Claim your inner Pippi
It’s clear now.
Anne Lamott is me. I am Anne Lamott. Let there be no more doubt about this doppelganger thing. And here’s the proof:
I’m reading The Book That Changed My Life: 71 Remarkable Writers Celebrate the Books That Matter Most to Them. Writers like Chris Bohjalian, Dorothy Allison, BILLY COLLINS!, Tracy Kidder, Anita Diamant, Wally Lamb, and Harold Bloom are included. And there, on pages 99-101, those quaint small few pages, are the words of none other than Anne Lamott.
It’s not so much her mere inclusion in the book that convinced me of our kinship, no. It is this:
"Reading Pippi Longstocking when I was seven gave me a new lease on life. I felt pretty homely and different, and Pippi was so out there, with her freckles and upside-down braids, one black sock and one brown. She was so feisty and hilarious and powerful. I wanted her to be my best friend, and I also knew that she lived inside me. That was such a great secret–that inside me I was okay if Pippi was. I wanted to grow up and tell stories like hers, about girls who kicked butt."
Some may remember my own identification with Pippi. Redheaded and all, I once stood vigil in Stockholm outside the aging and ailing author’s home, Astrid Lundgren.
I think it’s abundantly clear–Anne Lamott is stalking me.
And for those kind 37days readers who have emailed me to inquire whether I am dead or alive, thank you for your concern, unless–of course–you were just checking in to see if I had a Last Will and Testament that would allow for the disposition of Mr Brilliant or my camera or love notes from Billy Collins. I am alive and well, and after two years of weekly essays, evidently needed a tiny vacation from 37days. Not that if I really only had 37days to live, that would be possible, but let’s stretch the limits of our imagination and assume that a tiny vacation is not only possible but, in some sense and at some points in our lives, quite necessary.
That’s to say this: I have been traveling like the man who went straight ’round the world in 80-some days, my two kids deserve me in real time rather than simply the legacy of my written word following the Inevitable End, and I often find myself choosing between writing and living (where "living" means "washing my underwear before the next trip.") Living is winning at this point; I hope you’ll understand.
The writing time I do have–those precious 4-and-one-half minutes between getting in bed and passing out (on a good day)–is dedicated at the moment to a book project. Yes, a publisher has expressed interest in publishing 37days as a book and I’m musing the possibilities (mainly I’m stymied because I can’t decide who should play me in the movie, though I’ve created the cast list for Mr Brilliant, Emma, Tess, Billy Collins, Johnny Depp, Gay, and Rosemary already…I’m also still looking for a role for Robert Duvall and Gene Hackman because I just won’t have a movie made without them in it.)
I wonder what Pippi would do? No doubt she’d pick up her horse with one hand, grab Mr. Nilsson the monkey in the other, march out the door of Villa Villekulla, and go find Tommy and Annika for an adventure.
Love,
Anne
