March 12, 2000

I want to be a writer. For someone who wants something so badly, I'm not very motivated. In a perfect world, I wouldn't need any motivation. All of those vague, swirly ideas in my head would put themselves on paper without labor pains for me to suffer. In a perfect world, I wouldn't resent the things that I imagine keep me from writing. However, the world I inhabit isn't perfect, and sometimes I'm a sad little creature. For quite some time now I've been frustrated with myself and my inability to do creative, productive work. I've been convinced that it's my demanding job standing in my way; deep down inside, I know that it's fear. I'm a perfectionist and I hate doing anything unless I know it's going to be perfect. Because it's impossible to be perfect, I don't do a lot -- or I do things in a rush. I'm not satisfied with my lesson plans, even though I work really hard at them. I'm not satisfied with my writing on this page, even though so many people tell me they love it. I don't feel like a good friend. I don't feel like a good wife. I feel like a big, lazy goon, and it's all brought on by me and my neuroses. One day in the mail came the news that Anne Lamott was going to be speaking at a local community college. When Andy brought the little postcard up to my office (so excited for me you'd have thunk he had arranged the appearance himself), I had a smile -- more like a grimace -- frozen on my face for a good ten minutes. We had tickets within the next 12 hours. Anne Lamott, for the poor souls out there who do not know her, writes books about writing, faith, and she also writes fiction. That's the simple story. I adore her. The day of her talk, I went home from school sick with a cold and fell into bed for a four-hour nap. I wouldn't have woken up if the phone hadn't rung; I didn't feel like getting up to go see her but I did. We arrived an hour early (thanks, Mom, for that trait) and were able to sit in the first of the non-reserved rows of folding chairs set up in the gymnasium in front of a small, lit stage. When she finally appeared and started talking, I felt like she was talking to me. She talked all about writing and what you have to do to be a writer -- which is, simply, that you have to write. A lot. And very little of it is going to be good. None of it is going to be perfect. But in the end...you will have written. You will have answered your call. Andy tells me this every time I moan about how much I want to write. But as much as I love him, I do not stand in awe of his writing talents as I do in front of Anne Lamott's. Hearing her say these words made me tense up in my seat, made the back of my neck sweat. Her speaking voice was like a nice Sandra Bernhard and she was looking past the reserved rows of women wearing business suits with chin-length bobs right at me in my big floppy overalls and she was talking to me. "Write badly every day; just write!" she said over and over. I felt naked and embarrassed, like she was telling everyone in the crowded gym about my fear of failure and my need for perfection. My constant nose-blowing was soon accompanied by a stream of tears. Instead of making the monumental task of becoming a writer sound so easy, she acknowledged how hard it was. She gave me permission to be afraid. She told me I have to do it anyway. I don't want to be 80 and regret not writing down the funny, sad, important things that happen to me every day. I don't want to be angry at myself any more. I don't want to be someone who is too lazy to face her fear. After her talk ended, we stood in line to have her autograph the book I had brought with me. "I hate this," I said to Andy as we drew closer to her. "I hate meeting my heroes because I always end up sounding like such a doof." Andy disagreed with me, but I knew I was on the road to idiocy. The closer we drew to the table where she sat, the more strongly I felt that I was going to say something irreparable to Anne Lamott. "Hello," she said when it was our turn, accepting the book I handed to her. "How are you?" "Fabulous," I said, staring at her, stalker-like. Pause. "I love you." She looked up at me and smiled warmly. "Thank you." She understood. Whew! She understands a lot. Wanna be notified when I update? Send mail and thou shalt receive!