Contributor – Page 21 – Modern Creative Life

January 26, 2017

The Magic of Attraction by Krista Davis

Ahh, the first days of a new romance. The flushed face. The inability to think about anything else. The sheer excitement! It seems magical.

You probably recall some of your dating failures. I confess that I am not great at romance. I’m not putting myself down. I can bake a pretty decent cake. I can roast a turkey without taking a valium first. But finding the right guy? Oof!

There was the oh-so-memorable date with a guy who excused himself a little too long and when the waitress asked if we wanted dessert, he all but shouted no! Fine with me. We had been set up by his mother. No kidding. She loved me! He loved the waitress with the top down to there and the skirt up to you-know-where. To this day I am convinced that he went back to the restaurant to pick her up. For all I know, they have thirteen kids, are happily married, and they always laugh about how he met her during a terrible date.

In Mission Impawsible, a matchmaking event is going on. Since the town of Wagtail is all about dogs and cats, it made perfect sense that singles would bring their furry friends to help them meet the right person. There’s some logic to that. If you’re a cat person with half a dozen cats, wouldn’t you want to meet another cat person who understands and shares your devotion to felines?

But since I’m not an expert at romance (cough, cough) I needed to do some research. What exactly attracts us to one person but not to another?

Turns out it’s much more complex than I would have suspected.

Most people know if another person is a potential mate in thirty seconds to two minutes! Kind of puts a fresh spin on meeting someone in a bar, doesn’t it? Don’t be insulted the next time someone spurns your interest because there’s a lot more going on than you realize.

That quick judgment would lead one to imagine that attraction is all about appearances. Not so. It turns out that when we meet someone who might be a potential mate for us, all kinds of things are happening in our brains that we don’t even realize.

We’re smelling them.

We may not sniff each other quite as brazenly as dogs do, but apparently, women are attracted to men who smell like their fathers! That seemed a little weird to me at first but maybe it makes sense. It’s a smell that evokes comfort and security for us.

The most mind-bending thing I learned is that women are attracted to the scent of men who have a different immune system than their own. Clearly, we are not conscious of this. It’s a very primal kind of thing that results in stronger offspring because they benefit from more immunities.

So, in a way, there’s actually a kind of magic going on in the background. It has a scientific basis, but we’re not aware of all the amazing things our noses and brains are figuring out for us.

About the Author: Krista Davis

New York Times Bestselling author Krista Davis writes the Paws and Claws Mysteries. Her 4th Paws and Claws Mystery is Mission Impawsible, which releases on February 7th. Krista also writes the Domestic Diva Mysteries with a new book due out in June 2018.

Like her characters, Krista has a soft spot for cats, dogs, and sweets. She lives in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia with three dogs and two cats.

Connect with Krista: Facebook | Twitter | Goodreads

PS. You can see how my research on the magical power of love and attraction plays out in my latest, Mission Impawsible, which will be in bookstores on February 7th and is available for pre-order. I’m not telling how the matchmaking turns out!

January 24, 2017

The Magic of Believing by Julie Terrill

I remember the moment so vividly: Mary Martin standing inside my television, looking right at me, taking a step closer to the screen between us, and imploring me to save Tink’s life by clapping my hands if I believed in fairies. Well, of course, I believed in fairies! Why wouldn’t I? Standing and clapping louder and louder, I helped Peter Pan save the life of Tinkerbell. It had been a close call. Thank goodness she could hear me!

During this time, my biggest fear was The Basement Monster. I surrendered countless toys that escaped down the basement stairs, resigned to accept they were gone forever. He had a huge collection of toys with wheels, balls, Silly Putty and Slinkys. And, if a basement monster was not scary enough, the steps down into his shadowy domain had no risers. I was certain he could grab my ankles and pull me down between the steps to join the collection of missing toys, never to be seen again. When I began to question the monster’s existence, there was a shift in power — his diminished as mine grew stronger.

Unfortunately while engaged in the business of growing up, many of us forget the power in the magic of believing. I recently encountered the essence of my younger self. She had been waiting for me in Ireland. It made perfect sense. Ireland is, after all, a land filled with the stuff of fairy tales: castles and turrets, waterfalls, rainbows, fern-filled gullies and sacred wells holding water blessed with mystical abilities. There are idyllic villages of thatched roofed cottages, a Giant’s Causeway and lush emerald woodlands that evoke visions of hobbits, trolls, dragons, pixies, nymphs, princesses and Robin Hood.

The enchanting fairy forests in the far southwest reaches of the island thrilled the exuberant heart of the inner four-year-old who had heroically rescued Tink from imminent death. Together, we delighted in the discovery of dozens of tiny doors, cottages, bridges and ladders tucked away throughout the woods, as well as tiny gifts left for their wee inhabitants.

Each year, over half a million seekers who rely not on what can be seen but on the certainty of the unseen, make a pilgrimage to one of Irelands holy sites. Clootie trees and holy wells are often found at these destinations. Originally, the faithful would dip a strip of cloth into the well and say a prayer for healing as they tied the strip to a branch. The cloth deteriorated and the knot fell away as the grip of the pilgrim’s ailment also released. Clooties have been tied at holy sites for over 5,000 years, but now with polyester and other non-biodegradable fabrics, this practice is discouraged. I encountered a greener version at a stone circle in County Kerry. Several hundred prayers and wishes, including my own, were written on paper left on the tree.

I could not possibly have planned the many serendipitous moments that reconnected me with the spirit of my imagination, creativity and the power of belief. In the wise words of Gus, the shuttle driver for a local pub, “Tis Ireland, lads. Expect the unexpected.”

About the Author: Julie Terrill

Julie Terrill is a photographer and writer with a passion for travel. For ten years, she’s told stories of empowerment through the lens of her camera in an array of unique landscapes, environments, and projects – from a shelter for children rescued from trafficking in Thailand to Faces of Courage, complimentary portrait sessions she offers to cancer patients in her community. She is a photographer and facilitator at Beautiful You and Soul Restoration retreats.

Connect with her at: JMTerrillImages.com

January 19, 2017

Something About the Sound of Wind and Water by Pat West

A wedge of geese circles overhead,
honking as if asking for directions.

There’s a nearby creek I hear
but can’t see, and the solitary cries

of jays, and the low Coke-bottle whistle
of wind through tall trees.

At the top of the hill, there’s a bench
at what feels like

the edge of the world. A place
where earth speaks to sky.

I find it difficult to understand
but here the unfilled-in parts of me

become whole. In this spot,
I am not afraid

of love or fire or fault lines.
Nowhere else do I find

it possible to imagine
my own nonexistence

and feel okay.
Here I sit

empty-handed, taking
pleasure in the long, deep trough of silence

where the ghosts of those I love
linger on my tongue.

About the Author: Pat West

Pat Phillips West lives in Olympia, WA. A Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee, her work has appeared in Haunted Waters Press, Persimmon Tree, VoiceCatcher, San Pedro River Review, Slipstream, Gold Man Review and elsewhere.

January 17, 2017

Everyday Magic, by Anna Oginsky

I can still remember my desperate longing to follow Lucy into the wardrobe when I first heard the story of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe as a child. My dad read the book to me as a bedtime story and he kept getting frustrated because I was so eager to find out what happened next that I would read ahead of him on the page. I sighed in exasperation as I waited for him to catch up. With the same desire in my heart, as I read I envisioned myself entering The Secret Garden alongside Mary Lennox. Oh how, I wanted to visit that garden. To this day, I picture a secret, magical, flourishing green place behind every garden door I see.

I imagined my dad as a scientist working with Meg Murry’s dad as I took in the pages of A Wrinkle In Time. I so badly wanted to travel to another dimension with Mrs. Whatsit, Mrs. Who, and Mrs. Which by way of a tesseract. I had a vivid imagination and these stories felt like home to me. In the pages of these beloved books, I fell in love with possibility. There seemed to be two worlds available to me¾the one I lived in and the one I fantasized about living in. The second world was comprised of what could be. I’d be lying if I told you the same isn’t sometimes true today.

There is only a small difference between then, when my eyes twinkled at the possibility of magical forces whisking me away into a parallel universe, and now. Then, I was convinced that magic was an influence that existed outside of me. Now, I know have the power to invoke magic from within the skin and bones of my very own body. Sometimes making magic is as simple as letting the beauty in things that might seem rather ordinary to some astonish me.

For the last week, the skies where I live in Michigan have been solid gray. Today the sun is shining and the sky is blue. Seeing sunshine after days of gray feels like magic to me. The way the sun sparkles on bodies of water, or makes the new fallen snow look like a field of diamonds, or sets on the horizon takes my breath away. Hot air balloons floating up and away in the summer sky leave me in awe. I love seeing how the leaves change colors in the fall. I admire apples waiting to be picked from tree limbs. I watch closely as deer snack in my backyard. It is miraculous to see hawks watching over us from trees along the highway. The sound of a creek trickling or waves crashing against the shoreline makes me feel so peaceful. While these are things that happen again and again, they are sometimes so striking that they are unreal to me. Our world is indeed a magical one.

This past summer I was up late at our family cottage in Northern Michigan waiting for my husband and some friends to arrive. My sister and I were painting a bathroom ceiling and all the kids were tucked into beds. My mom was across the street with my nephew. My husband called and asked if I had been outside lately? He was nearby and thought he was seeing the Northern Lights. I grabbed my sister, called my mom, yelled at all the kids to get out of bed and we all ran outside to the beach. I was so amazed by the sight of the lights dancing on the water, that I honestly thought I might die right then and there. I was shaking with excitement. My heart felt like it was going to burst out of my chest. Just a few minutes later my husband and our friends arrived. As we stood together on the beach, we marveled at the brilliance of the Milky Way. We admired shooting stars beaming themselves across the night sky. Every cell in my body was filled with wonder. That was science. And, definitely magic.

Serendipitous moments never cease to amaze me. For example, when I am thinking about a friend and she sends me a text message out of the blue. Or when I am thinking about my dad and Summertime, a song he used to sing as a lullaby plays on the radio. Or when I am wondering how my mom’s day is going and she calls on the phone. Some might interpret all these common occurrences a coincidence, I believe they are magic. I refer to them as everyday magic.

As a child I kept my eyes out for potential portals into other times. I closed my eyes and tried to make myself invisible. I dreamt of disappearing, making wishes, and flying in the sky. I would have done anything for a magic wand that could transform my dreams into reality. Now I am in awe of serendipity. I admire the intricacies of the world around me. I stop space and time by making art. I write myself into other realms. All the magic lies within me and within the choice I make to see things with a magician’s eye. I can transform things, thoughts, and experiences. All of us can.

It is an incredible power to harness that magic by making a pile of scraps into a collage or sorting words into sentences. Each of us is a creative being and as such, when we create, transform, and welcome what we see around us as magic, we feel at home in ourselves. We can mix essential oils with beeswax to make soothing balms or colorful foods together to make meals. We have the power to turn seeds in to blooms and ideas into books. We have the ability to see the ordinary as if were extraordinary. Thankfully, we are every bit as magical as I longed for us to be. We live in a magical place and we are surrounded by magic. It is everywhere. I am so grateful for that.

About the Author: Anna Oginsky

Anna Oginsky is the founder of Heart Connected, LLC, a small Michigan-based workshop and retreat business that creates opportunities for guests to tune in to their hearts and connect with the truth, wisdom, and power held there. Her work is inspired by connections made between spirituality, creativity, and community. Anna’s first book, My New Friend, Grief, came as a result of years of learning to tune in to her own heart after the sudden loss of her father. In addition to writing, Anna uses healing tools like yoga, meditation, and making art in her offerings and in her own personal practice. She lives in Brighton, Michigan with her husband, their three children, and Johnny, the big yellow dog. Connect with her on her website; Twitter; Facebook; or Instagram.

Learn more about her book at www.mynewfriendgrief.com

January 13, 2017

Metacreation – by Patricia Wellingham-Jones

She blows fireballs
from her mystic lips
in a sheltered pool
behind flowered walls.

Water slick as oil rings
radiates from her glowing skin.
Lightning stabs in silent slashes
between curtains of rain.

The arch of window,
intricate carve of wooden rail
enclose her in the watery womb.
She focuses her being, creates fire.

About the Author: Patricia Wellingham-Jones

Patricia Wellingham-Jones is a widely published former psychology researcher and writer/editor. She has a special interest in healing writing, with poems recently in The Widow’s Handbook (Kent State University Press). Chapbooks include Don’t Turn Away: poems about breast cancer, End-Cycle: poems about caregiving, Apple Blossoms at Eye Level, Voices on the Land and Hormone Stew.

January 12, 2017

Flight by Selena Taylor

She watched the horizon. She did not stop looking to it.

For months, she had helped her child learn to spread his wings and fly. Her barn was filled with insane contraptions that mimicked wing stretches, wing lifting, and gliding motions. As a mere human, inventing machines was the only way she could teach her child.

The first time they tried to fly, all she saw was her child falling off the barn. She reached the edge and looked down to see him lifting his head from the pile of hay where he’d landed. He shook it back and forth trying to get hay out of his scales. It was a funny moment, one of many.

There were also moments of great frustration. Her limited knowledge of the mechanics of flight made the process difficult. The fails kept piling up until the morning when a large hawk appeared over the cliff that was out beyond the boundaries of her property.

Together, they watched the bird soar and glide over the land.

Her child began to walk toward it. She wanted to stop him, so that she could be the reason he learned. But, no, she couldn’t.

Smiling, she waved him off to follow the hawk. Within a day, she saw her child fly in the sky.

They both rejoiced, each in their way.

Now she was waiting – staring at the distant horizon, waiting for her child to return home. And praying that he would. Towards the horizon…

She knew the tradition, of course. Once those who had wings had learned to fly, they traveled to the island of Draflo. There, they would receive more magic, absorb more knowledge.

Her aging mother and her younger brother had come to see her child off, sharing her delight in the moment he had achieved true flight. But they were not his mother. They did not join in her vigil by the cliff.

The weather turned.

A fierce wind came, bringing with it dark clouds. Her mother left the shelter of their house to beseech her with gentle words: Come inside. Rest. The older woman could feel it in her bones, she said, deep cold and heavy rain were not long off.

She only shook her head, no.

The rain did come, and it was cold, and it was heavy.

Her clothes were soaked. Her hair stuck to her neck and back, the wet weight of it chilling her even further.

Still, she stayed on the cliff.

Her brother came to join her, imploring her to go inside. She would surely die, if she remained at watch.

Another storm came, larger than the first, with winds strong enough that part of the barn was damaged. For a moment, she panicked, concerned for the machines, only to remember that they were no longer needed.

Her brother changed his approach, becoming angry with her. He argued that the child was not worth the price of her life. He insisted it wasn’t even truly hers.

She spoke no words aloud.

But in her head, she was seething: Not hers? Of course the child was hers. Did they bear the same blood? No. But he was hers nonetheless.

The storm that raged around them now was just like the one that had brought her child in the first place.

She had been running, chasing the killer of her husband and infant son. The storm that hid the murderer led her to the cave that sheltered her new child.

He was near death when she found him. His breath was weak and cold. There was no meat to him. His scales were falling off.

Maternal instinct kicked in, and she knew.

She knew.

He was hers.

Her brother turned to leave her, and she let him go.

She caught sight of an object coming over the cliff. She squinted her eyes and lifted her hand to shield them from the rain.

It was him. She was certain of it.

She ran toward the cliff-edge to meet him, but the lightning came closer, the strikes coming more frequently.

She did not fear it.

All that mattered was that her child was coming home.

It was the last bolt that hit him. It was bright and fast. Her scream boomed over the thunder.

Not her child!

She searched the sky: nothing. She searched the sea: nothing.

Her sobs racked through her.

Not again.

No!

Not again!

When the earth became loose, she did not step back from the edge. She let herself fall.

The air scoured her skin as she plummeted toward rocky shore below, but she embraced the pain. Another child was gone. Physical pain couldn’t touch maternal grief.

She never felt the rocks or freezing water. She only felt warmth and a pulsating wind. Soon, she was back at the cliff-side, surrounded by scales, and wrapped in leathery wings.

Opening her eyes, she met his: black as ebony, with tiny gold flecks.

She knew those eyes; they belonged to her child.

She smiled, and took stock of him. He was different somehow… Stronger, maybe? And when she took a closer look at his scales she noticed blue lights darting across them.

She put her finger in the path of the light, and felt tingles down her arm.

Lightning.

Her child was not only flying, but he had lightning coursing through him.

Her child.

Her dragon son.

About the author, Selena Taylor

Selena Taylor is a wife, a mother, and a woman who strives to tell the many stories that occupy her mind. She is active in the Rhett & Link fandom and appreciates dark humor. She and her family live in Illinois, where she takes every opportunity to lose herself under the stars and let her imagination run wild. For more from Selena, check her out on Tumblr or follow her on Twitter.

January 5, 2017

It Works Because You Think It Will By Melissa Cynova

I started asking my cards to behave differently a few years ago. I always rigidly stuck to the Celtic Cross spread. That was how I learned and that’s where my confidence lived. It’s kind of time consuming, though, and a bit inflexible. I remember sitting with my cards and Deciding that three cards was plenty. This one meant past, that one was the present, and this one was the future. And then I did the reading and it worked!

I got a little bolder and started doing six card spreads, ten cards, even one with thirty cards.

Each time I tried something new, I would hold my cards in my hand and Decide what the reading would be and how the cards would work.

And it always worked.

I write Decide with a capital “D” because there has to be some deliberate thought involved.

I see prayer in much the same way. If I light a candle with a petition underneath it, I have to Decide that it means something. One of my friends is looking for a new job, so I asked her if I could help. She said ok (permission is also important).

I wrote her full name three times across and three times up and down. I did this three times – because I Decided that three was an important number for me. I wrote the logo of the company she’d applied at in the middle. I wrote spiraling words around all of this. “Love, respect, peace of mind, security, love, respect, peace of mind, security” over and over and over. I thought about how much I liked her and how much I wanted her to be happy and to find joy every day. I folded the paper in three parts and then again three times. I drew a wealth rune on it, put it under the candle and lit the candle, sending my petition to the Universe and whatever gods were listening.

The candle burned all night.

Now. Will it work? I don’t know. I made this ritual up by stealing some of Briana Saussy’s witcheries, mixing them with my love of candles and writing, and threw in a healthy handful of Faith.

I Decided that this would work, and therefore made it magical.

There are, of course, more complex and in depth magical practices, but I believe they’re all based on this. If you believe a thing will work, it will work for you. You have to Decide. You have to have Faith.

In believing, you will push your petition forward and upward and the Universe will be ready to receive it.

xo Lis

About the Author: Melissa Cynova

Melissa Cynova is owner of Little Fox Tarot, and has been reading tarot cards and teaching classes since 1989. She can be found in the St. Louis area, and is available for personal readings, parties and beginner and advanced tarot classes. You can Look for her first book, Kitchen Table Tarot, from Llewellyn Publishing in January 2017.

Melissa lives in St. Louis with her kiddos, her partner, Joe, and two cats, two dogs and her tortoise, Phil.

She is on Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram. Go ahead and schedule a reading – she already knows you want one.

January 3, 2017

Tea Leaves by A.R. Hadley

The kettle whistled.
She burned.
Drops of hot tea scalded her shins, ankles and knees after the mug hit the floor, breaking near her bare feet, splintering into fragments, searing her alligator skin. The jagged edges lay in nearly every corner of the tile floor.
The final crack in a day of unending pressure.
She stared down at the mess, every vertebrate in her body frozen, yet tense and rising, her blood hotter and stronger than the spilt peach tea, but her brain muddled — an avalanche of deadlines and bills, emails and chores. Happy was at the end of that list. Happy had been ignored.
Happy had spilled out onto the floor.
She knelt down, cracking a put upon smile, ready to pick up the pieces, to start again, to throw away, to make new, to boil and rise and dunk and stir, ready to sweep and cut and burn.
She refilled the kettle.
Intent on pouring a new mug.
She eyed the chair with the indented cushion.
She would sit, put up her feet and scorch her tongue on the leaves harvested and dried in the sun. She would surrender to the energy evaporating from the chamomile.
And tomorrow would be fresh.
Another day.
With no mistakes.
Isn’t that what all the great characters say?

About the Author: A.R. Hadley

A.R. Hadley writes imperfectly perfect sentences by the light of her iPhone.
She loves her husband.
Chocolate.
Her children.
And Cary Grant.
She annoys those darling little children by quoting lines from Back to the Future, but despite her knowledge of eighties and nineties pop culture, she was actually meant to live alongside the lost generation after the Great War and write a mediocre novel while drinking absinthe with Hemingway. Instead, find her sipping sweet tea with extra lemons on her porch as she weaves fictional tales of love and angst amid reality.

A creative writer since elementary school, A.R. all but gave it up after her children were born, devoting herself to the lovely little creatures, forgetting the pleasure and happiness she derived from being imaginative.
No more.
She rediscovered her passion in 2014 and has not stopped since — writing essays, poetry, and fiction. She is currently working on completing several novels as part of a romantic trilogy.

Day or night, words float around inside her mind. She hears dialogue when she awakens from sleep. She is the one who has been awakened. Writing is her oxygen. Cary Grant fans the flames.

December 30, 2016

Through the Lens: Tarot and Writing with Courtney Weber

It’s been nearly one year since I started my novel. Over dinner, I shared with my sister and brother-in-law a half-formed idea of “some novel I’ll probably write one day.” My sister’s face lit up and said, “I want to read that!”

When we were growing up, I would sit at the computer for hours in the summertime, writing away with the effortless ease of a twelve-year old who had yet to know an editor’s rejection. My sister would periodically come in and ask me to read to her what I’d written. She’d sit behind me on the piano bench and listen. My sister’s encouragement was key. I wanted to write more because she wanted to hear more.

Now, deep into my thirties, that dynamic has returned. She doesn’t sit on the piano bench to listen anymore—mostly because we living on opposite coasts and I don’t have a piano—but also because I’m now much too precious about my work to share it with anyone before I’m absolutely ready to do so.

Yet, it feels good to be back in my old seat.

Years ago, I abandoned fiction writing because I abandoned every project I started. I figured I just wasn’t cut out for fiction. I wrote two non-fiction books and was planning on a third, when I decided to work on this one for a while.

At first, it was exhilarating. It was not me simply creating a world on the page. It were as though I was chipping away blankness from a story already in there. But after all the chipping of the first draft was done, I had a mangled, wild beast of a manuscript that made very little sense to anyone except the voices in my own head.

This second trip through the draft is a bit like tracing the steps of a sadly deranged missing person, piecing together the clues they tried to leave as to their whereabouts with moderate success.

Sigh.

I know it’s a weird book. And it’s getting weirder.

My morning ritual involves getting up at 5 am and fighting the perfectly reasonable reasons as to why I should go back to bed. I don’t have anything to say. This novel is too messy. If I’m going to write, I should write something I know will sell and will bring in some income as opposed to simply draining my sleep and my time with Mr. Husband. I push through the fatigue and the “not gonna work” voices and settle in at my computer.

Recently, I’ve only been able to chip away at three or four paragraphs per day.

It’s not perfectionism holding me back. I’ve slayed that dragon many years ago. It’s listening. I sit with a sentence and I go into the story and I ask the characters if that’s what they really meant. What really happened? I ask them, as though I’m a technician in Westworld asking the hosts—my characters—to “switch to analysis” so they can tell me what’s going on with them. Sometimes they do. Sometimes, I just stare at the page, waiting for the words to materialize on their own. I’ll routinely resent Stephen King for his indefatigable production engine, JK Rowling for having all the brilliant ideas, and Neil Gaiman for having a finger on the pulse of that mysterious and beautiful wellspring that spills out his stories.

I am thankful for George RR Martin because he understands me (no, we’ve never met…no, he doesn’t follow me on Twitter, but he understands me even if he doesn’t know I exist). He writes maybe a page or so a day. That’s his pace. I can’t imagine the pressure: millions of people tapping their feet, waiting anxiously for his next book. The only person tapping a foot for mine is my sister and I can handle that. She’s not millions of tweeters or bloggers pushing for my manuscript to be done, as Martin must contend with.

I’m also lucky to have my relationship with Tarot, which can be a true friend in a challenging writing period.

Dear Tarot, why is this second draft taking so long?

6 of Swords. Not a great card, but certainly an understandable one.

The tired, cold little family crossing a thick river in a tiny skiff—it’s simply a long and arduous journey and I’m doing the best I can.

But the good news in the card, which I hope is good news for my novel, is that the shore is in sight. Maybe the shore is in sight for me, too.

Tarot, is there something I should be doing differently to improve (but not necessarily rush) the process?

The Hierophant rests more on logic and structure than emotion.

It’s possible I could be more organized in my approach to the novel, focusing more on the technical pieces of it rather than the emotion.

Emotion ruled the first draft! Logic might need to rule the second.

I ask the Tarot what works about my book:

The 7 of Swords: I associate this card with organized chaos.

To the outside world, the little character in the card might seem overwhelmed, but they are smiling.

In fact, they’re looking over their shoulder at the two swords left behind as though they think they could pick them up and carry them along if needed.

Now, I ask the Tarot what’s not working about my book:

The 3 of Swords: Maybe it’s a little heavy-handed?

I did put a lot of some of the grief I suffered through losses in my younger life. Maybe I can take that down a peg?

Then again, I’ve also seen the 3 of Swords to mean “suffering over suffering.” I have driven myself a little crazy with this novel. Maybe I am what is not working in it.

But also, it being the 3 of Swords gives me a little comfort that perhaps I can take care of the final few things that don’t work in the third draft. I’ve got plenty on my editing plate at the moment!

One final card! Is there anything else I need to know about the writing of this novel?

This 10 of Cups is a triumphant conclusion card.

No matter how many sword cards are bogging me down in the midst of the process, the end product is coming and it’s going to make me very happy.

Hopefully it will bring in lots of money, as that will make my husband happy, too!

For now, it’s one sentence at a time. Those sentences become paragraphs, which become pages. Eventually, the pages become chapters and then books. That happened with my first two. I’m sure it will happen with this one, too.

About the Author: Courtney Weber

Courtney Weber is a Priestess, author, Tarot advisor, and activist. She is the author of the newly released Tarot for One: The Art of Reading for Yourself and Brigid: History, Mystery, and Magick of the Celtic Goddess (Both through Weiser Books). She produced and designed “Tarot of the Boroughs,” a contemporary photographic Tarot deck set in New York City. She blogs at Huffington Post and on her website: www.thecocowitch.com. She lives in Manhattan with her husband and cats.

December 27, 2016

Through the Lens with John Hulme

It crept up on me, this love of the tide. You don’t see me out on the water much – I don’t go swimming or boating or boarding – but there is something about being on the shore that fits me perfectly.

There is something about this transition place, where the surf rolls its cargo of ocean heartbeat into the shingle. I have sought refuge in this place more often than I can remember, rebuilding myself in the tapestry of ripples, allowing the rhythm of crunch and splash to weave into my heart and stitch back what the day had tried to erode from my spirit.

Sometimes this soaking time is sufficient. Sometimes it is enough to reset the meaning of John to this tidal metronome. Sometimes, however, the restlessness carries me further, and I find myself lost in that strange “between” place where no destination seems to fit.

A few years ago, after my mum died, life seemed to be revolving around the car – the place I sat when there was nowhere else to go… the place I slept when nowhere else felt like home… the place I hid from the world and wrote masterpieces only the streetlight would ever truly understand.

Between them, these two halfway places have left a deep echo on my spirit, a love of the “between” place. Even as I write this, I am preparing for a journey with no fixed destination in mind – just a wandering wobble into the unknown, like some strange rivulet cut off from the tide. Perhaps it doesn’t matter if I ever actually make this journey, now that my heart sits so beautifully in the “between” place.

About the author, John Hulme

John Hulme is a British writer from the Wirral, a small peninsula near Liverpool in the North of England. Trained in journalism (in which he has a masters degree), John’s first love was storytelling, trying to make sense of the world around him using his offbeat imagination. Since the death of his mother in 2010, John’s work has grown increasingly personal, and has become heavily influenced by Christian mysticism. This has led to the publication of two poetry books, Fragments of the Awesome (2013) and The Wings of Reborn Eagles (2015). A mix of open mike performances, speaking engagements and local community radio appearances has opened up new avenues which John is now eager to pursue. He is hoping to go on a kind of busking road trip fairly soon, provisionally titled Writer seeks gig, being John. Find out more about John on Facebook.