Amazon.com Review
Annie Dillard has spent a lot of time in remote, bare-bones shelters doing something she claims to hate: writing. Slender though it is,
The Writing Life richly conveys the torturous, tortuous, and in rare moments, transcendent existence of the writer. Even for Dillard, whose prose is so mellifluous as to seem effortless, the act of writing can seem a Sisyphean task: "When you write," she says, "you lay out a line of words.... Soon you find yourself deep in new territory. Is it a dead end, or have you located the real subject? You will know tomorrow or this time next year." Amid moving accounts of her own writing (and life) experiences, Dillard also manages to impart wisdom to other writers, wisdom having to do with passion and commitment and taking the work seriously. "One of the few things I know about writing is this: spend it all, shoot it, play it, lose it, all, right away, every time. Do not hoard what seems good for a later place.... Something more will arise for later, something better." And, if that is not enough, "Assume you write for an audience consisting solely of terminal patients," she says. "That is, after all, the case.... What could you say to a dying person that would not enrage by its triviality?"
This all makes The Writing Life seem a dense, tough read, but that is not the case at all. Dillard is, after all, human, just like the rest of us. During one particularly frantic moment, four cups of coffee and not much writing down, Dillard comes to a realization: "Many fine people were out there living, people whose consciences permitted them to sleep at night despite their not having written a decent sentence that day, or ever." --Jane Steinberg
--This text refers to the
Paperback
edition.
From Publishers Weekly
"Every morning," writes Dillard, "you enter your study . . . and slide your desk and chair into the middle of the air . . . your work is to keep cranking the flywheel that turns the gears that spin the belt in the engine of belief that keeps you and your desk in midair." In this collection of short essays, the author of Pilgrim at Tinker Creek and An American Childhood probes the sorcery that levitates her own writing, discussing with clear eye and wry wit how, where and why she writes. Dillard invokes the places that have helped to inspire her craft: the "cinderblock cell over a parking lot" where she completed Pilgrim ; the freezing cabin on Puget Sound where she chopped firewood every day before tackling her current work-in-progress, literary criticism. She recalls the day her typewriter erupted in a shower of fire and soot, and an epic ride with a fearless stunt pilot who conducted himself with reckless imagination and superb craft, like "any fine artist." Self-aware but never self-absorbed, these luminous meditations examine an extraordinary writing life. QPBC alternate; Writer's Digest Book Club alternate.
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