"Editor-On-The-Shoulder" first appeared as a Chronicle piece in the August 1985 issue of Writer's Digest.  I've used it since in writing workshops and seminars covering a much neglected area of writing instruction: Why get into this business in the first place? Once there, why stay?

      In September of 1980, I sat at my desk and tried to concentrate on the pretty things I had placed there.  Three days earlier I had become the first science fiction writer to win the Hugo, Nebula and John W. Campbell awards all in the same year.  I had a pile of nice mail from readers, and another pile of nice contracts from editors.  I added my passbook to the items on my desk.  I was making a very nice living at writing, and this was only my third year at it.

      I stared numbly at the loaded rifle in my hands.  Ending the pain of my own existence was my priority of the moment.  The only thing that was preventing me from carrying out this execution was an overwhelming sense of confusion.  Before I pulled my own plug, there was a question that needed an answer: "I have accomplished everything that I set out to accomplish; why is it all nothing?"

      I could remember when a kind note scribbled by an editor on a rejection slip was enough to send me happily skipping around the house.  I could remember the wild ecstasy of my first short story sale, the feeling of seeing that contract, that first check.  I remembered how I felt when I received my author's copies and first saw my story in print.  By that time I had already sold another hundred thousand words of stories to the same publication.  And just three days ago I had 7,000 fans raising a thunder of applause as I picked up those awards.

      "It just doesn't make any sense," I said to my desk.  But, then, I responded, what ever did?

      A note.  I turned to my word processor.  I ought to leave a note.  If I am going to leave hair, blood and brains all over my office wall, I ought to leave a note.  My machine was on, I set up a new document number and sat back in my chair.  A suicide note is like any other kind of writing: there's a right way and a multitude of wrong ways to do it. "Now, there's an article you'll never see in Writer's Digest." I began laughing, thinking of titles.  "Checking Out: Six Dos and Don'ts." Maybe a monthly column: "The Last Word." Maybe a college course: "Denouement 101."

      I picked up my thesaurus to look over its collection of synonyms for cessation.  I was thoroughly engaged in perusing the selection when I awakened to the fact that I was doing it again.

      "Can't I even write a suicide note without getting sidetracked?"

      I dropped the book on my desk.  The sidetrack was my usual hiding place from the little creature I call my editor-on-the-shoulder.  I have remodeled houses , landscaped entire states, and fiddled away whole lives to avoid writing.  I laughed again, thinking that time I was safe.  "The creature can't touch me this time; I'm on my way out." returned to the suicide note.

      How long I sat staring at that blank screen I cannot tell.  It was completely dark outside when I gave up and turned off my machine.  During those hours, however, I sat listening to my editor-on-the-shoulder.

      --Such drama!  What a tragic figure!  Isn't offing yourself with a .22 popgun a little less than convincing?  Boy, won't they be sorry when you're gone, ho, ho, ho---

      Two weeks later, in St. Mary's Rehabilitation Center in Minneapolis, undergoing treatment for alcoholism and addiction to prescription drugs, I began the process of learning about me, my disease, and what I can do about both.  Among the many things I had to confront was my editor-on-the-shoulder, which is nothing more nor less than a manifestation of what I think of myself.  My addiction to alcohol and drugs had not created this monster.  EOTS had been on my shoulder in one form or another ever since I could remember.  In fact, one of the excuses I used for drinking was to shut up that little voice.  Writing for me had always been a war between me and myself, attempting to gain enough peace and quiet in order to tell a story.

      At rehab I was told that I am not a writer.  I am a human being; that is what makes me worthwhile.  Writing is just something that I do.  I was told that I need to get my feelings of approval from inside of myself, rather than from others, or from trying to convince myself that I was more important than others because of my occupation.

      That sounded like a pretty neat trick if I could do it.  How wonderful it would be not to drop into a two-month depression with each rejection I received.  Wouldn't it be terrific not to sit wringing my hands about bad reviews and good reviews that weren't good enough?  Wouldn't it be great to just be me, instead of using up energy putting on an act?  Wouldn't it be heaven to just write and enjoy it?  It sounded very, very good.  I could hardly wait to try it out.

      When I returned home, the first thing I did was try to get back to writing.  I could not do it.  As I sat before my machine, I got ugly in the head.  Millions of ancient doubts, hates, hurts and resentments leaped into my mind, crowding out lesser things such as ideas and stories.  My editor-on-the-shoulder was sober and alert, and I could no longer risk the anesthetic to shut him up.

      It's no trouble for me to go out and play with chemicals again.  The program I am in tells me that we all know that we each have another drunk in us.  What we don't know is if we have another recovery in us.  I believed this, and I certainly didn't want to go back to the way I was before going into rehab.  But a writer who doesn't write is what?

      Of course, I remembered what I had been told in rehab: I'm a human being; writing is just something that I do. It was a difficult mental move to make.  I liked telling people "I'm a writer." It made me "something." It gave the rubes something to focus on while the real me hid behind the screen.

      I would try writing again; again I would go ugly in the head.  Finally, it came down to a choice between writing and sobriety.  At the time I could not have both.  So I quit writing.

      What am I, who am I, why am I here, who gives a damn?  Without this label of "writer" to prop up my false pride and self-image, I was groping around in the dark.  I took up wood carving, got lost in video games, became an expert rifle shot (at targets farther away than arm's length), relearned playing the piano, and remodeled my office.  I also became immersed in my recovery program.  My fellow recovering drunks and druggies would tell me to have patience and give it time.  Whatever is supposed to happen will happen, and it will be right on time.

       It was the difference between focusing on outcomes and focusing on the activity at hand; between doing something because of what it might get me and doing something for its own sake; between writing to please others and writing to please myself. It was a glorious experience.  When I am smart, this is now how I do all my writing. When I am not so smart, I begin edging into thoughts of fame, fortune, and gathering the approval of others at the expense of approving of myself.

         My editor-on-the-shoulder?  He is alive and well, but we have worked out arrangement.  If I am honest with myself, if I am honest with the readers, and if I am willing to take the risk to place myself on those pages and share myself with the readers, editor-on-the-shoulder stays away.  On the other hand, if I let myself start thinking about outcomes, or resume thinking of myself a "writer," or try to appear to readers as something that I am not, my creature climbs back on my shoulder, my head goes ugly, and I am paralyzed.

        Although it took me an eternity to understand it, the mechanism is rather simple.  The more wrong things I do for myself, the smaller and cruddier I feel about myself; the more right things I do for myself, the better I feel about myself.  Understanding what "right things" are took the help of a great number of unselfish persons.  Understanding what "myself " is took time, patience and friends.  Friends are those folks who tell you what you need to hear, rather than what you want to hear.

          Do you find writing difficult?  Do you find it tough to get started?  Do you find that you hardly ever complete a project, or if you do you stick it in a closet, afraid of rejection?  Are you sharpening pencils, arranging files, doing needless research, rearranging your office, daydreaming, stacking wood, or fighting with your spouse, parent or child instead of writing?  Do you get tangled in never-ending revisions, the infinite search for the proper punctuation mark, proud to identify yourself as a "perfectionist"?

        If any of the above applies to you, you have an editor-on-the-shoulder of your very own.  Trying to ignore this creature, or trying to beat it into submission with success only allows it to grow unchecked.  Success at writing will not remove your creature.  Your creature will take whatever success you have and turn it into nothing.  Booze and other drugs will not kill your creature.  Your creature will use them to control the remainder of your tomorrows.

        The solution is to accept yourself, be yourself, and be kind to yourself---a life-long and quite demanding study.