Tag Archives: Annie Dillard

Worry Less So You Can Live More by Jane Rubietta

worrylessI thought I would hate this book. That’s actually why I picked it. I thought it would be easy to disagree with, to pick apart, because so many books that claim to be about worry and anxiety offer pat answers that don’t really help—and often disregard completely—the struggle of someone who deals with anxiety at the level of mental illness.

I should know better than to make my judgments based on a generic title—Worry Less So You Can Live More—and vague back cover copy written by the marketing department.

Right away the author (Jane Rubietta) addressed my biggest fear about this book: “If you feel you have Generalized Anxiety Disorder, suffer from panic attacks, or deal with other serious problems, then please seek professional hep, and take this book with you (pg. 13).” It felt like reconciliation to see a Christian author recognize that mental illness is a real thing and not brush it off with an “It’s all in your head,” or a quick, “You just need to trust God.” Because, sadly, so many Christians respond that way.

This entire book felt like a giant hug from someone who gets it—one of those hugs that comes right when you need it. I don’t know if Jane has struggled with the level of anxiety that I have, but she certainly writes like she has. She’s specific enough to give concrete ideas for dealing with worry, but vague enough to let you fill in the blanks and apply her insights to your own situation. She shares her thoughts, but she doesn’t preach. I didn’t feel belittled or brushed off.

Every time I picked up this book, I knew I would feel lighter when I put it down again.

Jane wrote about how delight, physical activity, recalling God’s faithfulness, shedding healing tears, understanding your identity in Christ, and anticipating Jesus can slow worry to a crawl and sometimes halt it completely. She doesn’t claim to have all the answers or be able to solve all your problems, but she offers understanding and empathy that brought me more comfort than I could have imagined.

Combine the content with Jane’s lovely, artistic, Annie-Dillard-ish prose (I LOVE Annie Dillard), and you’re left with a book that needs to be read by any woman who worries about anything, whether it’s panic-attack-inducing worry or the kind that hides in your check book and jumps out when it’s time to pay the bills. Even if you aren’t a worrier, Jane will help you recapture the delight of your childhood and harness it to make adulthood a little easier.

Please read Worry Less So You Can Live More. It’s wonderful. You can buy it here.

To read about one way this book has affected me, check out my last post.

I received a free copy of this book from Bethany House Publishers in exchange for my honest review. My opinion is my own and was not influenced by the author or publisher.

Toothpaste, Ira Glass, and the Picture in My Head

wildflowers in a field

 

“All of us who do creative work, we get into it because we have good taste. But there is this gap. For the first couple years you make stuff, it’s just not that good. It’s trying to be good, it has potential, but it’s not. But your taste, the thing that got you into the game, is still killer. And your taste is why your work disappoints you . . . We know our work doesn’t have this special thing that we want it to have. We all go through this. And if you are just starting out or you are still in this phase, you gotta know its normal and the most important thing you can do is do a lot of work . . . It is only by going through a volume of work that you will close that gap, and your work will be as good as your ambitions . . . It’s gonna take awhile. It’s normal to take awhile. You’ve just gotta fight your way through.” —Ira Glass

 

When I was five, I decided I needed glass slippers like Cinderella. So I made some. I snuck into the bathroom and, using and Q-tips, I covered my new patent dress shoes with a sticky paint made of  toothpaste, baby powder, and baking soda. Then I did what any five-year-old would do—I put them in a donut box and hid them under my parent’s bed. Because, well, where else would I hide them? Mom was not happy when she discovered them two weeks later, rock-hard and still under her bed. She later told me that’s when she knew I had an imagination.

I was a frustrated artist. I didn’t have the supplies or the talent to create the images I had in my head—landscape watercolors, sketched portraits, painted houses. Some did make it to paper, but they always resulted in tears. (Of course, I cried about everything—not being able to buckle my seat belt was enough to provoke frustrated tears.)

And really, not a whole lot has changed.

A few months ago I tried to turn a four-hour car repair ordeal into a Father’s Day blog post. It was awful. I’m sure I could go back and do something with that draft now, but my first version was so far from where I thought it would be that I didn’t even go back for a second read through, let alone any edits.

I’ve become afraid of writing, which is sad because it’s something I love to do. I always have. In high school I had the luxury of journaling everywhere I went, and if I wasn’t doing that, I was writing long notes to friends. It was exciting to spend my entire hour of chemistry writing while pretending to pay attention. (I really hated science.)

I have all these great ideas—ideas that pull in quotes from literature, personal stories, Scripture, and my own thoughts—but I don’t write them. I jot the ideas in a notebook that follows me around every day, mocking me because yes, I had the great idea, but it will never turn out the way I want it to.

I know that I’m supposed to write constantly, even if it’s crap, because that’s how I’ll get better. That’s how I’ll find the gold, but that is SO hard for this perfectionist to do. I want to do it right and do it right the first time. I want to send it out into the blogosphere and wow everyone with my words. I want to make Annie Dillard and LM Montgomery and Philip Yancey proud. (But mostly Annie Dillard.)

How comforting to know that my struggle is normal, that my writing will improve as I work on it, that my skills will catch up with my taste in beautiful words. At least I hope they will. But hope is important. It’s way better than not writing just because I’m afraid.

So I’m actually going to post this even though I’m not completely happy with it, even though it falls short of the picture I had in my head. Because I have hope that just the act of writing it will get my next post that much closer to where I want it to be.