Her fingers work at the knots of the rope I bound around her wrists, but soon she relents. She sits ideally in the back, knowing I’ll let her loose…just not yet.
We both know I need her, but her constant presence is counter productive for me…we both know that as well. So as frustrated as she is with her imprisonment, her rebellion isn’t as strong.
She is my inner editor. And as much as she’s cringing at this post (and the last one as well), we both know her anxiety will prevent me from writing any posts at all. Thus, I had to tackle her, binding her hands that contain the metaphorical red pen.
The red pen bleeds lines throughout my brain, spreading down into my hands which prevent me from typing words out. Crimson red seeping out of my sentences as if people were ripping them apart, picking at it’s imperfections until there was nothing but a bloody literary corpse. The people my inner editor constantly worries about, people who are imaginary. This is why she must be kept as a captive.
I’m a wild writer, unrestrained by my inner editor. This is currently the only way I’ll be able to compose any posts at all. You have now been warned of my broken ties with the conventions of writing.
Mu ha ha!