hypo-critic

"whose blog is often of confessional and purple prose, must not throw stones at another."
-me, from Proofs Of My Circumspection

I quite like Anne Lamott. She's funny. She's religious in that reverently-irreverent/irreverently-reverent sorta way. She goes to church. She loves. She doubts. She fights injustice/unfairness/prejudice/bias. She fights with herself. She sins. She keeps coming back to God. She writes it all down. She's the urbane, artistic Christian (but, ya know, not one of those Christians) exemplar.  Her writings are often poetic, conjuring profound meaning out of the most mundane of things quotidian.

Unfortunately, for myself,  for my friends, and for my peers, confessional writing without her byline so often seems to me as, well, ersatz Anne Lamott.


It's not courageous. It's not difficult. It's the translation of emotions into words. It's masturbation with a keyboard and you're the only one getting off.