Quotes by Anne Lamott

Rosie had to keep her room neat enough so James would not freak out, but not so neat that they could figure it all out, break the code, of who you truly were, what you were up to, your values, your truest parts. ... you were layer upon layer of ideas and erasures and new ideas and soul and images. [p. 68]

He lost the great big outward thing, the good- looking package, and the real parts endured. They shine through like crazy, the brillian mind and humor, the depth of generosity, the intense blue yes, those beautiful hands.

Most humbling of all is to comprehend the lifesaving gift that your pit crew of people has been for you, and all the experiences you have shared, the journeys together, the collaborations, births and deaths, divorces, rehab, and vacations, the solidarity you have shown one another. Every so often you realize that without all of them, your life would be barren and pathetic. It would be Death of a Salesman, though with e-mail and texting.

If you dont know where to start, remember that every single thing that happened to you is yours and you get to tell it.

Now she and I sit together in her room and eat chocolate, and I tell her that in a very long time when we both to go heaven, we should try to get chairs next to each other, close to the dessert table.

And then, unbidden, seemingly out of nowhere, a thought or image arrives. Some will float into your head like goldfish, lovely, bright, orange, and weightless, and you follow them like a child at an aquarium that was thought to be without fish. Others will step of the shadows like Boo Radley and make you catch your breath or take a step backward. Theyre often so rich, these unbidden thoughts, and so clear that they feel indelible. But I say write them all down anyway.

There are few experiences as depressing as that anxious barren state known as writers block, where you sit staring at your blank page like a cadaver, feeling your mind congeal, feeling you talent run down your leg and into your sock.

There may be a Nurse Ratched-like listing of things that must be done right this moment: foods that must come out of the freezer, appointments that must be canceled or made, hairs that must be tweezed. But you hold an imaginary gun to your head and make yourself stay at the desk.

Now, practically even better news than that of short assignments is the idea of shitty first drafts. All good writers write them.

For me and most of the other writers I know, writing is not rapturous. In fact, the only way I can get anything written at all is to write really, really shitty first drafts.

Almost every single thing you hope publication will do for you is a fantasy, a hologram--its the eagle on your credit card that only seems to soar.

Seeing yourself in print is such an amazing concept: you can get so much attention without having to actually show up somewhere. While others who have something to say or who want to be effectual, like musicians or baseball players or politicians, have to get out there in front of people, writer who tend to be shy, get to stay at home and still be public.

A writer paradoxically seeks the truth and tells lies every step of the way.

Our shadow is on the outside. And we can see in the dark: we can see you, we see you turn away, but one day we finally understand that you turn away not from our faces but from your own fears. From those things inside you that you think mark you as someone unlovable to your family, and society, and even to God.

One of the immutable laws of being human is that the people who show up are the right people.

Its incredibly touching when someone who seems so hopeless finds a few inches of light to stand in and makes everything work as well as possible. All of us lurch and fall, sit in the dirt, are helped to our feet, keep moving, feel like idiots, lose our balance, gain it, help others get back on their feet, and keep going.

You have to make mistakes to find out who you arent. You take the action, and the insight follows: You dont think your way into becoming yourself.

If we stay where we are, where were stuck, where were comfortable and safe, we die there. We become like mushrooms, living in the dark, with poop up to our chins. If you want to know only what you already know, youre dying. Youre saying: Leave me alone; I dont mind this little rathole. Its warm and dry. Really, its fine.When nothing new can get in, thats death. When oxygen cant find a way in, you die. But new is scary, and new can be disappointing, and confusing - we had this all figured out, and now we dont.New is life.

Oh my God, what if you wake up some day, and youre 65, or 75, and you never got your memoir or novel written, or you didnt go swimming in those warm pools and oceans all those years because your thighs were jiggly and you had a nice big comfortable tummy; or you were just so strung out on perfectionism and people-pleasing that you forgot to have a big juicy creative life, of imagination and radical silliness and staring off into space like when you were a kid? Its going to break your heart. Dont let this happen.

But you are not your bank account, or your ambition. Youre not the cold clay lump you leave behind when you die. Youre not your collection of walking personality disorders. You are Spirit, you are love, and even though it is hard to believe sometimes, you are free. Youre here to love, and be loved, freely. If you find out next week that you are terminally ill - and were all terminally ill on this bus - what will matter are memories of beauty, that people loved you, and that you loved them.