Mark’s Copy of “Bird by Bird” after a bath in Whiteface Lake
One of my favorite books about writing is Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott (1994. Anchor Books. ISBN 0-385-48001-6.) I’ve read it from cover to cover at least twice and used excerpts from the book in countless lectures and workshops. I like Bird because Anne is hilariously candid about what it means (at least for those of us who aren’t Stephen King or J.K. Rowlings) to be a writer. Notice I didn’t say those of us who “want to be a writer” or those of us who “are an author”. The issue isn’t whether you’ve been published (which would make you “an author”) or whether you have the desire to write something (be it poetry, prose, or creative nonfiction): I am assuming if you are reading this sometime after I wrote it this morning at 4:45am that you already write. And that, my friends, is really all it takes, in my book (and Ms. Lamott’s) for you to earn the title of “writer”. To be a writer very simply requires that you write.
There’s more to it, of course. To be a writer, one naturally, at first blush, must be a reader. No, not a reader of your own words. Sure, that’s part of the puzzle, isn’t it, reading revision after revision after revision of the same piece of crap that came out of your warped little mind until you are numb on the brain? But that’s not what I mean when I say you must be a reader. To be a writer requires a dedication to reading other people’s work. Voraciously. Constantly. Whenever you have a spare moment. That’s how my copy of Bird by Bird ended up warped. I was trying to read it on the Scott’s dock at Whiteface Lake while brushing my teeth during the Minnesota Fishing Opener. Now, I, apparently like Anne Lamott (she reveals this about herself in her book) am a bit of a clutz. Some folks can chew gum and walk, or, as in the case of that bucolic morning standing on the dock jutting out into the tannin stained waters of Whiteface, hold a book and brush their teeth at the same time. I, however, cannot. One minute, I was reading Lamott’s concise prose and relearning what I’d learned from her the last time I picked up the 238 page gem that is Bird by Bird and the next moment, I’m on my knees on the cold wooden dock, trying to snatch a floating mess of soggy paper before it drifts away. Why was I so insistent upon reading Lamott on the cusp of the Opener in my PJs while brushing my teeth on the Scott’s dock? Here’s just a sample of the wisdom she imparts, in this case, about being published, in her book. This is a scene where the author has just been notified she’s been invited to a prestigious writing event. She’s shopping for a dress and reveals to the shop owner that the dress needs to be special because Ms. Lamott is a writer about to attend a special function. The owner asks the ultimate question that is always asked of us writers: “What have you written?” Lamott, who is anything but a household word, tries to brush the question off and find a dress. The shop owner is undeterred and presses on.
“Beth, Beth,” the shop owner called out suddenly…”Don’t I read everything? Tell her! Beth said yes, yes, this is true, she reads everything. Then the owner looked at me kindly and said, “Now come on, what’s your name?”
I sighed, smiled, and finally said, ” Anne Lamott.” She stared at me with great concern. The room was very quiet…Then she pursed her lips and slowly shook her head. “No,”she said. “I guess not.”
It took me about a week and a great deal of cheap chocolate to get over that. But then I remembered that whenever the world throws rose petals at you…beware. The cosmic banana peel is suddenly going to appear underfoot and make sure you don’t take it all too seriously…
This snippet of Lamott’s candor is so close to the bone, so dead-on-honest about what it means to have your name on a book available for sale in a bricks and mortar bookstore, or online, it’s beautiful in its simplicity.
The Inside of Mark’s Water Logged Copy of “Bird by Bird”
So when my copy of Bird by Bird fluttered through the warm spring air of NE Minnesota and found the gently rocking waves of the lake a week ago, I couldn’t let that be the end of my relationship with Ms. Lamott, as one-sided and hermit-like as it might be (she of course, has no idea of my adoration). I did, in keeping with her instructions, what needed doing: I rescued the book and opened it to the sunshine filtering through the windows of the Scott cabin and let the book dry. And once the paper was no longer dripping and the book was again safe to hold, I resumed re-reading Lamott.
Why, you ask? Why was I re-visiting something I’d read before? Not once? But twice? Because, I say, because I needed the reassurance that a good teacher gives his or her pupils when they are faced with a crisis. Since I am a self-taught novelist, and since those around me, my friends and family, will naturally hide their criticism and critical remarks about my work to save me from hurt, I find the honest feedback I need as a writer in Lamott’s words and also, to a similar extent, in another slender volume from another female author, Annie Dillard. Dillard’s 111 page memoir about writing, The Writing Life is also a source of inspiration and comfort when I am in one of my funks after a book event or reading where things didn’t go exactly as planned. As I planned. But to the point: Since I saved Bird from the lake, I’ve been plowing through Lamott’s wisdom, breathing freely, welcoming her advice, finding inner peace in the knowledge that I am indeed, a writer and that, to some extent, what I create is loved.
Jimi Hendrix (the dog, not the guitarist) and Mark reading Lamott
In the above photo, I am sitting on the porch swing of our covered front porch. The rain that’s pummeled our place for two days has abated. Jimi, my wife’s daschund and I are sitting on the swing, gently swaying in the cool air, my nose buried in the last chapter of Bird. It’s a great day to finish a book about writing and to be a writer. Tomorrow, I’ll get up early and write a little piece about Lamott’s book and how important it is to me. And maybe, once I’m done with Bird by Bird, I’ll re-read The Writing Life, or finally read that copy of Stephen King’s On Writing sitting on the bookshelf that I’ve never gotten to.
But before I do that, I’ll stroke the dog’s smooth fur, prop my bare feet up on a table, and sway in the freshly washed air, thankful that Ms. Lamott has written a book about writers just for me.
Peace.
Mark
