Some days everything you put on the page seems crap, and you lose all confidence in your ability to write. It happens to most writers. It happened to one of the Bookarazzi team, and of course we all waded in with advice. But we didn't all agree. Below is an edited transcript of our conversation.

The doubting writer said, "I don't even believe I'm a writer any more."

And we responded thus:

Clare said: 

"You are a writer, of course you are, and you know it. That's not the problem. Indeed, the very problem is that you are a writer, and therefore this matters to you.

I'm always jealous of people who say they enjoy writing, whereas for me there's always that edge of terror, that worry that I might be writing rubbish, that I might be wasting my time. The horrible irony is that when you worry you might be wasting your time... that's when you waste your time.

The only solution is to pick those fingers up and write. And yes, it might well be rubbish, but then you'll edit it and make it not-rubbish. And until you write something, anything, even utter rubbish, you've got nothing to work with. You need some raw material. 

Of course, when you're feeling the way you do at the mo, every idea you come up with will sound like rubbish. But is it? What about your track record? Have you had good ideas in the past? Have you written things you are proud of? And did you feel insecure about them too? 

The problem is the horrible mean old nasty person who tells you the past doesn't count, that it's all a mirage, that you can't do it. That person is cruel and stupid and refuses to pay attention to any evidence to the contrary. In any other circumstance you would recognise that person's opinions are worth nothing. That is a person who should not be listened to. That is a person who has allowed self doubt to stand in the way of reasoned judgement. And yes, that person is you.

Ignore your inner critic, they are your biggest enemy at this stage of the writing process. They are destructive and unhelpful and you just have to be stubborn and say sod them, you're going to keep writing. Because it will make you feel better, and whether or not what you write is any good. If you accept that what you write may well br crap but that it doesn't matter at this stage because what you desperately need is raw material, if you do that and just plough on regardless, chances are that what you write won't even be crap.

It's hard though. Bloody hard. All work is hard, and there's no such thing as the dream job. It's work. It's hard. But you have to do it. Don't you?"

Jon said:

"The ultimate failure in writing is not to be read. It's a simple, harsh judgement. As part of the urge to succeed we watch critics' comments on our work - particularly people who are seen to be 'important' and who, therefore, control opinion. But, in the end, to succeed we have to be read. It's no good being thrilled by a piece of your writing - a book, article, blog entry - which you consider to be bloody superb, because it's worthless unless others, as many others as possible, read it.

One of the things I have found so difficult is that sitting and hammering something out, just for the sake of producing, never does any good. So I've schooled myself to stop worrying if the muse doesn't come, because worry is counterproductive. Creativity comes stealthily, like a thief in the night, unexpectedly and unnoticed. I hate to tell you this, but I've had one of those very rare 'good' days today. There was no particular reason, the writing environment wasn't any better, nothing had happened to inspire me, it rained just like it did yesterday. I've given up forcing it out, but, when I catch the crest of a wave, I don't half ride it.

As for the inner critic, yes, I can see that that quiet voice can be a distraction but, ultimately, it's your only real friend - because it's you, and, if your work is ever going to be any good in the eye of the reader, what you write has got to have the originality which comes from tapping into that deep subconscious which contains the blend of experience, originality, quirkiness and emotion which makes your work utterly unique.

The simple, cruel judgement of others is what I so love about this job."

Clare said:

"Ooh, I disagree.

I have more than one inner voice. Some of them are creative parts of my deep subconscious just as you say, but some of them are vindictive bastards who, if I listened to them, would have me never write another word. The inner critic, at the beginning of the process, can be one such voice.

I did miss a part of my message though, which is that the inner critic can be very useful at the editing part of the process. Very useful indeed, for ruthlessly shaping the raw material into something polished and beautiful. But at the beginning, when faced with a blank page, the inner critic must be banished into a dark room with no food or drink.

Then again, that kind of treatment might explain why it's so mean... hmm. Need better analogy.

Seriously though, although some writing days are certainly more creative and produce better quality than others, if I give into the mean voice at the start of the process, then the good days never get a chance to arrive, because I'm too busy hating and feeling sorry for myself to do any writing whether it's a good day or not.

Of course, everyone writes differently, but all writers have to be editors, and you can always make bad writing better - but not unless it's there to start with.

So I stand by what I say. Ignore the inner critic and get something on paper. Then perfect, perfect and perfect again. It's like sculpture. You start by hacking chunks away and it looks rubbish, but you can't get to the final smooth article without going through the rough first stages."

Emma said:

“There's all the difference in the world between the Inner Critic, hard-wired by parents and teachers and the world in general, whose job it is to spare you disappointment by telling you that everything you do is rubbish before you put it out there, and the Inner Editor.

The Inner Editor engages when there's something on the page to edit. For some of us, that's after each sentence, or even word. For others it's after the whole of a long-hand first draft. Most of us are somewhere in between, and none of us would write anything worth reading without it.

Inner Critics are clever in pursuing their goal of stopping you writing. They can pretend to be Inner Editors (this new part's too hard, better go and fiddle with Chapter One till it's perfect), Domestic Goddesses (you can't write till the bathroom's clean), Inner Counsellors (your husband/mother/barmaid will be hurt if you don't go down to the pub), Inner Publishers (crossover fiction doesn't sell), or even Inner Bestsellers (this'll never deserve a launch like your last one).

When I recognised my Inner Critic for what it was (not real, necessary editing/domesticity/counselling/publishing or bestsellerdom) I got better at saying, 'Thank you for your advice. And now I'm going to write.'”

Marie said:

“For me, the purpose of writing is not to be read, but to be understood. That's what I'm trying to do: not only to communicate, but with accuracy. That's why I get so frustrated when I can't manage to get the right words down.”

Emma said:

“Me too - it's about being 'got', 'understood', 'heard'. I'm sure that's partly why a not-good review can still get so thoroughly under your skin. Realistically I know there'll be some people who don't get what I'm doing. In practice it's incredibly frustrating to have it made so clear I've failed to communicate to someone - even if their failure is as much theirs as mine.

I'm just emerging from two years of second book agony. One thing that's shown me is that a) success can knock you for six (and therefore fuel your inner critic) just as much as failure. And that b) when other non-writing shit is screwing up your relationship to your work, it does it in just the same ways as your inner critic has perfected, but it actually has completely different origins, and needs to be tackled in a different way.”

Clare said:

"This thing about getting frustrated when you can't manage to get the right words down… That's what editing is for. You don't have to get it right first time. I rarely do, and I suspect it's true for most other writers too.

In the first draft, just let fly. Get the gist of it down, the bare bones, and let some passion out. When you read it back you'll see the flaws, but you'll also see the flashes of brilliance which come when you don't hold yourself back. You know what you're trying to say, and when you edit it, you'll have a good idea of how to make your message clearer. But you don't have to get it right first time. That way lies madness.”

Graeme said:

“I was very lucky as my second book was commissioned on the strength of my first book, so I didn't have to go through that. But I do have an inner voice that sometimes whines. My biggest source of insecurity is the inability to find an agent for my fiction. That really eats at my confidence, usually at three in the morning.

One way I have found of defeating it is to imagine the inner critic as a kind of Statler and Waldorf, knowing the show always went on despite what they said, even if it was just the Swedish Chef bouncing chickens into a basket.”

Emma said:

“Like Clare, I just let fly on the first draft. I write them longhand, because you can't go back and fiddle. Quite often I can't even read it without a certain effort, so I'm much better at keeping going. For me a first draft should be as nearly like free writing as possible - the one where you don't stop or cross out, just keep writing. I realised this when I realised that though I'm a fast 10-finger typist, I brainstorm with pen and paper. Arguably, first drafts are brainstorming, not an attempt to produce a finished novel (thinking of it like that, for most of us, is setting ourselve up to 'fail'.) I know of one writing tutor who, in the same spirit, recommends typing on the computer with the monitor switched off.

This thing of being helped by having a second book commissioned on the strength of the first is interesting, because of course there are different conditions under which you can be trying to write your second book. Mine is the second of a two-book contract, in the UK. On the other hand, my US contract was only for one book. So in the UK I have (metaphorically) my editor leaning over my shoulder telling me what she thinks, whereas for the US I'm free of that, but what if they don't want to buy it after all...”

Graeme said:

“hdkuf iud as jh dasdlkkj disdis qisduasdfao[ psj;as liedOi sks ai osod qaw pwdkdkw opidid

Hmmmm, that was my attempt at typing with the monitor switched off.

I have to draft at the computer because of problems holding a pen for any length of time, but editing requires a paper copy, bottles of red ink, and my favourite fountain pen. And by that stage, the inner voices have usually shut up. Perhaps because I have actually completed something.

As for having your editor leaning over your shoulder… yet more pressure. Do you find that easier to cope with than the worry of not placing the piece at all? Or is it the same, only different (if you see what I mean)?”

Emma said:

“I think the same, only different, is exactly what it is. And I did mean what I said about success being as disconcerting as failure: I used to work in publishing, many moons ago, and I know what normally happens (and doesn't happen) to a debut novel by an unknown. In all sorts of ways it's been very different for mine, and each time something good happened, I found it incredibly hard to have faith in the raw, rough, not-there-yet first draft of the new one.

If it was the same as The Mathematics of Love, every reviewer was going to notice, and I was going to feel I hadn't been true to myself. If it was different, then no one was going to like it the way they did TMOL... I often had to take a day or two away from writing, just to shake off the baleful eye of the booktrade which seemed to be peering over my shoulder.”

Graeme said:

“Shades of Sauron, there. You haven't got a magic ring, by any chance, passed on by a reluctant uncle?”

Marie said:

“Ha ha! From now on I am calling my inner critic Sauron! And my sick insecure feeling 'wearing the ring'. As in: "Oh god, I've been wearing the ring again and I can feel the eye of Sauron on me." Thing is, it is so damn tempting to put it on even though I know it's not good for me.

TAKE THE RING OFF, PHILLIPS, AND THROW IT IN THE FIRE OF MORDOR!”

Emma said:

“Yes! So am I. Fantastic!

This is going to sound incredibly fey, so it's just as well I'm among friends... *clears throat self-consciously* When I first identified the Inner Critic as a separate entity, I visualised him as a quite charming (indeed, well-intentioned) fat little dragon with glossy green-and-blue scales, and imagined a big clay pot in the corner of the study, wtih a heavy lid, which I put him in when he tried to stop me writing. After a few months I imagined moving the pot to the hall. After a few more months I realised it (and he) had vanished...

The difficulties I've had with this new novel haven't really been about him, though, it's just been that a wholly different nexus of psychology and circumstances has manifested itself in very similar ways. The guy who wrote the script for Taxi Driver says 'causes are particular, symptoms are universal' and I think it's true.”

Jon said:

“I'm very confused. I understood the concept of criticism to mean to pass judgement, not necessairy BAD judgement, yet many of the inner critics I seem to be reading about here are a little monster with never a good word to say about anything. And I'm not at all envious of those of you who have several all sounding off at the same time: it must be like trying to write at an England Scotland International.

I imagine an inner critic as like a spelling checker, it's always on and it's always saying things, and it doesn't matter whether you're writing a first draft or wading through the nth edit. Sometimes he/she is rather quiet (and here's a thought, I've never considered what sex he/she it), and sometimes he/she is leaping up and down, shouting anything from, "That's fucking fantastic" to, "That's a crock of shit". Whatever, the important thing is to listen, if not always agree.

As for the difference between being read, and being understood, to me the understanding's up to the reader. I'm not bothered about people who don't like what I've written as long as they give me the courtesy of reading it before they open their mouths.

I really do see the inner critic as something infinitely constructive, something that's integral to the process of original, imaginative creativity. Isn't there anyone out there who agrees?”

Graeme said:

“I always claim the positive and constructive for myself and see the critic as an internalised voice of 'them out there'. My 'voice of doubt' is also inextricably linked with my periods of depression. When I'm in the sunshine, I work and don't even think about the process. It's only when I drop into the shadows that I have to battle against self-doubt, sweat blood to get words on paper.

This is, however, something different from whatever it is that allows me to look at my writing and work out ways to improve it. I do not see that as anything other than years of experience as a teacher and a writer. But this only seems to apply when I have something on paper to work with. Getting something on paper is another matter altogether and there are different motives/reasons for that depending on what I'm writing.

My non-fiction has always been written in a spirit of 'I have a developed an expertise in this area and I wish to share what I have learned in the hope it will help others'. Fiction is different. Stories develop in my head and the only way to exorcise them is to write them down. That process is complicated (for me) by the idea that they could, possibly, be sold. That is where, on bad days, that voice kicks in.”

Emma said:

“'Inner Critic' is a phrase that's come out of the psychotherapeutic and personal development world (no, put that sneer down! ) with a more particular meaning than I think Jon gave it. It's the hard-wired voice that tells you you're no good, or at least not good enough, regardless of the actual quality of what you're doing. It's often parents and teachers who have hard-wired it: at school however good your work is, there's always more you could have done, and at home it's much the same. Parents (usually wired that way themselves) may warn you that you won't win the competition/be as good as your sibling/ because they want to spare you distress, but the result is still the same: a deep-seated sense that what you do isn't good enough, or any good at all, by definition. If you don't recognised that emotion, you're a rare bird, and a lucky one.

What Jon calls an inner critic is pretty much what I've come to call an inner editor: that necessary monitor of what you write. Though I think a lot of writers recognise that such a monitor is only helpful once the words are down on the page...”

Jon said:

"Emma - that's very helpful, thanks. No, I don't recognise the emotion, and I'm certainly not sneering. I had no idea that people had to work with that sort of devil riding their back. I was a schoolteacher for many years - to say nothing of fathering and bringing up 4 children - and the idea that they are all plagued by inner critics which I implanted interests me. I suppose the only way forward is never to criticise anyone in case one might do irreparable damage. But isn't it just too easy to blame someone else rather than admit that the problem is one's own self-confidence? And confidence, it does seem to me, is something that one has to work on, to get a balance between overweening self-confidence and confidence which listens and evaluates criticism. Easily said...

Thanks also for identifying my Inner Editor. "

…and that was that. Release your inner editor!