Critical Collaborator

My Watcher. MY Watcher. My WATCHER. I acknowledge her, embrace her, fear her.

My collaborator on everything from party invitations to short stories, she is a stern, pinched-faced mother, teacher, know-it-all. Physically, she is a figment of my memory, a tribute to ideal discipline from my early school years. After decades of training, she has raised procrastination, harsh criticism, and paralyzing editing to an art form. A perfectionist, her motto is, "If at first you don't succeed - and you won't - edit, and edit again."

Armed with her subversive philosophy, my Watcher imposes her very rigid pre-writing rituals. First, we must rummage through drawers for colored paper on which to write; yellow legal pads are her favorite. In an absolute pinch, white paper will do, but only if it is ruled (otherwise, how will she be able to cram her changes between, above, and below, unless the writing is in neat rows?)



Second, we hunt for a pen, but no mere ball point will do. She is partial to felt tip pens; the murderous slashes she makes while editing are bolder when inflicted with Flair.



Third, the mandatory cup of coffee must be drunk from our favorite tall, yellow pedestal mug. If it's not on the shelf, she insists I dig it out of the dishwasher, since it holds the most coffee and we will need all of that caffeine.



When I finally start collecting thoughts and mapping out the general direction of our writing, my Watcher starts inspecting her surroundings. In less time than it takes me to write my name, she finds everything in the room that is out of place. Lips pursed, she runs her eyes, like a white-gloved finger, along the top of the television, where the dust, snatched out of the air by static electricity, adheres in silent, ugly recrimination. "You really should do something about this room before you start writing. Besides, it could be therapeutic: clear the cluttered room and you clear the cluttered mind." But my mind wasn't cluttered until she started talking.

Sometimes, when she and I reach an especially paralyzing impasse in my writing, I could swear that if I look up, she'll be Sister Mary Anyname standing there, cloaked in black from head to impatiently tapping toe, arms folded across the white cardboard chestplate, clenching a long wooden pointer. She'll be frowning, I know, eyes narrowed to slits behind glasses, a lipless flat line where her mouth should be.

But she's no nun; those are MY clothes she's wearing. And that could be MY face, if it relaxed. She is older than I, though. She must be. That would account for her vast experience and superior wisdom.

But then why, if I am younger, is my hair graying while hers is unchanged? Why should her perfect, ageless face remain wrinkle-free, while mine shrivels under her scrutiny? Why must I be the only one in this twosome who bears the scars of our constant battle?

Her answer is appallingly simple. "I am perfect and unchanging because you need me to be. Otherwise, your imperfect writing could never improve."

She continues, "Your need empowers me to drive you to perfection, an unattainable but admirable goal. The unrelenting vigilance for which you curse me permits you rent-paying tenancy in the neighborhood of acceptable writing. From our most bitter struggles spring some of your best works."

I hate that she's always right.