Meanderings

So I read a really great book on writing the other day. It’s called Bird By Bird, by Anne Lamotte. She’s a beautiful writer. I was perking along, appreciating her thoughts and her elegant style.

Then apparently, her editor said to her: “You have made the mistake of thinking that everything that has happened to you is interesting.”

Wow. That was a zinger for her.

And a real head twister for me.

Now, I’m the first to admit that I use the “I” word more than I’d like to. (See, there I go again.)

My problem is that I don’t have any other resources. It’s just me. All by myself. I know Anne Lamotte’s editor’s remark is wise and astute but it leaves me way out in left field. Not even sitting in the stands. I’m parked in a car many moons away from the action.

It seems that all I’m doing is scribbling, little bits and pieces, about the stuff that I’ve seen, enjoyed, laugh about, worry about, think about.

But, I said in the beginning of this venture that I would be writing about nothing. So then, nothing has changed except I read a book that was beautifully written and shook me up a little.

The bottom line, for me, is if I’m lucky enough to conjure up a connection or a common experience, spark a thought, maybe a smile, well, then there’s nothing more to be said, is there?

We’re at the ball game together. How lovely.