Hmm. I had high hopes for this book. Annie Dillard’s essay was in Writing Creative Nonfiction’s example portion, and was a shining example of simple, succinct prose. Her subdued descriptions of a stunt pilot gave his life’s work an entire new level of grace. I was looking forward to learning some more writing tips and wisdom, a la Anne Lamott’s Bird By Bird.

The Writing Life is definitely not an instruction manual in leading the aforementioned life. There are no exercises or pep talks. There are strategies, but not in convenient sound bites that fit on a computer monitor post-it (like my current “just take it bird by bird!”). They’re thick metaphors that sprawl and scatter through seven chapters, concluding with the essay included in the Writing Creative Nonfiction anthology. Dillard’s book works best when she’s telling stories, such as that of a stranded woman catching fish with the flesh of her thigh, or of an island resident paddling against the current all through the night. Each of these disbursed mini-narratives holds a lesson or illustration of the writing craft, and of the struggles an artist faces.

Where I lose Dillard is when she switches back into an inner-monologue, which is a constant meditation and lamentation of “the writing life.” I don’t fault her for her emotions (it’s difficult, it’s isolating, it can break your heart), but they weren’t the sentiments I was hoping to hear as a new, aspiring writer. To read wonder over and over why anyone would ever want to be a writer makes me feel not only down, but a little defensive. I feel like I am straining and hoping and aspiring like crazy for the life Dillard has—publication, street cred, writing retreats in Puget Sound. Why? Because, as she finally details in the final chapter on the stunt pilot, it’s a daring life worth living.

I’m glad when she finally comes around to lauding the writing life, but I end up hung up on paragraphs like this:

Politely, he asked me about my writing. Foolishly, not dreaming I was about to set my own world tumbling down around my ears, I said I hated to write. I said I would rather do anything else. He was amazed. He said, “That’s like a guy who works in a factory all day, and hates it.” Then I was amazed, for so it was. It was just like that. Why did I do it? I had never inquired. How had I let it creep up on me? Why wasn’t I running a ferryboat, like sane people?
(Dillard 53).

As someone who is living the ferryboat runner’s lifestyle, I just want to give her a good shake by the shoulders. Don’t you realize what you have? The freedom to be your own boss, to get lost in your stories and creativity, to actually be a writer? The only person crushing your soul on a daily basis is you, when you have to cut up a chapter. You don’t have a boss peering over your shoulder, criticizing your every move while you chip away on something completely trivial. Of course you may feel that way, but it’s your inner voice talking, not a grossly-overpaid human being!

I think, as a more seasoned and experienced writer, I would have empathized more with the book. As such a greenhorn, I’m still gobbling up direction and ideas, gaping at the vast possibilities, and trying to avoid becoming jaded with the whole nasty system. In this hopefully writing life, there is plenty of time for that. For now, I think I’ll keep taking it bird by bird.