The Wonder Years Syndrome

The Wonder Years did not of course invent this, but you know what I'm talking about - your inner narrator; that voice that tries to make sense and meaning out of all of the random crap that happens over the course of the day; that voice, that were it a person, you might shoot. I hate that voice.

Part of it comes from reading engaging writing written in the first person. I began this morning by skimming the first few chapters of Ernest Hemingway's A Movable Feast. At some point, I will lecture on style to my classes, and Hemingway is a perfect model for the "cut the crap" style of writing. Edgar Allan Poe would also work. I also read a lot of David Sedaris, who apparently has the key to the closet where I keep my inner narrator entombed. Personal narratives tend to give strength to my inner narrator, who then won't shut up.

I hate him. And he is male. Why I, a woman, have a male inner narrator I will never know. I think it has to do with the rarity of the female voice-over, and the propensity for women to write in third-person. But that's not right either; loads of women write in first-person, but "rarity of the female voice-over" is true. Why is it that in film and television, mostly men get to narrate their lives and tell us what is and is not important, and what to think? Do they not trust us to make up our own minds? Stupid inner narrator.

This morning, he was narrating my choice of clothing: describing how I discovered my current bra size, why I had to buy new bras, and what that shopping experience was like; why I wear boot cut jeans and dress pants; why my shirt size differs depending whether I'm buying a t-shirt or a dress shirt; why I wear long-waisted, fitted dress shirts. . . you get the picture. It was so annoying.

Sometimes I find myself saying "stop it" and "shut up" out loud, which makes me seem insane. I mean, who do you know that yells at the voices in her head to stop? The crazy homeless woman who can't stand up straight, that's who. And me.

I know we all (well, at least most of us) have this voice. If we didn't, it wouldn't be in a Boondocks comic strip. (I started to just paste that particular comic here, but I'm a big fan of intellectual property rights. The link should be up for ten more days.)

And that's when I stopped, struggling to hit the "post" button, but unable to do so. It was as if all of my training and teaching of how to avoid plagiarism were leading up to this moment. Would I or wouldn't I? Slowly my hand moved to the mouse. I highlighted the copyrighted image and deleted it. My grandmother would be proud. I had completely internalized the 8th Commandment: Thou shalt not steal.