The Grace of Dog

Whenever I try my hand at learning more about writing – as in, how to write so fabulously that everyone sits back, awed, thinking that is so right, after reading the masterpiece that came out of my fingers – whenever I dip back into the collective pool of knowledge, the one thing that my teachers say again and again is that a writer is not a writer until they’ve found their Voice. Ok, I think. Here we go a-hunting. But what is it, exactly? A Voice. I mean, I basically understand the concept. I could write an essay on the subject and win certain prizes. (Not the brand-new car, maybe, but something good, like a pen set.) However, I still would be unable to describe to you what it really is, or, for that matter, how to "find" it. I have agonized over this for years…well, if not agonized, at least used it as an excuse not to write, which is a kind of agony in itself, in the way constipation can be an agony. I think I get it now, though. And, as per usual, it was a book that helped me, finally, to understand.

My mother and I were talking on the phone earlier today, which we do most days unless my cell decides to play it’s own twisted game by echoing everything I say. (Which you will recognize, especially if you have kids, as one of the most supremely annoying games ever thought up by mutant children and cell phone devices.) Anyway, we were talking about books, which is also an almost daily thing, in particular about Anne Lamott's newest nonfiction, Grace (Eventually), which is a wonderful book, even though it’s kind of about faith and grace and all those things agnostics like me find uncomfortable to talk about. The thing about this book is that it’s not about the surface ritualistic religious stuff, but about real true grace, the kind that comes from inside of you. The kind that oddly, seems almost undeniably to come from outside of you. The kind that you, or at least I, have come to rely on to help climb the up-hill of life’s roller coaster. And this is the important thing, finally, that relates to writing. The Voice is a crazy form of that kind of grace. The Voice is not a thing, to be found, warmed, cuddled, cooed over and petted. The Voice is everything you are, from your ugly, callused, dirty feet to your beautiful soul-filled eyes. The Voice is you, 10 years ago, 30 years ago, yesterday. The Voice is a poetry of character, a whittling down to essentials of everything you are or have ever experienced. It cannot possibly be found. It was never lost or hiding or playing funny echo games with you in the first place. It is right here, reading this. With grace.

All this sounds lovely, of course, but as in all things, it’s not that simple either. The point of writing is to condense all that essential essence of you even further, into words and phrases that may contain the ability to touch someone else, to effect them without physical contact. This is impossible, yes? I mean, how can I condense how I felt about that red bike I got for my 10th birthday, or the time I was so mortified by vomiting in front of my entire 6th grade class that i just couldn't stop, or the breathlessness of my first wonderful, sloppy, spit-filled kiss into a story about something completely different? Impossible. And yet…. everyday, people manage to do it. I know, I read it. I sit back an amazing amount of the time, awed, thinking that is right on, girl. Do it again. But how do I do it? I want the manual. How do I coax that Voice onto paper? How is it even possible?

And I tell you this, it is impossible. But that’s the catch as well as the answer. You have to just sit back and get out of the way. Because you’ll never believe this, but that Voice wants to get heard. It’s begging to be heard. And it will find it’s way out onto the paper whether you like it or not. The trick is to move out of its way. It’s like a big hairy goofy dog, running full tilt after a ball. You can’t control his motion. You shouldn’t even try. The only thing you can do is to just get out of the way and watch him run. He is your Voice. Just let him barrel after the ball and stand back, awed by the ancient grace in his shaggy feet.