I sat down on the subway this morning to write my third tarot-inspired story in the new version of my tarot-inspired project. At first I thought hard about which card I should choose. Then I started writing, and let the card come to me.
Three of Wands.
There is optimism in this card. I actually think you can skip the planning stage of the Two of Wands entirely and just Three of Wands it. Go from not believing in yourself to believing, simply by action. Thought is not always a bridge: Action is.
Three of Wands
Start with a sentence. Those were the instructions. She always started with her name written out in flowery script. Her name as a whole sentence. The teacher would say that didn’t count. So would her dad. But why not? June. I am here, the sentence said to her. I have arrived.
June was always welcome. June was a word that cracked hearts open just enough to let the light pour in, the light that was hope, the kind of hope that melted “no’s” and “I can’ts” and left “why nots” in their wake.
June the month, that is.
June the person: She was less magical.
That’s why she was in detention, yet again, writing a sentence.
The 10th grade honors English teacher was the detention queen. She actually volunteered for the job, can you believe that? They took away her creative writing elective so she asked to try it with the delinquents. The school was so understaffed the vice principal said yes but she had to keep the students’ papers afterward. She’s not looking for the next great American novel but maybe a little introspection would do you some good, OK? Let’s get cracking.
June knew this whole speech by heart. That’s because she wound up here often, for all manner of reasons. Often because she was late. More often because she didn’t care she was late. Nothing bothered adults more than that, not caring. If you didn’t care they couldn’t have power over you. This bothered them. At the dinner table her dad demanded they watch him eat.
For a while June didn’t care about detention. Her world was a series of lonely rooms and this felt like another. At least it was quiet, if you could ignore the silent hum that came out of the back of the room where the really bad kids sat. And she got to write her name again and again.
Then Miss B. said she had to write more than her name, then suggested something ridiculous. Write the meaning of your name. “My name is June,” she said. “It’s obvious.”
“Is it?” Miss B said. Then she lowered her voice and said, “If you do this one, I’ll let you keep it.”
June waited until her back was turned to roll her eyes.
Still, she started writing. June + “is,” now. This was the start of a real, bona fide sentence. She was self conscious, aware of her brain trying to reach for something smart. Who was she trying to impress, Miss B? Miss B looked like she had three cats and a closet of clothes a person would call “interesting”. No, it wasn’t Miss B she was trying to impress. It was her. Of course it was.
June had convinced herself that she didn’t try because she didn’t care, but if she did try, and if she did care, she would be radiant and better than everyone in this dumb town everyone should have moved out of, and how do people get stuck in a place like this?
What if she was wrong?
June is. June is here, she started. Points for accuracy.
She changed her approach. June isn’t one thing.
“It takes forever June to arrive. It always feels like this. Ask anyone. You wait, and wait, and wait for June. Then June arrives, at last. and it’s not quite what you expected. June is different than how you remember. Quieter. You have to wait to feel the real June, the one you remember from when you were you young. The way June used to be. You have to pay attention. You have to be aware of the shades of June. You have to thank her when she shows up. Maybe June will come back next year, just for you.”
June liked that she could be writing about herself or the month. She liked that she was breaking her own rules. She liked how the time went by faster when she was doing it.
Miss B collected all the papers but let June keep hers. She told her, “it was good to see you. I hope I don’t see you again, June.”
June walked out of the classroom and for the first time in a while she wondered where she was going next. She realized she could wonder that. It was her spring, not summer. June still could arrive. It would.
Tiny Tarot Stories FAQ
How will it go? I will choose a tarot card. I will write a story. I will send it out.
Will I do it every day? No, probably not. But I’ll do it often enough that you can expect to see my email in your inbox more often.
Why am I doing this? Because it seems like fun middle finger to ChatGPT, and because a creative writing exercise that will kickstart my longer projects. This is a way for me to access the creative engine that sometimes is under a layer of ice (and by ice I mean fear).
Who is this for? Me, but I’m so happy you are here with me. I hope these stories make an opening into tarot’s archetypes and allow you to start seeing the ways archetypes and stories uphold our lives and the people in them.
Can I submit a card? Yes, in the comments, or send me a message.