Last night, while still tinkering with the grad school statements, I couldn't get far without my inner critic interrupting. Peering over my shoulder, she whispered insidiously -- almost convincing me that the effort was futile: "I don't know what I'm doing. This piece is no good. No school will accept me."
When I stated this aloud in the midst of a wee tantrum, my partner simply replied, "You're just trying to convince yourself that you're not ready for the rigors of graduate study. But you are. Now get back to work." But I couldn't type one word in without that nasty critic beating me down.
I keep this humorous card from a former forth grade student on my desk. Maybe every reward comes with a mutated flower.
