How could an Annie Dillard book only get four stars from me? I'm thinking about it in the context of her other work. I came to this book expecting it to be a book from which I could glean some writing advice, even if not directly. And that's how the book is marketed in most contexts. I wasn't able. Not any more than I could from Cather's *O Pioneers* which I just finished. Or from a collection of James Wright's letters. Part of learning to write is to learn what you like from other writers and to emulate them. I guess. That's certainly true about this book. There are few writers who write more compelling and transcendent descriptions than Dillard. My only criticism is that the book lacked focus. It feels like a collection of essays written over the years that didn't really fit into any other collections. Each was beautiful in its own right. But that last chapter about the aerial stunt pilot is incredible. Dillard prose feels both musical and balletic. Like a conductor bringing a score into being without playing an instrument. Magic. ( )

Beautiful essays and encouragement on the writing process. Dillard is like an old friend. ( )

Edges right up to the border between "writing is soooo hard" and oblivious smugness, but just manages to walk that fine line, and not fall onto either side. ( )

This is a short collection of beautifully written essays that don’t seem to have a point. Only about a quarter of this book is really about “writing life”. That section is nothing you haven’t heard before. It’s getting your ass in the chair and writing and looking around. Nothing about the publicity tours, the writer’s block, the interactions with an editor, with fans, the relationship changes with a family (i.e. what to say during gatherings where you just want people to buy it)

The rest is about… something else. I guess it’s the things you think about when you should be writing but you’re not. Like how cold your cabin is. Or what that lumberjack is doing over in the distance. Mostly it’s stories that don’t go anywhere, like the time I had to catch the train to Shelbyville and I had to tie an onion to my belt, which was the style at the time. There’s something “metaphysical” about the book, that it’s about more life and less writing.

And the problem was I couldn’t follow it. I got the sense this is something the author wrote as an exercise in-between books. In other words, it didn’t meet my expectations. I’m not sure who this book is for but it’s not for writers. ( )

Perhaps it was because I listened to this work via audiobook rather than read it from the page, but this book did not meet my expectations. I have the utmost respect for Annie Dillard as a writer: She has won a Pulitzer Prize and can entertain through the written word far better than I ever will be able to. However, this work was not really direct in its approach. Instead of giving actionable tips or profound insights, it aimlessly meandered through life experiences. This book speaks more of a restless heart than a consistent discipline or ethic.

Maybe that is the point of it all – that the writing life is about living in the moment – but that point was lost on me. As a reader, I was never moved from one point to another. Dillard talks about flying with a stunt pilot and using a metaphor of chopping wood to describe writing. However, she never talks about what motivates her other than penning a series of vividly descriptive sentences.

The quality of her writing is no doubt strong. Her descriptions make me feel like I’m with her in the experience. But they lack any sense of purpose or direction – a sense of exactly why she is writing. Most meaningful works of art make me think about my world differently. This book just kept me stationary and drowning in florid language. It lamentably didn’t help me appreciate the act of writing nor hone my craft. It just seemed like a short sequence describing the path of a rudderless ship. ( )