can hear my inner critic’s gruff, scorn-filled voice telling me, "Your writing stinks and you stink. Don’t even think about trying to write another stinky story, you disgusting stink-bomb!" “Oh yeah?” I reply, pulling myself up from my fetal position on the floor. “Guess what, big guy. That stink is coming from you, you stinking gas bag, and not only that, I’m going to keep writing, no matter what you say, because I’ve got something to say and I’m going to say it, no matter how offensive it may be to your tender olfactory sensibilities.” “So there!” I add for good measure, as I turn my back to him and resume my post at my desk, determined to churn out a tale as fragrant as a crimson rose on a sweet summer day.
Madam Z (the one-and-only, and whose full catalog is here) maintains a must-read blog. Stop by.