With all the raving I do, to friends, family, and acquaintances, about Anne Lamott—her writing, her humor, her gut-wrenching-to-the-core observations, her humanity, her fragility, her vulnerability, her strength, her transparency, her hunger, her tears—you’d think it would be easy to write about why I love her. But how do you write a feeling? How does Anne Lamott write feelings?
She does it with a purity and eloquence as simple as gargoyles, always at the ready to ward off evil spirits and meanwhile channeling rain water.
I love Anne Lamott because a friend introduced us. We’re both writers. He asked if I’d read Bird by Bird. Hadn’t read it. Hadn’t heard of it. Hadn’t heard of Anne Lamott. He said I reminded him of her. I said oh, flattered to be reminiscent of any real writer. When next we gathered for coffee, he handed me a copy of Bird by Bird. He said my honesty, vulnerability, and passion reminded him of the author. I got stuck on the vulnerability part, since I have a perfectly good suit of armor, but I figured if she was good enough for him, she was good enough for me. Besides, I like un-birthday, un-Christmas gifts. They prove my worth.
As I read Bird by Bird the magnitude of the compliment emerged. Anne Lamott writes profoundly, exquisitely, of her life and of life. Nothing is held back, but she doesn’t gush. If she’s seen it, heard it, touched it, smelled it, tasted it, fallen in it, stepped over it, walked around it—we know it. We know it through the crucible she has been through living it.
I love Anne Lamott because she makes me laugh, from deepest in me. Reading Traveling Mercies, at times I’d begin to think, Okay, Anne, this is bordering on becoming repetitive, this self-examination, other examination, life examination—what is the thread? Somewhere in the back of my mind I’d be contemplating—dare I admit it?—skimming a bit, when bam! Out of her pen would trip an outrageous one-liner that could only be drawn from real-life experience. A smile and a laugh would spring from deep inside to play with me. I’d return to devouring every word, bouncing contentedly along to the next episode. Well, except soon again I’d be having trouble reading, what with wet lenses and warped pages from the falling water.
I love Anne Lamott because she delivers life to us as the finest art. She helps us understand that to live one’s life is a work of art, and sometimes it’s inspired and it flows, and other times it’s trial and error and mountains to conquer, or submit to, or observe for a long time until we glimpse a path. We know Anne Lamott through her pages, not just a writer, a celebrity, but a person. She has opened the book of her life, because she is courageous. And because she had to. Every writer knows you have to write. Whether or not fame and fortune choose to follow a whim and come along, you can only hide from the urge to write for so long. It won't leave you alone, even if you think you have it submerged, calmed down, out of the picture.
It’s awkward trying to write about why I love a writer to whom I’ve been compared. This isn’t just your garden variety writer down the street, not that I disdain zucchini, chives, and weeds. It seems presumptuous to even acknowledge the comparison to a writer who is not only famous but respected and adored. And more human than maybe I’ll ever manage to be. I am awed and humbled to be reminiscent of her.
When I read Anne Lamott I read myself. Our experiences are similar; the details are different. We share the fears and joys of every woman, every person. We have our demons, sorrows, and contentments. In her utter honesty and joy and pain and catatonic moments, I feel life. I hear all the secrets in myself, and I’m not afraid to listen anymore. I can commune with gargoyles and let my armor rust in the rain.
1999, revised 2012
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