The Watcher at the Gates
Gail Godwin
I first realized I was not the only writer who had a restraining critic who
lived inside me and sapped the juice from green inspirations when I was
leafing through Freud’s “Interpretation of Dreams” a few years ago.
Ironically, it was my “inner critic” who had sent me to Freud. I was
writing a novel, and my heroine was in the middle of a dream, and then I
lost faith in my own invention and rushed to “an authority” to check
whether she could have such a dream. In the chapter on dream
interpretation, I came upon the following passage that has helped me
free myself, in some measure, from my critic and has led to many
pleasant and interesting exchanges with other writers.
Freud quotes Schiller, who is writing a letter to a friend. The friend
complains of his lack of creative power. Schiller replies with an
allegory. He says it is not good if the intellect examines too closely the
ideas pouring in at the gates. “In isolation, an idea may be quite
insignificant, and venturesome in the extreme, but it may acquire
importance from an idea which follows it. . . . In the case of a creative
mind, it seems to me, the intellect has withdrawn its watchers from the
gates, and the ideas rush in pell-mell, and only then does it then does it
review and inspect the multitude. You are ashamed or afraid of the
momentary and passing madness which is found in all real creators, the
longer or shorter duration of which distinguishes the thinking artist from
the dreamer...you reject too soon and discriminate too severely.”
So that’s what I had: a Watcher at the Gates. I decided to get to know
him better. I discussed him with other writers, who told me some of the
quirks and of their Watchers, each of whom was as individual as his host,
and all of whom seemed passionately dedicated to one goal: rejecting
too soon and discriminating too severely.
It is amazing the lengths a Watcher will go to keep you from pursuing the
flow of your imagination. Watchers are notorious pencil sharpeners,
ribbon changers, plant waterers, home repairers and abhorrers of messy
rooms or messy pages. They are compulsive looker-uppers. They are
superstitious scaredycats. They cultivate self-important eccentricities
they think are suitable for “writers.” And they’d rather die (and kill your
inspiration with them) than risk making a fool of themselves.
My Watcher has a wasteful penchant for 20-pound bond paper above and
below the carbon of the first draft. “What’s the good of writing out a
whole page,” he whispers begrudgingly, “if you just have to write it over
again later? Get it perfect the first time!” My Watcher adores stopping in
the middle of a morning’s work to drive down to the library to check on
the name of a flower or a World War II battle or a line of metaphysical
poetry. “You can’t possibly go on till you’ve got this right!” he
admonishes. I go and get the car keys.
Other Watchers have informed their writers that: “Whenever you get a
really good sentence you should stop in the middle of it and go on
tomorrow. Otherwise you might run dry.”
“Don’t try and continue with your book till your dental appointment is
over. When you’re worried about your teeth, you can’t think about art.”
Another Watcher makes his owner pin his finished pages to a clothesline
and read them through binoculars “to see how they look from a
distance.” Countless other Watchers demand “bribes” for taking the day
off: lethal doses of caffeine, alcoholic doses of Scotch or vodka or wine.
There are various ways to outsmart, pacify, or coexist with your
Watcher. Here are some I have tried, or my writer friends have tried,
with success:
Look for situations when he’s likely to be off-guard. Write too fast for him
in an unexpected place, at an unexpected time. (Virginia Woolf captured
the “diamonds in the dustheap” by writing at a “rapid haphazard gallop”
in her diary.) Write when very tired. Write in purple ink on the hack of a
Master Charge statement. Write whatever comes into your mind while
the kettle is boiling and make the steam whistle your deadline.
(Deadlines are a great way to outdistance the Watcher.)
Disguise what you are writing. If your Watcher refuses to let you get on
with your story or novel, write a “letter” instead, telling your
“correspondent” what you are going to write in your story or next
chapter. Dash off a “review” of your own unfinished opus. It will stand
up like a bully to your Watcher the next time he throws obstacles in your
path. If you write yourself a good one.
Get to know your Watcher. He’s yours. Do a drawing of him (or her). Pin
it to the wall of your study and turn it gently to the wall when necessary.
Let your Watcher feel needed. Watchers are excellent critics after
inspiration has been captured; they are dependable, sharp-eyed readers
of things already set down. Keep your Watcher in shape and he’ll have
less time to keep you from shaping. If he’s really ruining your whole
working day, sit down, as Jung did with his personal demons, and write
him a letter. On a very bad day I once wrote my Watcher a letter. “Dear
Watcher,” I wrote, “What is it you’re so afraid I’ll do?” Then I held his pen
for him, and he replied instantly with a candor that has kept me from truly
despising him.
“Fail,” he wrote back.
Gail Godwin
I first realized I was not the only writer who had a restraining critic who
lived inside me and sapped the juice from green inspirations when I was
leafing through Freud’s “Interpretation of Dreams” a few years ago.
Ironically, it was my “inner critic” who had sent me to Freud. I was
writing a novel, and my heroine was in the middle of a dream, and then I
lost faith in my own invention and rushed to “an authority” to check
whether she could have such a dream. In the chapter on dream
interpretation, I came upon the following passage that has helped me
free myself, in some measure, from my critic and has led to many
pleasant and interesting exchanges with other writers.
Freud quotes Schiller, who is writing a letter to a friend. The friend
complains of his lack of creative power. Schiller replies with an
allegory. He says it is not good if the intellect examines too closely the
ideas pouring in at the gates. “In isolation, an idea may be quite
insignificant, and venturesome in the extreme, but it may acquire
importance from an idea which follows it. . . . In the case of a creative
mind, it seems to me, the intellect has withdrawn its watchers from the
gates, and the ideas rush in pell-mell, and only then does it then does it
review and inspect the multitude. You are ashamed or afraid of the
momentary and passing madness which is found in all real creators, the
longer or shorter duration of which distinguishes the thinking artist from
the dreamer...you reject too soon and discriminate too severely.”
So that’s what I had: a Watcher at the Gates. I decided to get to know
him better. I discussed him with other writers, who told me some of the
quirks and of their Watchers, each of whom was as individual as his host,
and all of whom seemed passionately dedicated to one goal: rejecting
too soon and discriminating too severely.
It is amazing the lengths a Watcher will go to keep you from pursuing the
flow of your imagination. Watchers are notorious pencil sharpeners,
ribbon changers, plant waterers, home repairers and abhorrers of messy
rooms or messy pages. They are compulsive looker-uppers. They are
superstitious scaredycats. They cultivate self-important eccentricities
they think are suitable for “writers.” And they’d rather die (and kill your
inspiration with them) than risk making a fool of themselves.
My Watcher has a wasteful penchant for 20-pound bond paper above and
below the carbon of the first draft. “What’s the good of writing out a
whole page,” he whispers begrudgingly, “if you just have to write it over
again later? Get it perfect the first time!” My Watcher adores stopping in
the middle of a morning’s work to drive down to the library to check on
the name of a flower or a World War II battle or a line of metaphysical
poetry. “You can’t possibly go on till you’ve got this right!” he
admonishes. I go and get the car keys.
Other Watchers have informed their writers that: “Whenever you get a
really good sentence you should stop in the middle of it and go on
tomorrow. Otherwise you might run dry.”
“Don’t try and continue with your book till your dental appointment is
over. When you’re worried about your teeth, you can’t think about art.”
Another Watcher makes his owner pin his finished pages to a clothesline
and read them through binoculars “to see how they look from a
distance.” Countless other Watchers demand “bribes” for taking the day
off: lethal doses of caffeine, alcoholic doses of Scotch or vodka or wine.
There are various ways to outsmart, pacify, or coexist with your
Watcher. Here are some I have tried, or my writer friends have tried,
with success:
Look for situations when he’s likely to be off-guard. Write too fast for him
in an unexpected place, at an unexpected time. (Virginia Woolf captured
the “diamonds in the dustheap” by writing at a “rapid haphazard gallop”
in her diary.) Write when very tired. Write in purple ink on the hack of a
Master Charge statement. Write whatever comes into your mind while
the kettle is boiling and make the steam whistle your deadline.
(Deadlines are a great way to outdistance the Watcher.)
Disguise what you are writing. If your Watcher refuses to let you get on
with your story or novel, write a “letter” instead, telling your
“correspondent” what you are going to write in your story or next
chapter. Dash off a “review” of your own unfinished opus. It will stand
up like a bully to your Watcher the next time he throws obstacles in your
path. If you write yourself a good one.
Get to know your Watcher. He’s yours. Do a drawing of him (or her). Pin
it to the wall of your study and turn it gently to the wall when necessary.
Let your Watcher feel needed. Watchers are excellent critics after
inspiration has been captured; they are dependable, sharp-eyed readers
of things already set down. Keep your Watcher in shape and he’ll have
less time to keep you from shaping. If he’s really ruining your whole
working day, sit down, as Jung did with his personal demons, and write
him a letter. On a very bad day I once wrote my Watcher a letter. “Dear
Watcher,” I wrote, “What is it you’re so afraid I’ll do?” Then I held his pen
for him, and he replied instantly with a candor that has kept me from truly
despising him.
“Fail,” he wrote back.