Thirty years ago my older brother, who was ten years old at the time, was trying to get a report on
    birds written that he'd had three months to write, which was due the next day. We were out at our
    family cabin in Bolinas, and he was at the kitchen table close to tears, surrounded by binder paper
    and pencils and unopened books on birds, immobilized by the hugeness of the task ahead. Then my
    father sat down beside him, put his arm around my brother's shoulder, and said, "Bird by bird,
    buddy. Just take it bird by bird."
        -Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird

I'm not sure how long it was on the air, but for at least five years, Roseanne Barr's show was one of the most popular TV series in America.  Meanwhile, I personally would have only tuned in to watch her be fed, piece by large piece, into a woodchipper.  So I recognize the frequent possibility, even likelihood, that I am significantly out of step with popular opinion.  But let me say this, Bird by Bird, a memoir of the writing life by Anne Lamott reads as if it was written by Ms Barr.  Ms Lamott too is screechy, self-pitying, profane, and profoundly annoying.  She is one of those people who has made a complete hash of her own life--alcoholic, drug addict, bulimic, single mother, born again but calls God, Her, all the time--therefore, thinks that life is really difficult in general and that her's is especially trying, and for some reason thinks that we should all hear about it and that we have something to learn from her.

Now, I hardly consider myself prudish and I must acknowledge that one of my own most troubling character defects is a tendency to be excessively gutter-mouthed, but there is simply no excuse for Lamott's foul language in this book.  If an author is rendering dialogue in a novel, they must obviously use strong language in order to be realistic.  But here, in a book that is purportedly about writing, her frequent resort to swearing smacks of affectation and a forced attempt to keep the tone of the book chatty, rather than pedantic.  Instead, it is merely unprofessional.  What do we have to learn about writing, never mind life, from a woman who can't express herself without resorting to profanity?

The sole moment of pleasure in the book comes in the form of a rejection letter that an editor sent to her, in which he states:

    You have made the mistake of thinking that everything that has happened to you is interesting.

We can safely go one step further and say that the mistake lies in thinking that anything that has happened to her is interesting.

This was actually supposed to be a review of her book Operating Instructions, about raising her baby as a single mother, but the mere prospect is so revolting that I can't face it.  Suffice it to say, my wife who started reading the book threw it away and said Lamott should be horsewhipped.  Who am I to argue?

(Reviewed:11-Jul-00)

Grade: (D) Orrin C. Judd

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