My inner critic first visited me when I was in junior high school, and she has never left. I christened her ‘Eris’ after I took a mythology course. I thought it was appropriate.
If Eris were a character in a novel, I would describe her as a dangerously beautiful pirate, no doubt. Long black hair. Pale complexion. Swift with a sword. Stealthy, unfair, judgmental, and cruel. But she loves birds. Maybe she would have a pet raven or hawk. She spends her time sailing through my writer self at her whim. She has full reign there. No story is safe. She squashes them all with the toe of her crocodile skin boot.
But why the hatred of my stories? What is so terrible about my writer self that she feels necessary to stomp upon and light afire?