As interpreted by Sylvia and Lillian for me – re: the life cycle of my creative work—from the first spark of intention to the harvest, and then to the seed that must be released so the next cycle can begin.
The cards lay across the kitchen table like the seasons of a garden.
Sylvia smiled.
“I do like this spread.”
“So do I,” said Lillian. “It’s less about prediction than about cultivation.”
“A good gardener knows the harvest begins long before the fruit.”
The Seed Intent — Queen of Wands
Sylvia picked up the first card.
“Well, that’s unmistakable.”
“The Queen of Wands.”
Lillian nodded.
“I don’t think your intention is simply to write novels.”
“No?”
“No.”
“It’s to kindle something.”
Sylvia smiled.
“That’s a much better word.”
“The Queen doesn’t merely create.”
“She ignites.”
“So what is she trying to ignite?”
Lillian looked at the card for a long moment.
“Courage.”
“Wonder.”
“Curiosity.”
“The desire to see the world differently.”
Sylvia laughed.
“She wants a reader to finish the last page, look out of the window, and find that the ordinary world has become quietly unfamiliar.”
“In what way?”
“In the best possible way.”
Lillian smiled.
“They notice the wind in the trees differently. They begin wondering what memories a landscape might hold. They pause before dismissing coincidence. They become just a little more curious, a little more compassionate, a little more willing to imagine that the world may contain greater depth than they had previously allowed.”
Sylvia’s eyes brightened.
“So the story carries on after the book has ended.”
“Exactly.”
Lillian folded her hands.
“The finest fiction rarely changes our opinions overnight. Instead, it alters the questions we ask. It enlarges our capacity for wonder.”
She glanced once more at the Queen.
“I think that’s what this card is asking of you.”
“What?”
“To write with enough warmth, conviction and imaginative courage that readers close the book and quietly think, ‘I’ve never looked at life that way before.’”
A comfortable silence settled between them.
After a while Sylvia smiled.
“That’s a much finer ambition than simply writing a bestseller.”
Lillian returned the smile.
“I think so too. Bestsellers come and go. But every so often a novel changes the way someone inhabits the world. Those are the books that remain with us for a lifetime.”
The Sprout — The challenge that must be met – Nine of Wands
Sylvia sighed.
“There’s the old enemy.”
“The weary soldier.”
“Always expecting another battle.”
Lillian shook her head.
“I don’t think this card is describing the publishing industry.”
“No?”
“I think it’s describing what repeated disappointment does to the imagination.”
“You’ve survived.”
“Yes.”
“But survival isn’t the same as openness.”
“The challenge,” Lillian continued, “is not becoming someone who writes behind barricades.”
Sylvia looked up.
“Barricades?”
“Yes.”
“Every disappointment teaches us something. That’s healthy. But sometimes it teaches the wrong lesson.”
“Meaning?”
“A rejection can become more than a rejection. It becomes an expectation.”
She paused.
“The first few times we send our work into the world, we send it with curiosity. Later, if enough doors remain closed, we begin sending it with armour.”
Sylvia nodded slowly.
“As though we’re already expecting the blow.”
“Exactly.”
Lillian smiled sadly.
“The work itself changes very little. What changes is the person carrying it.”
She turned the card slightly.
“The Nine of Wands doesn’t depict defeat. The figure is still standing. The danger lies elsewhere.”
“Where?”
“In allowing yesterday’s wounds to dictate tomorrow’s possibilities.”
Sylvia folded her hands.
“So every query becomes another battle.”
“Yes. Every editor becomes another likely disappointment. Every silence confirms what we already fear.”
“And before long…”
“…we stop offering the work freely.”
Lillian looked thoughtfully towards the window.
“Instead, we defend it before anyone has even criticised it. We apologise for it. We explain it too much. We begin to write more cautiously because we’re trying to anticipate rejection rather than pursuing truth.”
Sylvia was quiet.
“That’s rather heartbreaking.”
“It is. Because the barricades are built to protect the imagination, but they often end up imprisoning it instead.”
Sylvia smiled faintly.
“So what’s the remedy?”
Lillian’s expression softened.
“Remember that courage isn’t the absence of disappointment.”
“No?”
“It’s refusing to let disappointment become your creative voice.”
She gently tapped the Queen of Wands.
“This Queen cannot breathe behind fortifications. She needs open windows, fresh air, and enough faith to believe there are still readers who have never encountered the story only you can tell.”
The Root in the Past— Six of Cups
Sylvia smiled immediately.
“Oh.”
“What?”
“This is the child.”
“The child who first fell in love with stories.”
“The child who believed books could change people.”
“The child who still believes that.”
Lillian nodded.
“Your work doesn’t grow from ambition.”
“It grows from affection.”
“I think that’s tremendously important.”
The Trunk — Supporting the Work – Knight of Swords
Sylvia looked delighted.
“Now there’s movement.”
“The trunk supports everything above it.”
Lillian nodded.
“And yours is action.”
“Not frantic action.”
“No.”
“Purposeful action.”
“Finish the chapter.”
“Send the query.”
“Revise the manuscript.”
“Write the next book.”
“The Knight isn’t asking whether he’s good enough.”
“He’s already riding.”
Sylvia laughed softly.
“That’s wonderfully refreshing.”
“It is.”
Lillian leaned back in her chair.
“I think many writers lose years asking questions the Knight never asks.”
“Such as?”
“‘Am I talented enough?’”
“‘Will anyone like this?’”
“‘What if it isn’t good enough?’”
She shook her head gently.
“The Knight has already made his decision.”
“Which is?”
“‘I have something worth pursuing.’”
Sylvia nodded thoughtfully.
“So his certainty doesn’t come from knowing he’ll succeed.”
“No.”
“It comes from knowing the journey itself is worthwhile.”
“Precisely.”
Lillian smiled.
“The Knight isn’t reckless because he believes he’ll never fail. He’s courageous because he understands that hesitation eventually becomes its own kind of failure.”
Sylvia looked towards the manuscript resting on the table.
“So while everyone else is wondering whether the book deserves to exist…”
“…he’s writing Chapter Twelve.”
They both laughed.
Lillian continued.
“Conviction isn’t the same as arrogance.”
“No.”
“Arrogance insists on being right.”
“Conviction simply keeps moving.”
She rested her hand lightly on the card.
“I sometimes think writers imagine confidence arrives after publication.”
“It doesn’t?”
“I’ve never found that to be true.”
“When does it arrive?”
“When we stop asking permission to become the writer we’re already becoming.”
Sylvia was quiet for a while.
“That reminds me of something my grandmother used to say.”
“What was that?”
“‘You can’t steer a cart that never leaves the yard.’”
Lillian smiled.
“Quite.”
“The Knight understands a simple truth.”
“Which is?”
“Direction can be corrected.”
“Mistakes can be revised.”
“Books can be rewritten.”
“But nothing at all can be shaped until someone has the courage to begin moving.”
Sylvia looked again at the Knight charging across the card.
“So perhaps he isn’t galloping towards success.”
Lillian smiled.
“No.”
“He’s galloping away from hesitation.”
The Choices and options to move forward — Three of Swords or Six of Swords
Sylvia became quiet.
“I think this may be the heart of the whole reading.”
Lillian nodded.
“So do I.”
She looked from the Three of Swords to the Six of Swords.
“The choice isn’t between success and failure.”
“No.”
“It’s between staying with the wound…”
“…or travelling beyond it.”
Sylvia studied the cards.
“The Three of Swords says, ‘They rejected me.’”
“The Six of Swords says, ‘Nevertheless, I continue.’”
Sylvia smiled faintly.
“I rather like the second fellow.”
“So do I.”
For a while neither woman spoke.
Finally Sylvia asked the question that had been waiting between them.
“But how?”
“How what?”
“How do you actually leave?”
Lillian rested her hand lightly on the Three of Swords.
“I don’t think the Six asks us to forget.”
“No?”
“No. Wounds don’t disappear simply because we’d rather they had.”
“Then what’s changing?”
“Our relationship with them.”
Sylvia waited.
Lillian continued.
“The Three of Swords says, ‘This happened to me.’”
“The Six of Swords says, ‘Yes… and now what?’”
Sylvia looked thoughtful.
“So it isn’t pretending the rejection didn’t hurt.”
“No.”
“It’s refusing to let that moment become the centre of your story.”
She looked down at the image of the boat.
“Notice something.”
“What?”
“The people in the boat aren’t rowing away from the swords.”
“They aren’t?”
“No.”
“They’re rowing towards another shore.”
Sylvia blinked.
“I’d never noticed that.”
“It’s a subtle but important distinction.”
She smiled gently.
“When our attention remains fixed on what wounded us, we’re still living there. The boat only begins to move when our attention turns towards where we wish to go.”
Sylvia folded her hands.
“So what does that look like for a writer?”
Lillian answered almost immediately.
“It means reading a rejection once.”
“Not twenty times.”
“It means asking, ‘Is there anything useful here?’”
“If there is, I learn from it.”
“If there isn’t…”
“…I let it belong to the person who wrote it.”
Sylvia laughed softly.
“That’s harder than it sounds.”
“It is.”
“But remember—an agent’s rejection is not a verdict on your imagination. It is a decision made at a particular moment, by a particular person, for reasons you rarely know in full.”
She paused.
“The mistake is allowing one person’s inability to champion the work to become your own inability to believe in it.”
Sylvia looked again at the Six of Swords.
“The water’s still rather choppy.”
“Yes.”
“The journey isn’t comfortable.”
“No.”
“But notice something else.”
“What now?”
“The boat doesn’t wait until the sea becomes calm.”
Sylvia smiled.
“It leaves anyway.”
“Exactly.”
Lillian’s voice became quieter.
“I sometimes think people imagine resilience means no longer feeling disappointed.”
“It doesn’t?”
“No.”
“It means disappointment ceases to determine the next decision.”
“So every morning…”
“…I choose again.”
“To write.”
“To revise.”
“To send another query.”
“To contact another editor.”
“To begin another chapter.”
Sylvia nodded slowly.
“Not because I’m certain.”
“No.”
“But because the work is still worth carrying.”
Lillian smiled.
“I think that’s the real crossing.”
“The crossing?”
“Yes.”
“The moment you stop asking, ‘What if they reject me again?’”
“And begin asking?”
“‘How faithfully can I serve the work that has been entrusted to me?’”
A long silence settled between them.
The harbour lay beyond the window, the afternoon tide quietly carrying boats towards the open sea.
Sylvia watched them for a while.
“So perhaps catching the boat isn’t one dramatic act.”
Lillian smiled.
“No.”
“It’s a hundred small decisions.”
“What sort of decisions?”
“To keep your heart open after disappointment.”
“To seek honest criticism without surrendering your voice.”
“To improve the work without abandoning its soul.”
“To continue offering it to the world.”
“And to remember…”
She looked warmly at Sylvia.
“…that your destination is not the rejection you left behind, but the reader waiting on the far shore.”
The Blossom – what is manifesting in the world from my creative cycle— Knight of Wands
Sylvia turned over the Knight of Wands and smiled.
“Now there’s a fellow who doesn’t hang about.”
“No,” Lillian agreed. “He’s already moving before most people have decided whether the journey is sensible.”
She looked thoughtfully at the position in the spread.
“The blossom.”
“What the world first encounters.”
Sylvia nodded.
“So this is what agents see.”
“Among others.”
“And readers.”
“Yes.”
Lillian rested her hand beside the card.
“A blossom has only one purpose.”
“To attract?”
“To invite.”
Sylvia smiled.
“There’s a difference.”
“A very important one.”
She continued.
“A blossom doesn’t plead with every passing bee. It doesn’t apologise for its colour or wish it looked like the flower growing beside it. It simply expresses its own nature as fully as it can.”
Sylvia laughed.
“So a daisy doesn’t spend its life trying to become a rose.”
“Exactly.”
For a few moments they simply looked at the card.
“I think this Knight is asking something rather searching,” Lillian said.
“What?”
“‘What invitation does your novel offer?’”
Sylvia frowned.
“I’ve never thought of it that way.”
“Many writers don’t.”
“They ask whether the book is good.”
“When perhaps they should also ask…”
“‘Who is this book calling?’”
Lillian nodded.
“Yes.”
She leaned back in her chair.
“Think about literary agents for a moment.”
“They’re very busy.”
“Extraordinarily.”
“They may read hundreds of submissions every month.”
“And every one of them is asking for belief.”
Sylvia sighed.
“Poor souls.”
Lillian smiled.
“Exactly. They aren’t simply looking for a competent manuscript. They’re looking for the feeling that they cannot bear to let this one belong to somebody else.”
“So what attracts them?”
“I don’t think it’s perfection.”
“No?”
“No.”
“It’s recognition.”
Sylvia looked puzzled.
“Recognition?”
“An agent falls a little in love.”
“With the writing?”
“With the world the writing creates.”
She paused.
“They begin to recognise the readers who have been waiting for this book.”
Sylvia became thoughtful.
“So they aren’t merely evaluating the manuscript.”
“They’re imagining its future.”
“They’re imagining how to champion it.”
“They’re imagining editors they know who might lose sleep over it.”
“They’re imagining conversations at acquisitions meetings.”
“They’re imagining the reader who finishes the final page and immediately presses the book into a friend’s hands.”
Sylvia smiled.
“So they become advocates before they’ve even signed the author.”
“I think the best ones do.”
She looked again at the Knight.
“That’s why conviction matters.”
“How so?”
“The Knight isn’t trying to please everyone.”
“No.”
“He rides with complete commitment to the road he has chosen.”
Sylvia nodded slowly.
“So perhaps my task isn’t to become more broadly appealing.”
“I wouldn’t think so.”
“I think it’s to become more unmistakably yourself.”
Silence settled comfortably between them.
After a while Sylvia spoke again.
“But what repels an agent?”
Lillian considered the question carefully.
“I don’t think the opposite of attraction is rejection.”
“No?”
“The opposite is uncertainty.”
She continued gently.
“If a manuscript seems unsure of what it wants to be, an agent may struggle to imagine how to champion it.”
“If the voice keeps changing…”
“…or the novel appears to imitate several different books at once…”
“…or it apologises for its own strangeness…”
“…then the invitation becomes blurred.”
Sylvia looked down at the Knight.
“So confidence isn’t swagger.”
“No.”
“It’s coherence.”
“It’s knowing what kind of story this is.”
“It’s trusting that story enough not to dilute it in the hope of pleasing everybody.”
She smiled warmly.
“The Knight of Wands doesn’t ask every traveller to follow him.”
“No.”
“He simply rides his chosen path with such conviction that the people who were always meant to travel that road recognise it immediately.”
Sylvia looked towards the manuscript lying on the table.
“So perhaps the real question isn’t, ‘Will every agent love this book?’”
Lillian smiled.
“No.”
“The better question is, ‘Have I written it clearly and truthfully enough that the right agent can recognise it the moment they open the first page?’”
“And if they don’t?”
“Then that tells you something about fit—not necessarily about worth.”
Sylvia folded her hands.
“Rather comforting, really.”
“I think so.”
“A blossom does not bloom to persuade every passer-by.”
“No.”
“It blooms so that those who need its fragrance know they have arrived.”
The Fruit — the material result of my creative work – Strength
For a while neither woman spoke.
“Everyone expects the Sun.”
“Or the World.”
“But you have Strength.”
Sylvia smiled.
“I rather prefer it.”
“So do I.”
“Because Strength isn’t loud.”
“No.”
“It changes people quietly.”
“The lion isn’t conquered.”
“He’s befriended.”
“I wonder,” Lillian said thoughtfully, “whether your readers leave your books gentler than they were before.”
Sylvia looked up.
“Gentler?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t mean softer.”
Lillian smiled.
“I mean less certain that the world is exactly as it first appears.”
She rested her hand beside the card.
“Strength has always seemed to me a curious card. It doesn’t conquer through force. It transforms through relationship.”
Sylvia nodded.
“The lion isn’t defeated.”
“No.”
“He’s understood.”
A comfortable silence settled between them.
“I sometimes think,” Lillian continued, “that the finest novels don’t simply entertain us. They enlarge us.”
“In what way?”
“They leave us a little more patient with complexity.”
“A little slower to judge.”
“A little more willing to imagine another person’s hidden burdens.”
She glanced towards the harbour.
“After reading them, we still inhabit the same world—but we inhabit it differently.”
Sylvia smiled.
“That’s a lovely thought.”
“I think good fiction quietly rearranges our inner furniture.”
“It doesn’t shout.”
“It doesn’t lecture.”
“It simply places us inside another consciousness long enough that, when we return to ourselves, we can no longer pretend our own viewpoint is the only one that matters.”
Sylvia folded her hands.
“So perhaps healing isn’t always dramatic.”
“I don’t believe it usually is.”
“It may simply be the moment someone discovers they feel less alone.”
“Or that their grief has a language.”
“Or that mystery is not something to fear.”
Lillian nodded.
“Exactly.”
“The books we remember for a lifetime rarely tell us what to think. They teach us how to look.”
She smiled warmly.
“I suspect that’s what your fiction is trying to do.”
“Not persuade?”
“No.”
“Awaken.”
“To what?”
“To wonder.”
“To the possibility that every landscape carries memory.”
“That every life contains hidden depths.”
“That compassion often begins when certainty ends.”
Sylvia looked once more at the lion resting peacefully beneath the woman’s hand.
“So perhaps readers don’t close the book feeling they’ve escaped reality.”
Lillian smiled.
“I hope not.”
“I hope they close it feeling they’ve returned to reality with quieter eyes, a steadier heart, and a greater capacity to recognise the sacred woven through ordinary life.”
Neither woman spoke for a while.
Finally Sylvia laughed softly.
“That sounds a much finer ambition than merely writing a page-turner.”
Lillian returned the smile.
“A page-turner keeps someone awake for a night.”
She looked gently at the Strength card.
“But a story that leaves someone kinder—to themselves, to others, and to the world—may stay with them for the rest of their life.”
The Fragrance — the Spiritual Lesson in my creative work – Seven of Pentacles
Sylvia laughed as she turned over the Seven of Pentacles.
“Patience.”
Lillian smiled.
“Again.”
Sylvia shook her head.
“It seems to follow me everywhere.”
“Perhaps because it still has something to teach.”
Sylvia looked at the card.
“I’ve never been particularly fond of waiting.”
“I know.”
“I much prefer things happening.”
“So does everyone.”
They both laughed.
After a moment Lillian became thoughtful.
“I don’t think this card is really about waiting.”
“It’s about cultivation.”
Sylvia nodded slowly.
“There’s a difference.”
“A profound one.”
Lillian rested her hand beside the card.
“When people hear the word patience, they often imagine someone sitting with folded hands, hoping life eventually improves.”
“But that’s not gardening.”
“Not at all.”
She smiled.
“A gardener is extraordinarily busy.”
“They prepare the soil.”
“They choose the seed.”
“They water.”
“They weed.”
“They prune.”
“They protect young growth from frost.”
“They watch the weather.”
“They learn from every season.”
Sylvia’s eyes brightened.
“But they don’t stand there shouting at the roses.”
“No.”
“‘Bloom faster!’”
They both laughed.
“And they certainly don’t dig the plant up every morning…”
“…to see whether it’s growing.”
“Exactly.”
The laughter faded into a thoughtful silence.
Lillian continued.
“I sometimes wonder whether writers do exactly that.”
“How?”
“We finish a chapter.”
“We immediately judge it.”
“We send a query.”
“We check our email six times before lunch.”
“We revise a paragraph.”
“We wonder whether we’ve ruined the entire novel.”
Sylvia smiled sheepishly.
“I’ve been known to do one or two of those.”
“So have most writers.”
Lillian looked out of the window towards the garden.
“The difficulty is that growth is almost always invisible while it’s happening.”
“You only notice it afterwards.”
“Yes.”
“A tree doesn’t become taller because someone measures it every afternoon.”
“It grows because, day after day, it quietly continues the work no one can see.”
Sylvia became quiet.
“So perhaps the novel is growing in me even when I think nothing is happening.”
“I would say almost certainly.”
“And perhaps readers, editors and agents are also growing towards it.”
Sylvia looked surprised.
“What do you mean?”
“We tend to imagine we’re the only ones on a journey.”
“Aren’t we?”
“No.”
She smiled gently.
“The right editor is becoming the sort of editor who can recognise your work.”
“The right reader is becoming the person who most needs the story you’re writing.”
“The right bookshop owner is developing the instinct to place it into someone’s hands.”
“The whole ecosystem is changing.”
“We simply can’t see it while it’s happening.”
Sylvia sat very still.
“I’ve never thought of it like that.”
“I think we underestimate how many lives are unfolding alongside our own.”
She touched the Seven of Pentacles again.
“This card asks a rather uncomfortable question.”
“What is it?”
“Can you continue tending the garden without demanding immediate evidence that every seed you’ve planted is alive?”
Sylvia looked thoughtfully at the card.
“That’s difficult.”
“Very.”
“Because I’d quite like guarantees.”
Lillian laughed.
“So would every gardener.”
“But nature has never offered them.”
“No.”
“What she offers instead is relationship.”
“Relationship?”
“Yes.”
“If I care faithfully for the garden, I become the kind of person who notices when growth begins.”
She paused.
“I think publishing works rather similarly.”
“The harvest matters.”
“Of course.”
“But the harvest isn’t actually where the gardener spends most of her life.”
Sylvia smiled.
“No.”
“She spends it weeding.”
“Watering.”
“Learning.”
“Trusting.”
“And showing up every morning whether anyone applauds her or not.”
Lillian nodded.
“I sometimes think that’s what perseverance really means.”
“Not gritting your teeth.”
“No.”
“Falling in love with the daily tending.”
A warm silence settled between them.
Finally Sylvia looked towards the harbour.
“So perhaps my task isn’t to keep asking whether the book is growing.”
Lillian smiled.
“No.”
“Your task is to become the sort of gardener who knows that faithful cultivation is never wasted.”
“And one day…”
“…quite unexpectedly…”
“…you discover that what looked like an empty patch of earth has become an orchard.”
The Decayed Plant — High Priestess
Sylvia frowned.
“This one puzzles me.”
Lillian smiled.
“I wondered whether it might.”
“You thought I was wrong.”
“I thought there might be another possibility.”
“The High Priestess guards hidden knowledge.”
“Yes.”
“But notice where she appears.”
Sylvia looked again.
“The dead plant.”
“What if the thing that must die…”
“…is the belief that more hidden knowledge is always the answer?”
Sylvia became thoughtful.
“What if you’ve already learned enough?”
Silence.
Lillian continued gently.
“You’ve spent decades studying astrology.”
“The I Ching.”
“Myth.”
“Psychology.”
“Religion.”
“Folklore.”
“What if the Priestess is saying…”
“‘Enough gathering.’”
“It’s time…”
“…to become the Empress?”
Sylvia burst out laughing.
“Oh, that’s rather lovely.”
“The Priestess keeps mysteries.”
“The writer shares them.”
“I don’t think you’re being asked to abandon wisdom.”
“No.”
“I think you’re being asked to stop preparing to write…”
“…and simply keep writing.”
The Harvest — Ten of Pentacles
Neither woman needed to say much.
The card almost spoke for itself.
Lillian smiled.
“This isn’t merely money.”
“No.”
“It’s legacy.”
“The books remain.”
“The readers remain.”
“The ideas continue.”
“The harvest feeds more than the gardener.”
Sylvia gathered the cards together.
“So what’s the whole spread saying?”
Lillian looked thoughtfully at the empty table.
“I think it’s saying something wonderfully simple.”
“You already know why you write.”
“You already know how to write.”
“You already possess the necessary imagination.”
“You already possess the necessary knowledge.”
“The only real choice left…”
“…is whether you’ll allow yesterday’s disappointments to govern tomorrow’s work.”
Sylvia nodded slowly.
“And if I don’t?”
Lillian smiled.
“Then the harvest has already begun.”
One final thought
The spread feels to like it moves through three archetypal stages:
- The Queen of Wands — The Visionary: “I know what kind of stories I want to write.”
- The High Priestess — The Keeper: “I have spent years gathering wisdom.”
- The Ten of Pentacles — The Elder: “Now I give that wisdom away in a form that will outlive me.”
The High Priestess, in the place of what must be released, doesn’t suggest abandoning intuition or spiritual depth. Rather, she may be asking you to release the identity of being primarily the student, seeker, or keeper of hidden knowledge. Your accumulated learning—from astrology, myth, folklore, psychology, and religious experience—has already become part of you. The next movement is outward: embodying that wisdom in novels that others can inhabit and carry forward. In that sense, the High Priestess doesn’t disappear; she becomes the quiet foundation beneath your work, allowing the writer to step fully into the world.
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