My Inability to Write

Oh the genius of Anne Lamott!

"Not that my mother is not a real person, but whenever I show her a copy of my latest book, she gets sort of quiet and teary, and you can tell that what she's feeling is "Oh, honey, did you make that yourself?" like it's my handprint in clay--which I suppose in many ways it is."

(from Bird by Bird)

I'm reading two of Anne's books for the one-thousandth time (Bird by Bird and Traveling Mercies) and oohing and aahing all over again. After reading Anne Lamott, I stand mute, with nothing to say . . . or write, for that matter. Everything is quiet. But then I think, "hey, I need something to aspire to, don't I?"

Of course! The difficulty for me is describing things like she does--learning to write in such a way that people want to run up to her, grasp her hand, pump it furiously, hoping to gain some of her wisdom the longer they are in contact with this master of art.

It's a tall order, after reading such a writer. How the heck am I going to do this?

Ah yes. Anne reminds me.

". . . [A]ll I have to do is to write down as much as I can se through a one-inch picture frame."

(also from Bird by Bird)

Keep Moving Forward.