Critical Mass

(Taken from Room to Write by Bonni Goldberg)

Prompt: Turn your internal critical voice into a character. What is its gender? How does it look? How does it smell? Who are its favorite writers and why?

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"Most of the methods of training the conscious side of the writer--the craftsman and the critic in him--are actually hostile to the good of the artist's side; and the converse of this proposition is likewise true. But it is possible to train both sides of the character to work in harmony; and the first step in that education is to consider that you must teach yourself not as though you were one person, but two." ~~ Dorothea Brande
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My inner voice is female. I imagine she is reminiscent of old Hollywood and picture her in a sparkling gown atop a piano with a glass of whiskey at her side. When I hear her voice, it is a bit smoky, raspy, but poised, always pointing out what I first assume is irrelevant but actually ends up meaning the most to me. She has a cigarette wand, much like Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany's, although I often think it is more for show than actual use.



She has sleepy eyes, the kind that were so seductive in 1930's Hollywood. She's a golden blonde with short hair in the traditional deep set fingerwaves set close to the head. Now that I think about it, I think she has become Tallulah Bankhead's image in my subconscious. She is mostly quiet, choosing to nip casual remarks at my writing, but the kind of remarks that make you question every word before and every word after. She is always serious, her facial expressions rarely changing, unless a scandalous quip or reference brings a smirk to her face. She makes no excuses for what she says or how she feels. Often there is the scent of delicate perfume wafting around her, mingling with the smell of cigarette smoke and stale liquor. She often looks sad or lonely but she is neither. And the only time she is quiet is when writer's block has a stranglehold on my internal pen. Then she chooses to luxuriate in expensive gowns and mink coats, effortlessly sipping at the glass of scotch at her side, an all knowing expression behind her eyes. It's almost as if she is happy by my silence, but there is some anxiety in her gaze, as if she is silently cheering me on, waiting for the next line to dissect and scrutinize.

Her favorite author would be VC Andrews, a woman who lived a quiet life but wrote about such dark and twisted events with a poise and flow that totally enveloped you in that character's world.