Of the 1-inch picture frame
A friend asked me a few days ago why each of my posts is titled “Of….”
My hero Anne Lamott has a tiny, 1-inch picture frame hanging above the desk where she sits to smithy her words. Big picture, shmig picture. All she sets out to do each day is write what her mind sees in one small, unthreatening 1”x 1” square of story.
My other hero, who is also a writer named Anne, gave me my own tiny frame last year. It makes me smile.
I’m a writer. And writing is terrifying. The teeny-tiny picture frame is a visual CHILL OUT, GIRLFREN, and so is this “Of…” business, really. It’s a safety net for wild-eyed hyperventilating perfectionist me. All I do, all I really do is snip a wee bit (1 squared inch to be exact) from the fabric of my story, shape it a little, and drift it off into the river. And maybe you then discover it, moored in the bulrushes, and rescue it into your own story.