I read Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith on Monday and then I googled Anne Lamott. I found this critical article by Paulina Borsook:
"Next to Anne, a woman of my own cohort, I feel so deficient--as a person, as a writer. I have always wanted to be bulimic or anorexic or do too many drugs or drink too much or have too many affairs with married men--then it would be easy to explain what was wrong with me and I could get into a 12-step program and I would know just what to do then and who to do it with and how to name it. I wish I could have a life so cinematic in the American way that I could find redemption in an African American church with a female preacher."
She goes on:
"...I think of all the kindly friends who have advised me to mine my own Rotten Childhood (second-trimester barely legal abortion, a gunshot wound to the head inflicted accidentally on purpose by a very close friend, running away, familial physical and mental cruelty, madness and death aplenty)."
Oh, I see what you did there. If Anne Lamott sells books by writing about the grace and humor that saw her through shitty times, then she's a huckster, but it's okay for you to bring up all your shit in an essay because you're somehow better than her.
(Tyne Daly: “A critic is someone who never actually goes to the battle, yet who afterwards comes out shooting the wounded.")
What do we gain by being angry at someone whose message is kindness and forgiveness and love, not because Jesus said so, but because what else can we do to mend the world? Tikkun olam. Today I am baking challah for Rosh Hashanah. It is customary to make two loaves and give one away, a mitzvah.
I've been listening to a lot of Feist and trying to find that part of me that used to be so optimistic.