02.
Ever since high school, I’ve wanted to be a writer. That’s been my only steady ambition over these decades.
I never expected to play out this ambition through writing as a professional astrologer. Astrology hadn’t even been on my radar until, out of the blue, it presented itself as a calling. I wasn’t sure where it would lead, but at least it offered a vehicle for creative expression which might also benefit the readers of my work.
I developed the practice of writing weekly horoscopes, a project I undertook for more than fifteen years. To put that into perspective: I wrote twelve horoscopes a week, usually fifty weeks a year, for a total of 600 horoscopes every year. Multiply that by fifteen years. Yes, I wrote at least 9,000 horoscopes. This number doesn’t include my four book-length year-ahead forecasts, as well as all the other essays summarizing the various astrological configurations in effect at any given time. That’s a lot of words.
But despite how much I wrote, there will be no published compilation of my best work. The writing was time-sensitive and has expired. Nobody wants a book full of old horoscopes. Like a sand mandala that washes away with the tides, my ephemeral art was made to be disposed of. By the time I stepped away from my thriving astrology career, I’d grown fatigued from producing so much writing at so consistent a clip, with no lasting publishable legacy to show for it.
The messages of support kept pouring in, meanwhile, the sheer amount of lovingkindness almost too much to process. I knew people had regularly read my work and received meaning, value, or entertainment from it, but I’d never received this much direct positive feedback at any other point in my career.
And now I was leaving it behind… to focus on living my life for inner satisfaction rather than external validation, reserving my efforts for humbler pursuits?
Would I still enjoy writing… not for what I might accomplish from it, but as an expressive act in itself? Was writing still fun?
Should I still call myself a writer, or should I call it a day?
I gave myself a year to reflect on these questions, and to write, if I wanted.
the in-between*
© 2020 Barry Perlman