The Inner Critic and The ‘Hook’

My confidence was in danger of being taken over by self-doubt once more. I was surrounded by some great writers and performers who had much more talent than I felt I had. Negativity was bearing down upon my writing hand, making the pen heavy with stagnant ink.

The best way to boost my waning confidence was to go to the open floor poetry night to perform.
Before I went on, my inner critic kept telling me that I was not a natural performer, too controversial, too obscure, too arrogant.

My awareness of the staring audience seemed more heightened than usual, setting me on edge. I held up my printed poetry as a paper shield, stuttering the introductions and refusing to listen to my own voice as it projected the poetry.

After generous applause I returned to my seat in quiet introspection, attempting to listen to the other poets but only hearing my inner critic’s mocking voice.

They hated it, you stumbled over two lines. You were too quiet and showed no feeling or personality. The guy at the back wants to give you a good kicking.

The reassurance of other performers helped to quieten that inner critic and remind me that I was a good writer, still in development.

One guy reminded me that some people won’t like the poetry and some will, it’s all down to personal preference. He maintained that some of my poetry had the all-important ‘hook’ to get the listener’s attention.
I think the ‘hook’ is also an important part of written poetry and fiction. It can be an object, a person, a situation or a number of other things that the poem or story revolves around, acting like the keystone of a building.

Bad Power Trip

World leaders, take an ayahuasca trip

into collective tribal memories,

forget yourself more with each noxious sip,

vomit forth images as yet unseen:

the alligator man rips at his skin

to reveal your face, reptile mind within,

but still human, emotions wild, like rice

poured from your hands into mouths hot with spice,

our mouths spitting your lies into your ears,

shrinking your head into a tiny sphere,

like the earth in a universal truth,

spinning stories that make no sense in soup

sipped from the bitter ayahuasca cup,

foul tasting pictures of the world ripped up.