Inner Critics & Fans
And why the words we say to ourselves matter
You aren’t….
…smart
…talented
…capable
…worthy
…funny
…beautiful
You…is me.
In the middle of paper for school my inner critic says, This is so dumb. You can’t write. You’ll fail this class.
In the middle of a blog post, No one will read this. Who are you to think people will care what you have to say?
In the middle of a painting, You call this good? There a million better painters in the world. Why bother?
There are papers I didn’t write, blog posts that never got past my keyboard, paintings that became scrap paper, lessons I did not teach, friendships I did not make, invitations I did not issue…opportunities left lifeless and untouched.
While I have begun to develop strategies to acknowledge the fears that my inner critic voices while still honoring the creativity and light inside of myself, I don’t always get it right.
A couple weeks ago I was speaking to a creator friend of mine. We were talking about our current projects, life as creator, and our goals. I told her about my current commission project (a series of four paintings) and I began to grumble.
I said, “I’m not an acrylic painter. I don’t know why I keep taking these. I am a watercolor artist.”
Later as I sat down for a round of touch-ups on the project I heard my own words. I’m not an acrylic painter. They didn’t come from a the whisper scream inside of me, they had come out of my own mouth and continued to hang in the air around me.
I am not an acrylic painter.
The truth is in the last two years I have sold more acrylic paintings than watercolors or writing projects. I call myself a writer and a watercolor artist, yet they are currently making me zero money. What my projects don’t generate in revenue they bring in enjoyment…that’s why I embrace them as labels. Unsure of my acrylic skills I am constantly working to learn a new technique, push myself to create better images, and have to work creating a beautiful final project. It doesn’t come easy, and I haven’t enjoyed the struggle.
But telling myself I am not something does not help me become that thing….
My Office (I did not enjoy spending time in this set up and struggled to put things away)
My studio!
A few weeks ago I rearranged my “office” and decided to rename it my studio. When I told a sweet friend of mine she said, “oh yes! Office sounds stuffy. Studio sounds like life and creation.” YES!
Since I nested into my newly minted studio I have painted more, written more, studied more, and lingered more in the space I have created to nurture creativity…to nurture me.
I sat in my studio telling myself I am not an acrylic artist…while painting a commissioned acrylic series.
(I know. I know.)
As I finished the painting I began to ponder what’s in a name…. Not in a Capulet and Montague kinda way, but in the does it matter what I call myself kinda way.
Here’s the thing.
What we call something matters…it shapes our perceptions and our interactions. What we call ourselves matters even more.
If I allowed my grumpy inner critic to dictate what I am…who I am…it would be a sad, boring life. My doubts always surface when doing anything for or in front of other people. How small my life would be if my inner critic was the cruise director.
In The House That Joy Built my Aussie BFF Holly Ringland (okay she isn’t really my BFF, but after reading this book I feel like she is — read more about that here) says,
It’s entirely possible for us to tell ourselves another story. One rooted in courage, compassion, love and trust, rather than fear, shame and scarcity. Told from the perspective of our inner fan. Who wants the best for us. Who can be whoever we want them to be. Who allows us to take a compassionate and playful approach to our truest self. (pg. 163)
I love the concept of an inner fan. And I immediately knew that I am my inner fan…as much as I am my inner critic. But my inner fan is the girl I once was who knew that her stories were the best, was sure people would love to read her neighborhood newspaper written in bright marker, won an essay contest in second grade when she wrote about her person, knew that words had the ability to help us escape, heal, and dream at very young age.
When I finished my painting this week my inner fan threw a parade. I jumped up and down with her and let the tears come. And said aloud, I’m an acrylic painter.
And as I stood there taking in my finished piece a small voice echoed from the past…
I am…
…smart
…talented
…capable
…worthy
…funny
…beautiful
…a writer
…an artist
The finished piece painted by an acrylic painter.
