As a writer I am supposed to enjoy all forms of prose. Mostly, I do. I appreciate others’ points of view. I mean, there are thousands of ways to talk about your breakfast, alone.
“It was early, and breakfast was fast.” “Breakfast is the beginning of a glorious day in the making, so one egg will not do.” “Her breakfast was stark and bland. His breakfast had a greasy gleam that rivaled dawn’s early light.” “Breakfast consisted of cereal and three kinds of juice.” And so on, and so on… thousands of ways.
I recently read “The Writing Life” by Pulitzer Prize winner Annie Dillard, published in 1989. I love books about the spirituality of writing. I love Anne Lamott and Natalie Goldberg, Julia Cameron and many others. I had high hopes. It was lovely and full of stories, metaphors, similes, powerful images, spiritual awakenings and comparisons… and I hated it.
I wanted to relate. I understood. I ‘got it’ – I just didn’t want it.
I want to hear about the writing life. I want to hear about each writers’ experience. I don’t mind the stories, I love the stories. But this was so far out there, it felt like it never came back. From surgeons, to Zulu Warriors, from cabins to babies playing chess… maybe I was too much in my right mind to enjoy it. “I sat down at my desk and typed,” does make for a boring book, but you can’t force spiritual.
But who am I to criticize?
Has a writing book ever let you down with great force?