By Sarah Trautwein
One of my favorite writing anecdotes I share with my students deals with my inner critic. Now I think most writers have an inner critic but few probably have a specific name, mine is Jack. Jack was born in grad school. At the time I was working on a project with special collections that came with some serious perks, including a new laptop that made the frequent committee meetings concerning my project, and graduate thesis, convenient. Although I know it will date me… I had recently become obsessed with the track-changes and comment feature on Microsoft Word. Asking questions, reading comments, and seeing suggestions from various committee members felt like a game changer and I, of course, also left comments. And that’s when Jack was born.
I never figured out why (and honestly, I don’t want to know now) but when I left comments on my laptop through Microsoft Word they were labeled “from Jack.” However, when I’d get home from work or school and sit down at my desktop my comments were labeled “from Sarah.” At first the difference really stood out to me, but I quickly just laughed it off and stopped paying attention until one day when I met with one of my committee members.
We had a great meeting about the collection and very naturally walked through her questions and feedback but when the meeting started to wrap up, she became more serious.
“So, I know Joel is your chair, and Rachael and myself are on the committee but um, who is Jack?” she asked.
“Jack?” I repeated, confused.
“Yes, Jack, because I um, well I don’t like how he is speaking to you,” she said with concern across her face.
Then it clicked, and I started laughing before then explaining that Jack was in fact just me. From that day on, I started referring to my inner critic as Jack. See Sarah asks questions and she might give helpful feedback but Jack, he doesn’t pull any punches.
Here are just a few of the comments “Jack” left:
Jack: That sentence sucks, write like you know what you are doing.
Jack: Use more organic language.
Jack: Get to the point.
Jack: Write better Sarah!
Jack: This is too detailed and not natural. Describe what matters not everything in order.
Jack: Eeeeewwwwhhhh this is bad.
I have never given or received feedback like Jack in my life and as a creative writing teacher myself now, I would share my committee member’s concern if I read anything like that aimed at one of my students. So, what’s the lesson here other than just a funny story?
I share this with my students to teach them about important checks and balances in our writing. Lots of times these checks and balances come with outside trusted readers who can counteract the shrill voice in our head whenever words meet the page screaming, “this sucks, this sucks, you suck.” But sometimes, we don’t have trusted readers and much of writing, much of being a true writer, is finding your voice between the your ideas and your critic. That’s why I tell them you need Sarah and Jack.
See, Jack can be a jerk, but Jack tells things like they are. He doesn’t try to save a sentence, character, or bit of description you don’t need. He knows that good writing and good writers “kill their darlings.” Now please remember this stays within the context of writing. I don’t want to promote negative self-talk. What I am suggesting is that as writers we begin to intentionally hone and practice where and when our writing needs Sarah and where and when we need Jack.
Jack, for me is this embodiment of trusting my writer’s gut. He pulls the trigger on the paragraph I really thought was great, but that I know doesn’t serve a purpose. He hunts for unnecessary words and aims to eliminate anything standing between the picture in my head and what has come out on the page, and I need that. But as I write I can’t take Jack all the time. I need Sarah too.
I need thoughtful questions and suggestions instead of commands sometimes. I need to reflect on purpose and craft and be able to see what is working about a piece. Sarah highlights the relevant details, the well-crafted thoughts, and the kernel of authenticity every work needs. Sarah sees the gems about my writing that with Jack are able to shine, unencumbered by excess. This balance is of course something that is still, and will hopefully always, be developing, but it is one that giving voice to empowers.
When I start a project, poem, or just put any words to paper Jack needs to shut up. I don’t let him out yet. I need complete freedom to dump any related or unrelated words onto the page. I need the inner Sarah to look for what’s good, look for where the words reveal myself, my voice and when I know a piece, however messy or incomplete it may be has that, that’s when Jack comes out. Writing is that constant battle between needing to kill your darlings and needing to believe in yourself. For me, it helped to give those parts of my process a name—if you don’t have one picked out yet, might I suggest, Jack.
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