I wanted to work in the writing world since childhood, and these editors to me were the equivalent of superheroes, their letters in the front of the publications — words from the captain at the helm of the ship, a king’s reflection on their kingdom.
Now, having been an editor, I know we are as much idiots as everyone else. It is what we have been entrusted with that is sacred.
Words, as a form of magic. Words, as a tool for understanding, a bridge for peace, a vessel for emotion, a conduit for revelation, a catalyst for revolution.
My love affair with writing got me into college and fueled my every ambition until the very moment I was gifted a Tarot deck at age 23. The manuscript I spent my adolescent and young adult life writing was in the hands of a prestigious literary agent, in its final edits before submission to publishers. And then my whole world changed.
For almost the entirety of my tenure as a tarot reader and business owner, my life moved too quickly for writing to make a home here. Or maybe I’d grown weary of acting as a meticulous documentarian of my own life, retaining all the painful details for their eventual transmutation into a story.
Of course I felt guilty about this, as the existence of a writer is largely defined by the agony of not writing. But I also became okay with forgetting, permitting myself to simply pass through.
In those years, I wrote another book —a guide to tarot— at the request of a publisher, co-created three decks, connected with ya’ll through the shop and crystal deep dives and Sunday readings and events and classes, wandered my way around the country and found my way home.
That is to say, the words found another way, and created something beautiful in their wake. They have always been my greatest tool of magic and survival. Case in point: they brought me to all of you.
My original manuscript has not yet seen the light of day, and that’s just as well; it’s a memoir, and my early 20’s were so far from the end of the story. It’s almost laughable (and extremely embarrassing) to think about that version of the story out in the world. I needed the time and the wisdom and light and dark and every single one of you who helped make me a better human, witch and writer. As I once again sit down at the table to submit an imperfect offering, my confidence is fortified by a long chain of imperfect offerings that you have collectively decided is enough.
Sharing my story and my heart with you through the medium of language is what gives meaning and texture to my life, so it only makes sense to create a space for the collective to share their story and heart through the medium of language. Now more than ever, it’s power cannot be understated.
As we wade through the soupy first few days of the new year and prepare ourselves for the days ahead, I encourage you to find strength and solace in each other. To cherish your connections and nurture your community. To recommit to yourself and prioritize the demands of your soul. We are all we have, and we each contain infinite depths unfathomable even to ourselves. Lets endeavor to be kind, to be patient, to be known.
My soul’s demands lead me evermore back to writing. To be frank, I don’t want to do it. My brain is shot from social media, a pandemic, a genocide, marijuana and trauma. There is a part of me that is content for time to remain soupy, to slink by creating as few ripples as possible until it finally runs out. With all my Scorpio placements, I’m not sure my overwhelming death impulse will ever be fully quelled, but it certainly has become easier to allow my better angels to guide me from the Liminal Space into the Land of the Living from time to time.
So as the soup takes form in its chrysalis, I center a pact made with my younger self that this would all mean something because I would make it mean something. To do our story justice in written form without collapsing under its weight or going mad through its telling.
Welcome to The Quotidian. Here you will find me micro-dosing writing, chatting about all things Everyday Magic, and compiling the written expressions of this fine coven into a gorgeous gorgeous online publication.
It always takes so much longer than you think, but timing can only ever be divine.
Your Idiot at the Helm,