My husband pointed out that for someone who talks a lot about being a writer I don’t do it that much — write, actually.
During the pandemic, I wrote a tarot-inspired story each day and posted it in an Instagram caption. Some of you followed me through that exercise. I’d like to revive it in a new format, moving the to Substack where there is more freedom, less word count limit.
Questions
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 unde 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 peoplein them.
Can I submit a card? Yes, in the comments, or send me a message.
Now, the first edition. I wrote Two of Pentacles in 10 to 15 minutes this morning, so go easy on me. There are endless opportunities for editing and changes but part of my challenge is to …. resist!
Two of Pentacles
What happens if a plate is tossed in the air? Not tossed, but thrown, hurled across a room? You already know the answer. The plate shatters. Once whole, the plate becomes a mess. A sharp, dangerous mess.
Jessica lived in anticipation of the plate that was her life hitting the floor.
By that I mean, she was busy. Jessica was busy in the sense that sometimes she forgot her name and wondered why she even needed one. She was Lunchbox Stuffer. She was Morning Kisser. She as Afternoon Greeter. She was Carpooler. She was Good Mood Lady. If she was Bad Mood Lady, as she was sometimes, everyone let her know — her kids, her husband — and told her she should try harder, in their own ways.
When she was alone, she was Horn Honker. Curse Mutterer. Starer At Blank Wall. Wonderer at Which Fork in the Road Got Her To Own More Aprons Than Cute Dresses.
Jessica hadn’t felt like Jessica ever since the plate started doing aerials. Ever since it became her job, singularly, to protect the plate as it was tossed from room to room, from height to height.
What about Mark? Didn’t he have hands? Wasn’t it his job to catch the plate? That is what she thought, too, when they made vows. The reality was different. Mark got to keep his name. Sometimes, when he got home from work, he put out his hands and said, “Give it to me, I’ll take the plate.” And she got to take a shower.
Most of the time, he watched her choreography and made what he called suggestions. “Is cereal healthy for kids? How about omelets?” She used to fight back and say things like, “I have timed out every minute and omelets will take too many of them.” More often lately she nodded, and said, “Great idea,” because that took up fewer minutes. She bet on him forgetting that suggestion until he came up with another. Usually the bet won.
The plate remained in the air until the younger one and the older one, in separate parts of the house, and on the same morning, had a crisis. It would have been fine if Jessica had been home. But she had given Mark the plate that day and said, “I need to go to the doctor.” Once a year, she had a checkup.
When she got home the house was in shards and shambles. The kids were crying. Mark had applesauce in his hair and vomit on his shoes.
He said, the girls entangled on each ankle like some Renaissance tableau, “How do you do it?”
She said, “I do it alone. And I don’t know how.”
He pushed his head against hers. Applesauce got in her hair now, too.
The peace that Mark lived in was never peace but distance, the way that Earth, from space, seems serene, but up close was a multitude of furnaces.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I forgot.”
The plate was broken. But the plate was never gone. She held his hands. She felt it growing again, whole again. Maybe they could play catch.