Fear Whispers its Sweet Nothings

Artists are strange birds. Odd ducks. Unusual people.

We suffer these massive delusions of grandeur, these awesome moments of self-confidence that allow us to do whatever it is we do and then offer it up for public consumption. At the same time, most of us are busy totally believing we’re not worthy of the attention we receive. We’re not good enough. We are, in actuality, hacks, and sooner or later someone is going to realize it and they’re all gonna laugh at us!

In my early twenties, I took an incredibly low paying position at the Pittsburgh Ballet Theatre. And by low paying, I mean I made just about $100 for that entire season. My family was awesome and supplemented my income as best they could, which really didn’t amount to much. Don’t take that wrong. I’m eternally grateful for their sacrifice. That still doesn’t change the fact that my budget was tight.

I mean like skinny jeans on a fat day kinda tight.

I lived in a tiny studio apartment. I couldn’t afford to drive to the grocery store, let alone splurge on fancy things like name-brand yogurt.

I wish I could say that despite all that, I was happy as a clam. Pleased as punch. Good to go.

Truth of it is, I wasn’t. I should’ve been, but I wasn’t.

Wanna know why? There was this awful voice in my head that kept telling me everything I did, every movement I made, every part of my body was complete and utter shit. My upper arms were too flabby. My technique was awful. My artistry was bland. My ability to portray emotion through movement was trite and under-developed.

My dancing was stupid. My body was stupid. I was stupid.

Thing is, no one else said those things about me. I was the only one. I was doing the thing I loved most in the world and honestly, I was succeeding, but I was so busy tearing myself down, I couldn’t see the progress I made or the attention I got for it.

That voice overwhelmed me. I believed those awful things it said about me and eventually I was the one saying those awful things. I wanted desperately to improve, to be worthy of the sacrifice I’d made, to be worthy of the sacrifice my family made on my behalf.

Nothing I did was good enough.

Period. The end.

Let’s fast forward a decade and find me sitting at my keyboard, pursuing another career in the arts. I write stories and try to get people to read them. And I love it in the same way I loved ballet. And, guess what. That awful voice that ruined me as a dancer is trying to creep up and start tangling itself into my thoughts as I write.

It tells me I write stupid things and my stories are dumb and no one wants to read my books and I’m wasting my time and Mr. Wonderful’s time and the money we’re throwing at this venture is wasted and on and on and on.

Here’s where it gets cool.

I’m older. I’m stronger. I’m more prepared.

I know that voice is trying to sabotage me. Steven Pressfield calls it the voice of Resistance in his book The War of Art. I call it the voice of my inner critic (otherwise known as The Bitch) and know that at its root, it’s the voice of fear. Fear of failing. Fear of looking dumb. Fear of judgement.

All those awful things I say to myself are nothing more than fear whispering its sweet nothings in my ear.

If you’re suffering due to your inner critic,  you’re not alone. We all suffer when The Bitch whispers. I’m pretty sure that voice comes standard in today’s newest human model, pre-installed, no activation required.

But remember, in the end, you’re in control of this side-show we call life, at least your little corner of it. When The Bitch climbs her way into your head, her nails digging at your daydreams, her harsh voice freezing you in your tracks, it’s up to you how much you believe what she has to say.

My advice?

The Bitch feeds off our emotions, twisting them to help prove what she’s saying as complete and utter truth. In order to shut her down, stop feeding her. Switch over to the analytical side of your art. Deal in facts, not fears, proof, not hope.

Worried about a bad review? Read the good ones.

Worried that a plot line isn’t going to work? Deconstruct it.

Worried that you’re not making enough money? Create a business plan that will lead you to making money. (Be careful here. Deal with facts and worst case scenarios, not hopes for lightening strikes of luck and the most delightful of daydreams.)

Worried that your technique isn’t good enough? Get feedback. Then address any issues that are brought to your attention.

Once you start attacking the root of your fear with well-thought out plans and strategies, that awful little voice will quiet. Just as the Wicked Witch of the West, the bane of Dorothy’s entire trip to Oz, succumbed to a single bucket of water, the voice of your fears will disappear when you douse it with truth.