Behind the scenes. Voyeur. Inside your head. Backstage. Rear of the lens. Peering through the looking glass. A diary writer. A journal reader…
Like whiskers on kittens and warm woolen mittens, these are a few of my favorite things.
It’s true. I mean, who reads Anne Frank’s diary in Maui? Yup, me and I won’t mention that it was my second time around. Oops.
There’s something to being let in. A privilege in being handed a key to a heart. There’s magic in maps to uncovered minds and I am so thankful that I’ve been blessed with a desire to dig.
Though, in all my wordy (not a typo) wisdom, I have somehow never read “bird by bird” by Anne Lamott, a tragedy to be sure.
The book came creeping ‘round years ago. Its praises sung in my presence more than a handful of times, its renowned reputation preceding a cozy dwelling in my sluggish brain.
“I don’t have time to read.” I’d protest. “I’m too busy writing pure crap!”
Turns out it’s the kind of book that sits particularly well with me. From the first sentence Anne is human and we, as readers, are welcomed into the life that’s led her to be the writer she is today. It’s a backstage pass to the secret place where all my favorite bands hang out.
And I’m happy to be a groupie.