Writing is a strange process. Ocean Vuong, who is visiting Santa Barbara for a reading on Wednesday once said something to the effect of writing is listening to the universe. And I think that's true.
I've recently learned to give into it and take what comes. Some days you're given things you don't want. Feelings you find difficult to manage. Truths you're scared of. Forced to visit the past when the universe says Remember this? And you didn't remember at first and then you did, but you failed to understand the significance.
Many times, we stop here. We push what's uncomfortable away. We say enough. We have things to do. Places to be. Expectations to fulfill. Writing is the act of pushing forward through the pain, to letting what comes be your entire day. To be a writer, you have to sit with what you're given, even if it ruins your plans, even if it takes longer than expected, to sit and shuck the shells laying out before you and looking for pearls.
I know this to be true, because sometime I catch myself writing about a feeling but not knowing there's a name for it. Not knowing that someone else has been where I am, or that humanity has been in this same place so often that we named it. That we put a sign up which said: You are here—not knowing who would need it later, only knowing that someone, some fellow traveler, would need it.
