Steve

I was blessed with a remarkable insight this morning, Bush. If you have been clicking on the "Comments" button once in a while, below, you'll have noticed that I have this Steve. Steve is my perpetual nay-sayer. He finds fault with everything I write. He's sharp, acerbic, cocky, obstreperous, unabashedly rude, and quite frankly he has been bugging me. Every time I open up my email and find a message from him, I'm annoyed to feel a rush of apprehension and, yes, pique.

But here's the thing: what came to me in a moment of clarity this morning is that Steve--I'll call this one Steve-Out-There--is no more than an external voice for the Steve I have been carrying around with me my entire life. I'll call him Steve-In-Here. Steve-In-Here has been the bane of my life as a writer. Every time I put pen to paper--well, really, finger to keyboard these days--Steve-In-Here pops up to tell me kindly that I'm full of shit, I'm a lousy writer, my ideas are trite, my thought prcoesses untrustworthy, my logic feeble. He tells me that I'm really pretty stupid, and that my efforts are a waste of time. (I hear Steve-Out-There all ready to tell me I should listen to this Steve more often!) He reminds me how much smarter others are than I, how other writers manage to get rich and famous, and mocks my relative obscurity. And of course, no matter how much I've managed to publish over the years--and it's not insignificant--my first instinct is to believe every word he says.

There's more. Steve-In-Here is capable, if I allow him, of putting his absurd and negative restrictions on the decisions I make and the way I live my life. It's a battle, Bush, to stay awake to who he is and how he operates. So Steve-Out-There, somewhere in blogosphere, is a healthy reminder and even though--no, because--his input irritates me, I have to be grateful for the gift.

This is not the first time, of course, that I've been aware of Steve-In-Here. I used to call him my "Editor", and envisioned him sitting behind my shoulder as I wrote. The title of my memoir, "While I Am Not Afraid", was taken from the wording of a photograph and text piece by the artist Duane Michaels. The photograph was a male nude (not insignificant, because this is about vulnerability, about stripping off the outer clothing that protects me), and the text read: "I must write this now/This very moment/While I am still foolish,/Before I become sensible again/And know better,/And while I am not afraid/To say things out loud." I love that text, and deeply honor the feelings from which it came.

So now what I'm wondering is whether you, Bush, have a Steve-In-There? (I know you have no shortage of Steve-Out-Theres!) But, really, do you? You may be one of those people who get along without one. But what I realize, bottom line, is that in many ways he's the best friend that I have. No doubt that he has my best interests at heart: he wants to protect me from making a total fool of myself, in public. Above all, he keeps me honest. He asks me constantly to check up on myself, and think more carefully about what I do and say.

But (take note, Steve-Out-There) there are plenty of times when I wish he'd just shut up and go away.