"Karla, this is the universe. Start writing."
Seriously. She sent me a text message.
That was the latest message. She's been sending me messages for the past few weeks, months, years probably. And lately her messages have been more blatant, more obvious. Less subtle, less casual, less chalk-that-one-up-to-serendipity.
But even with her hounding, her pushing, her reminders, I've felt stuck and paralyzed. What is it that I could possibly have to say? I think this at nearly every turn. What, what, just what in the world am I going to write about? What in the world do I have to say that anyone else would want to listen to?
And yet.
One of the Universe's more obvious messages came through the writer Anne Lamott and her latest Facebook update. She's talking about writing and perfectionism and the voice of the critic, of our parents' expectations, of the naysayers that we carry around in her head. And she says this about her writing:
"Yet,
I get to tell my truth. I get to seek meaning and realization. I get
to live fully, wildly, imperfectly. That's why I'm alive. And all I
actually have to offer as a writer, is my version of life. Every single
thing that has happened to me is mine."
I get to tell my truth, my version of life.
I guess that's all there is, really. And I guess that's all that matters.
Since the first day of this year, literally, the message has been hounding me, pursuing me. Write, you have something to say. Write, take note of your life. Write, sort through, work through, your life. Write, you have beautiful stories within you. Write, there are scenes, images, so alive so alive.
So, I will. I am. I'll try. I'll try to show up. Try to take note. Try to put words to the stills, the images I take away from my days.
Okay, Universe?
