Turns Out the Universe Reads Substack.

And she has thoughts.

Last Saturday, I was twenty-something writers deep into a Zoom workshop with the supernova Lidia Yuknavitch when it hit me.

We had introduced ourselves: name, where we were sitting in the world, and a word on our minds, dropped into the chat as we took our turn.

Mine was:

sober

(That word gets its own dispatch later this month when I hit my eighth Soberversary on April 28… stay tuned)

Then Lidia started talking about narrative fragments. Creating in bursts and chunks. About what happens when we let go of linearity and the perceived obligation to follow straight lines. How a different kind of meaning accumulates when we move by juxtaposition and arrangement of said bursts and chunks. About asking ourselves…

What story is trying to emerge from the fragments?

We then moved to a writing exercise, using our first shared word as the starting point. I’m not going to walk through details on the prompt, as those are her methods, and you should experience them yourself by taking her workshop. What I will say is that she gave us a structure, and as I was writing that first piece, I felt a full body shift.

As in that, “Holy shit, wait a second…” moment. As in A-ha on steroids.

Four days earlier, I’d launched the Hopeless Semantic Substack with my first post: The Word Was the Door. Here’s What Was on the Other Side. I shared what the Hopeless Semantic project originally started as: a word as a jumping-off point, a single definition cracking something open.

And here I was, just days after reshaping that idea as the foundation for my Substack, sitting in a virtual room with one of the writers who most profoundly shaped me, doing exactly that.

Using words as doors. Watching what walks through.

I don’t call that a coincidence. I call it a nod from the universe.

Label me woo-woo all you want. I take it as a compliment.

It’s not the first time such nods have occurred. And listen up, buttercup, because it won’t be the last.

---

Lidia Yuknavitch has been in my life for over a decade. The first time I experienced her orbit was in Port Townsend, Washington, where she was paired with my longtime mentor Pam Houston for a two-day weekend workshop. So while Pam was my North Star for heading that way in the first place, I’d always been drawn to Lidia as well. We had a ton of friends in common in Portland, where we were both living at the time, and I was actually surprised we’d not yet crossed paths.

But we hadn’t. And I know this for a fact because when we finally did? The phrase I used to describe it was, “She rearranged my DNA.”

And I am still using that phrase whenever I am blessed with breathing the same air as this phenomenal human (even if that air is through a Zoom screen). Lidia has this gift for really seeing and hearing you, often in ways you’re not quite yet capable of doing yourself, while simultaneously introducing new architecture for how you think about language and story.

She’s been doing that to me for twelve years.

I know the exact number because after last Saturday’s workshop ended, I opened Facebook (which I rarely do) only to find one of those “On This Day” memories waiting for me.

April 4, 2014. Port Townsend. Pam. Lidia. A photo of sailboats on the water and my own caption: Destination: writing weekend. Yeah, I think this will do.

Twelve years to the day.

Woo-woo to the core.

---

Later in the workshop, Lidia asked us to shift our focus to another word. Something else that was speaking to us. It was 1:23pm. I’d gone to hot yoga in the morning and my post-class pit stop to Pressed for Juice for my favorite Field of Greens smoothie was not cutting it. So the word came quickly.

Again, I won’t get into the details of how Lidia guided us next, other than to say I wrote three fragments, each approaching the word from a completely different angle and entry point, in two to three minute sprints.

Here’s what emerged:

---

Hunger

I.
On rare occasions, my mother tucks a pint of Häagen-Dazs vanilla ice cream in the freezer. I wait until no one is home and scrape a few small spoonfuls off the top, just enough to not be noticed, then add a dollop of nut butter to the most basic of ice creams. I wash all spoon and bowl evidence away and lick toothpaste to erase my breath before she gets home. There is no way to water down a pint of ice cream like a bottle of booze. It’s a routine I can only pull off if the pint is at least half full.

II.
When dating a GLP-1, your relationship really never goes beyond the same set of questions.

How often do you find yourself hungry?
How often do you find yourself thinking about the next meal?
How often do you find yourself pushing thoughts of food out of your mind?
How often do you find yourself…

Your choices for response are limited. All the time. Some of the time. Seldom. Never.

Always say some of the time. Or seldom. Never say never. That’s how you keep the relationship going. Anything else could provoke a breakup.

III.
Here’s what I never understood about Goldilocks: if the first bowl of porridge was too hot, wouldn’t she have burned her tongue and skipped the other options? Wouldn’t she have learned her lesson? Why did she keep wanting more?

---

Well look at that. Turns out there’s more than one way to get from here to there when you play with words.

Part two of the workshop, Reading the Waves: Nonlinear Nonfiction Practice and Play, is next Saturday, April 11. I am certain the universe will be right there with me, nodding. She always has her camera on in Zoom, so there’s no chance I’ll miss it.

And if you don’t know Lidia’s work, go find it: The Chronology of Water, Thrust, Verge, Reading the Waves. And take her classes. Immediately. Let her rearrange your DNA the way she rearranged mine. You will be reborn. That’s a promise.

xo,
SG

P.S. I'd love to know if you've had one of these. A nod. A moment where the universe seemed to be paying attention. Drop yours in the comments if you’re willing to share.

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