Excavating My Inner Diva

By Kelly Boyce

Once a year I go to see a psychic, Deborah Young. I know there are plenty of people out there that think psychic ability is a lot of mumbo jumbo, and that’s fine. But given that I have a family history of it, for me, it isn’t that odd or strange at all. I call my yearly visits to Debbie my annual therapy.

This year’s appointment occurred a few days ago and one of the things she hit upon was my writing, as she usually does. She pointed out a couple of things to me that made me pause and think.

The first was that writing for me had to be fun. It was essential. Without the fun, as she put it, my goose would be cooked. What really made me sit up and take notice of that was the fact that up until a month ago, writing had stopped being fun. For eight long months it was a chore. An utter slog-fest. I felt as if I was banging my head against the same door and no one was letting me in. My writing became a source of frustration and joylessness. I almost considered throwing in the towel and may have even done so save for two very salient points.

1) I have no back plan, and
2) I don’t know how not to write.

So I was a bit stuck. Stuck in the way you were when as a kid you foolishly decided to transverse that big puddle of muck, thinking you could make it to the other side, only to discover the mucky puddle had other ideas and suctioned your boots to its bottom.

I didn’t know what was wrong with me. I’d always been very optimistic about my writing, but that went right out the window. Or drowned in the mucky mire. Either way – it was bad. And it definitely wasn’t fun.

But a month ago that all changed. I remember saying to a friend, ‘the planets must have shifted or something’. Sure enough, apparently Mars was retrograde in my chart and was creating an ‘ambitions withheld’ energy. But once that got pushed out the mire dissipated and the fun returned, and oh what fun it’s been. And I got it. I knew what she meant when she said it had to be fun for me. And how important it was that I recognize that and make sure to keep that aspect of my writing front and centre.

And that was the other thing she said. Being front and centre. I am to excavate my inner diva. To get my bling on. Be flashier, more noticeable. I am meant to be on stage. Metaphorically speaking, that is. I don’t think I actually have to get up on a stage, but rather I need to stand directly in the spotlight, not just skirts its edges.

Now, I’m a Capricorn. We’re the earthy, reserved sign. I can count the amount of bling I own on one hand, and it’s relatively understated bling at that. The very idea of purposely trying to stand out and self promote sends shivers up my spine. I’ll get up in front of a group and talk about any subject you want, so long as that subject isn’t me. But I guess if I want to sell my books when they become published, I had better learn how to woo the masses.

I’m sure I can do it. Really. (Gulp.) No problem. After all, I’ve been told I’m charming. Once by someone whose opinion I trust, and another time by some guy in a bar who’d had a few too many brewskies and was trying to look down my top. I’m still uncertain whether he was addressing his comment to me personally, or to the girls. Either way, perhaps I could try and tap into that (the charm, not the girls). Schmooze a little. Get out there. Network and such.

And wear a little bling while I’m doing it. Maybe even a feather boa and a tiara!

Ahhh, how I must suffer for my art.