I was twenty when I got to see Anne Lamott speak.
I wore a beanie, and clutched her new book, Travelling Mercies, hoping to get it signed.
I had devoured several of her books at that point: Bird By Bird, which talks about basic writing tools, and her fiction, especially her earliest novel, drawn from Lamott losing her father to cancer, and her problem drinking, and working as a cleaning lady while she wrote.
I wanted to be her. Well, except for the alcoholism and the cancer. Just the writing. I wanted to write. I wanted to be willing to do anything to write.
Except I had no idea how to be that brave.
Sadly, my then self-absorption means I don’t remember much of what Anne Lamott said. I just remember when she opened the floor to questions.
I raised my hand.
And she called on me. “You, in the hat,” she said.
I stood up, my voice shaking.
“How do you find the space to write?” I said. “It’s just so hard, because I have, like, no privacy with my roommates, and no space of my own and I just—“
She cut me off. “I get this question a lot,” she said. “And the only answer is you do it. You write no matter what your circumstances. Next question?”
I sat down, not sure whether I loved having a twenty-second conversation with Anne Lamott, or whether I hated that my question had bored her.
Today I‘m over at Claire DeBoer’s inspiring writing site, The Gift of Writing, talking about what happens to your soul when you write, just because.
What I learned from talking to activists…nervously
I got to hear her speak a few years a go. She was brilliant. And I loved her even more. But I wasn’t brave enough to ask a question. : )
Yeah, isn’t she? I love her Facebook updates. They’re little mini essays buried in statuses like “Mmmm, guacamole.”
She wasn’t bored with your question. She cut you of after you’d asked the question. And before you could start telling YOUR story.
It was a time for questions and answers, not for story telling.
I recognise the story telling though. I do it (and lots of people do it).
Some one told me to NOT do it, to stop after the question and simply listen.
That way I would hear the story of the other person (instead of telling my own).
I find it hard to do, but when I do, I often hear things I hadnt expected, amazing stories. About little and big things. Real answers.
Hmm, maybe I should write a blog about this …
(See, there!, I did it again. Started to talk about you and then switch to me. Sorry)
Oh, what an interesting insight. Yes, this is a common way of asking a question, isn’t it?
Maybe I’m reading into the exchange, because when she cut me off, I realized I was asking one of the same questions she answered in “Bird by Bird.” And I realized that if I already knew the answer, I _really_ didn’t need to keep asking the question. 🙂
Oh, I do love “Bird By Bird.” <3
It’s the best, isn’t it?
I don’t think your question bored her. I’m guessing that she was simply trying to emphasize that no matter what the circumstances are, there is only one thing to do it if you really want to write: you do it.
I first saw her way back in 1993, after Operating Instructions came out, and my oldest was a year old. I asked her a question similar to yours: “How do you write when you have a baby at home?” Her answer: “Childcare, honey!” It was not very helpful to me at the time, and I probably felt about as embarrassed as you did for having asked, but I loved her all the same.
Oh, totally love her.
Maybe my question bored me, once it was out of my mouth? 🙂