I have been spending a great amount of time with Anne Lamott recently. Now, before you start tweeting news breaking un-truths, understand that she doesn't know anything about it. I find her voice comforting and slow. She speaks a lot like me. I have been accused of being on drugs or "just not quite there" before because I do speak slowly. I find I have to think about the words coming out of my mouth before I actually let them. She and I say mostly different things, especially when she goes on about George Bush... I want to scream and tell her how fed up I am with her praying to try to love him as a brother by the time she gets to heaven, and get back to Mary picking up rocks to throw at Jesus, when in his teens, he was certainly driving her crazy like any other teen does. I close my eyes really tight and try not to listen until she backs away from politics. After all, she is there to help me fall asleep. I am finding nights to be rather quiet, long, scary and lonely. If I can just get myself to lay down, I will pop in one of her audio books and she speaks to me of things that comfort me, almost always.
Recently, Anne instructed me to write "really shitty rough drafts". I found no problem there. So if you come read something here and then come back again and it seems to have morphed its Anne's fault. She would prefer I print out the first draft and take a red pen to it but instead I just keep coming back and reediting until I am either happy with it or sick of it and let it float in cyberland to die it's small insignificant death. I would like to think she would be happy to know that I at least highlight in red the parts I really hate about whatever is here while I edit. But I doubt I will ever have the chance to ask her.
I find myself resentful of her because she can just say things and her world doesn't seem to fall down around her. I guess it's a love/hate relationship I am having with her. I always fall back to a time when I was writing everyday. Real "heart" stuff and ended up being crucified and complimented all in one week about a piece I had written. It was even printed in a publication and it meant so much to so many people that I met. Some tried to use it to as irrefutable proof that I was hopelessly incapable of being a good mother, let alone a good person. Some others sat with me and told of their own stories from their own experiences with the subject matter. They all were thankful for the piece but for such unbelievably (until it happened) different reasons. The dichotomy of that week was so ridiculous. That is why I am resentful. As far as I know, no one tried to take away love from her because she talked about her life. The real one. The life that everyone has even if they don't admit it. The one where they pick up rocks they want to throw at Jesus or at someone or something else. Granted, even George Bush.
I don't know how writers survive and have real lives outside of their written word. I wonder where writers get the bravery to even go to the store, let alone, walk among the living everyday.
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