March 19, 2007
Sigmund Freud was perplexed by the nature of women.
Because I'm equally perplexed, Sigmund and I might have gotten along.
However, while Siggie was entangled with theory and terminology by which he could describe and explain women, I am more bewildered by my own interest in what he might have thought about women. In fact, I am puzzled about why I am interested in what anyone else thinks about what I do and say. I'm most interested in why I become paralyzed as I ponder what others might think about what I write.
This isn't to say that I have no anti-social tendencies. Actually I do have a few which one might think would relieve me of any concern about the concerns of others.
Nevertheless, it's frustrating that I so often allow the opinions of others (Freud, my obnoxious neighbor, whomever) to influence me.
Don't think I'm a doormat, because I'm not. But, compared to men (and who else can we compare ourselves?), myself and many of the women that I know more often edit our words depending on the effect we think that they might have on others.
Editing certainly has its place especially as a product nears completion. (Some of my best friends are editors.) But I'm not nearing completion. Despite having been around for half a century (or so), I like to think that I've barely gotten started. It's too soon for editing! I have pages yet to write and shelves to fill! I should be composing, not editing!
Books about becoming a writer (and I have many of them) often suggest liberating oneself from the inner editor. That sounds easy enough, but liberation usually comes at the cost of property and casualties. I'm not certain what it is that I have, so I don't know what it is that I might lose.
You might be wondering at this point why I would worry about losing what I didn't know I had anyway. Good point.
I think the time has come to do battle, to become a warrior, to liberate myself from all the critics, both real and imagined. I not only think it! I now know it! I am a warrior of words, a warrior of will, and a warrior of whatever-the-hell-I-wanna!
Before you read any further, (and bless your heart if you got this far), this might be the time to warn you that I am going to write profusely and profundity be damned! My fingers will caress the keyboard wildly and indiscriminately! Then just as it seems I have exhausted my lust for linguistics and my creative juices have been reduced to a trickle, from the lips of this warrior a battle cry will arouse the spirit within..."Yes! Yes! I am a woman writing whorishly!" (Stick that in your Oedipus Complex, Sigmund.)
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