Day 46 - Anne Lamott

Many of you know that I have been writing a memoir manuscript. At the beginning of May I started a 30-week correspondence course through Humber College, with writing advisor Olive Senior. This is the last week of my thirty weeks. I have produced—at least—84,000 words. Within those words contains a story. 

I went away last weekend to get away from distraction, and write the final chapter. I thought it would be the easiest one. The scenes I wanted in the final chapter floated in my head, along with scenes scattered throughout the book, a literary milky way. I had no idea where the story would end. I knew the year it would end—2013—and I knew the place—Ethiopia—but I did not know what event would mark the end of this story. 

I stared at my computer screen for long periods of time. Then I did the dishes. I stared some more. Then I vacuumed, washed the floors, walked the dogs, sang a few songs, got on the wind-trainer, checked Facebook, and pulled out my hair. 

Late Sunday night, long after I was supposed to be back home, I sat in utter frustration, filled with anxiety. I can’t finish. I’m not going to be able to do it. Shit.

 I turned to the book “Bird by Bird”, by Anne Lamott. I knew that in the book Lamott wrote about “Shitty First Drafts”, so I searched for inspiration. Here is some of what she says:

Very few writers really know what they are doing until they’ve done it. 

The first draft is the child’s draft, where you let it all pour out and then let it romp all over the place, knowing that no one is going to see it and that you can shape it later. You just let this childlike part of you channel whatever voices and visions come through and onto the page. 

Just get it all down on paper because there may be something great in those six crazy pages that you would never have gotten to by more rational, grown-up means. 

So I pulled out my favorite pen and opened my creative journal; I began to write—bird by bird—about being with Yohannes and Faven’s family in Ethiopia, about the Rift Valley, about the food, about the turmoil, about the shopping to purchase supplies for their older siblings, about the hardships, the sadness, the hope, and the impossible.

And then, twenty-three pages into handwriting the truth, the gibberish, the story—a scene that I had not even previously seen, or remembered appeared on the page. I stopped writing. I stared at the words, and I instantly knew that I had found my ending.