On Learning to Use My Inner Cheerleader to Find Writerly Confidence

I was having coffee with a young writer who was starting out in the TV business and wanted advice. I could tell she was new by her hopefulness, good skin, and full head of hair. She asked me about my writing process. I told her I don’t have a “process.” I more. . .spend most of my time procrastinating, because even though I’ve been a working writer for 20 years and, according to that guy, have well over the 10,000 hours it takes to be an expert, I am faced with the fear I can’t do it, every single time I sit down to write. The fear that I am the exception to his theory. The fear that I’ve gotten by on sheer luck.

So, instead of writing, I exercise, fill shopping carts online, eat about four pounds of candy, sign up for a new diet app because I have no discipline, and troll Instagram, where I eventually wind up in Ibiza, on a vacation with some couple I don’t even know, but really envy because they’re probably good at their jobs.

Sometimes I also go for long walks while mentally selling my house and moving our belongings to the bridge we are going to live under when I ultimately fail because I haven’t written a word. Then I have to call my husband and alert him that we will be living under a bridge because I won’t be able to contribute financially any longer. Then when he responds with, “At least we won’t get rained on,” I get angry that he’s so nonchalant about my imminent failure.

But then, about an hour before I have to go home and be a parent, a gun to my head, I get out of my own way and start actually writing. Things start clicking. I get on a roll and become so consumed, I wind up working for the next two hours, arriving home shortly before or after my kids are asleep. Then, I beat myself up for not being a better mother. So, I guess I do have a process.

Hearing this, the young writer did not dump her coffee and run screaming back to school to get her Master’s in psychology or learn a trade, as I would have expected.

Instead, she sipped her coffee, smiled and told me about her “process,” which involves a conversation with her “inner cheerleader” before she begins any project. Her cheerleader tells her how amazing she is and that she can do anything she puts her mind to because she’s. . . her. And then she does it, with zero panic, because her inner cheerleader says she can.

This annoyed me. Partly because it was so. . . positive and healthy and maybe it’s a general thing—but writers are not supposed to be positive or healthy. We are supposed to be self-loathing and constantly fear homelessness. That’s where we get our inspiration: Negativity and fear.

Also—I wasn’t born with an inner cheerleader. Also, maybe a generational thing. I have an inner former boss who tells me my writing isn’t good, isn’t funny, isn’t smart. Following it with a “no, no NO!” with every word I type. I have an inner father who tells me I’ll never amount to anything because I take after my mother who never amounted to anything. I also have an inner chubby 12-year-old, who agrees with my inner father, because he’s also in her head. But I can’t really hear her because her mouth is full. But no cheerleader.

This girl said I do have an inner cheerleader. Everyone does. And that I should talk to her. I thought I was the one giving the advice! Her confidence unnerved me—but I chose to blame that inner cheerleader of hers.

Later that day, the Internet was down at the place where I was procrastinating. I couldn’t troll old high school friends to see how badly they’ve aged or look up Jennifer Aniston’s latest haircut. I couldn’t shop online. Desperate for something to do besides work on the script I was supposed to be working on, I decided to try and access this alleged inner cheerleader. See if she existed after all.

“Hello? Inner cheerleader?” I said in my head. “I don’t think I have one of you—“

“You are beautiful inside and out,” a cheery voice responded, also in my head.

“You’re beautiful inside and out.”

My cheerleader won’t hear anything about my lack of confidence. I want to talk about how old I look and how my neck is succumbing to gravity and it doesn’t help that my “texting face” is a frown and the corners of my mouth are so permanently turned down that I would have to walk around smiling all the time to keep them up. And then people will think I’m happy all the time and who wants that? Basically, pretty soon all of my skin, neck and lower face will be pooling under my chin, but again, my inner cheerleader won’t hear it. She thinks I’m beautiful inside and out. A great person, she adds. A great mother even!

I try to tell her I’m not that great. I can’t wait to leave my kids in the morning; if my car had wings, it would fly away. Also, I stole a bunch of shit when I was younger and I’m so catty sometimes and do not always wish the best for people. But she always brings up the good things I do and the kindness I show people. Like how generous I am with my time and also money I do donate to a lot of animal rescues—but who can resist those sad puppy faces?! I also donate to any and every GoFundMe I see on Facebook for a sick child, but that’s just being a human being. And yes, I love buying presents for people, but what if that’s only so they like me? Which is selfish and manipulative.

My inner cheerleader says it doesn’t matter why I make people happy, just that I do. And, also that I’m resilient. Oh, and that I have guts. But I don’t think I have guts. I’m not exactly brave. I once moved out of an apartment to avoid a salamander in the shower. Plus, I can’t say “no” to anyone. Which is how I wound up having coffee with my dentist’s niece who has decided to be a comedy writer.

I also offer help to friends on whatever scripts or projects they’re working on, which I ultimately regret because their projects move forward, mine don’t and I’m jealous. See?! I’m horrible! But my inner cheerleader chalks that up to my generosity and my talent.

Oh. She calls me a genius a lot and when my inner dad and former boss and chubby 12-year-old try to drown her out. She cheers over them.

She’ll say, Gimme a G! Gimme an E! Gimme an N! Gimme an I! Gimme a U! Gimme an S!

And when I don’t give her any of those letters, she doesn’t get bummed out or defeated. She just keeps asking until finally, in a very low voice, I give her a “g” and then reluctantly, the rest of the letters. Just to get her to stop of course.

She tells me I’m so smart and talented and so much better than I give myself credit for. And if I believed that, even if it isn’t true, which she thinks it is, other people will think I am.

I tell her, I have a hard time putting positive things out there, because what if someone throws it back at me and says “not true!” She says she’ll catch it if they do and she’ll destroy it because I don’t need that kind of negativity. She tells all the other voices in my head the same thing—no one needs their negativity. No one, being me. She likes them a little though, because they inspire me, in a sick way to prove them wrong, to prove to myself what she’s been saying all along. She does wish they would get out of her way, so she would have sole access to my mind and I can (we can) move on to getting what I have to do, done faster and with less crying and being in a ball.

She would love for me to sit down to do something and say, “I can” and then just block all the negative voices out and tune into hers. She’s the one in the back of my head that says, “You can do this, Liz. You’ve done it before. This is very hard, yes. But you can do it.” I didn’t recognize her at first because she’s usually muffled.

Oh and she calls me Liz, not Elizabeth or Lizzie, which I would like. But she thinks Liz is perfect for me because smart people are named, Liz. She’s relentless. And so, I have decided to add her to my process.

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Liz Astrof’s Don’t Wait Up is out now from Gallery Books.