Where the real juice is

I wasn’t sure why I felt called to offer a series on the inner critic, apart from it being kind of an obvious area most of us struggle with, especially as writers. It had occurred to me that I’d never worked with it explicitly in Soul Writing: a process that intentionally works around the critic, uproots it, holds it at bay for the moments we’re in our group, and maybe longer. This happens organically.

So why turn toward the critic, invite it in? It’s an ugly voice, and, as the series approached, I felt hesitant about the tango (ha, I just mis-typed that word as ‘tangle’—probably the more apt word here) through which I was about to take the brave and willing writers who signed up for the experiment. I didn’t know the steps of the dance as the critic is usually the one to lead, picking me up off my feet and swirling me around until I’m soundly confused and nauseated. I was equipped with nothing but the Soul Writing process.

So, at the mouth of this thorny path I’d just invited my friends to follow me down, I did all I knew to do: trust that very process.

Here was the plan.

The visualizations, resources, and prompts offered each week would evolve. We’d start, importantly, by anchoring ourselves in what is true. Part of why the critic has such a merciless hold over us sometimes (all the time?) is that we get swept up in what it says and forget ourselves. So we’d emphasize remembering. Let the gravity of ourselves, our essential goodness, separate out, like…

Have you ever used the bowl-of-water trick to collect pomegranate seeds? You score the skin and then pull that puppy apart in a big bowl of water. The seeds—the good stuff, all that’s juicy and nourishing—spill out of the fruit and sink to the bottom of the bowl. The pith—the protective white sheathing surrounding those seeds—floats to the top, revealing its uselessness, easily skimmed off the surface and discarded.

To be clear: the pith (like our superego) was indeed helpful for a time, protecting the seeds as the fruit grew, was picked, rode in the truck or plane or boat, was stacked on the shelf.

I figured at some point, once we were securely anchored in the truth of ourselves, we’d turn toward the critic, the pith, see what it had to say for itself. But… like… the pith is so uninteresting. It’s boring flakes of roughly textured nothing, which served a purpose at a time but has absolutely no use anymore. Why on earth would we want to sift through that, floating flaccidly as it is on the surface of a bowl of lukewarm water?

So we didn’t.

Though not for lack of trying on the part of my own critic, who kept insisting that we needed to do what we came for: compile a tight agenda that involved its voice, let it have its say. But (thank the gods) the prevailing current was too strong. What was coming through people wasn’t that voice but everything that was its opposite. It, the superego, was revealed as the pith it is. How deeply unnecessary it becomes once the fruit of ourselves is in the light.

So we got elbow deep in the fruit. Started to examine it, taste it, make things out of it. Squish the seeds, stain our hands with the juice, with the truth of who we are. Finding the steady voice underneath the chorus of uncertainty and fear.

Look what happened!

Here you’ll find some pieces that came through our writers over six weeks of sinking ever deeper into their own solidity, their love, their hurt, their understanding. Keep checking back as more will go up in the coming days and weeks.

I hope—we hope!—that these pieces might bring some ease to your heart, put some space between you and your own inner critic, and help you remember the truth of who you are.

Soul Writing series happen a couple of times a year. The next one will happen in the summer or fall. If you are interested or have ideas for topics, please be in touch!