Are we all addicted to certainty?

Probably. Most likely. I am, definitely.

There, I got it off my chest.

This addiction may have in part contributed to my fear or reluctance to write – in the real world where everyone and no one is watching.

See, without certainty, I don’t know if my efforts will be fruitful, do I? Will it be worth it?

I went to see a fortune teller. A tarot card reader. Actually, a medium, I think they like to be called.

Truth be known, I'm embarrassed to tell you.

Anyway, I’ve started now so I’ll try to get to my point with minimal discomfort.

Pam's her name. She and her waddling dog led me into her kitchen and invited me to sit at her table. The cards were there, laid on top of a purple embroidered scarf pretending to be a tablecloth. I loved how I felt warm when she looked at me. Her eyes said: you're gonna be alright, you are.

Pam isn’t a numerologist but she applied her numerology skills first to determine what kind of person I am. I think her summation of me was wrapped up in a familiar anecdote: when an argument gets heated and I’m not prepared for it, I can’t articulate my ideas in the moment under pressure and I explode because I can’t process my thoughts quick enough. Pretty accurate I would say.

She had me in the palm of her hand.

This was over a year ago. She said a number of things: that there’d be a big celebration in May (we got married), that my husband is in a period of transition and thinking about becoming a partner in a business venture. Amongst a lot of other things.

I think I know what you’re thinking. You’re smart, I can see that. You’re thinking: it’s a bit vague isn’t it? And yes, especially in my iteration of the session, some of the notions that held a glint of something but settled in amongst the kicked up dust.

But then she’d be so specific: you’ll get a new job, there’ll be a marginal pay rise, and you’ll get a company car with a car allowance. A car allowance!

Hmm.

What I couldn't answer my husband, Chris, (honestly) when he asked me why I’d visited Pam, I'll answer now. (I think I gave him some bullshit about being curious.) I went because I wanted old Pam to tell me that I was going to be a writer. I wanted it to be written in my stars. I wanted to know for certain that this is the path I needed to take.

Currently I’m rummaging around in the dirt, trying to find golden nuggets, pretty shells, bones even; burying some words in little rabbit holes for future treasure hunts, polishing others I find strewn or abandoned along the way.

Some days it’s easy and I love it.  Others it’s like snatching at a Rubix cube, where I twist and wrangle different coloured words together until the matching ones appear in a flush – it takes longer than I want but I get there.

I’m all in now though. If down this long dirt track it doesn’t feel right, I’ll need to reassess and maybe when I get to the next fork in the road I’ll keep going straight.

What I know now is that nobody – not even wise old Pam – can tell you whether you’re going to be a writer or not. If you want it, get it. If you don’t, ‘home James and don’t spare the horses’.

Pam, love, you've been great, but I don't need you any more. Hugs.

I think I’ll just try this thing and see where I get to.
 
Ps. I'll write a short story about the reason I still hold on to something of a belief in psychic power. If it's any good I'll put it up here (on my stories page: www.aimeecolemanwrites.com/stories).