Last week​, I ended with the question, What did I notice once my Busy Bunny part wasn’t throwing a fit over how long my book is taking?

Let’s start with my favorite thing: tarot.

After I set up my new crystal grid, I drew a tarot card for my downstairs altar. I used to do this every New and Full Moon, but I’ve shifted to drawing a new card whenever I’m moving into a different phase—of a creative project, a personal growth spurt, you name it.

In this case, the phase was: The Home Stretch of My Book.

🔮 What energy would help me reach the finish line without losing my mind?

Immediately upon flipping the card over, I jotted in my journal: “sleeping, dreams, borne by the unconscious, so many colors!!!”

Wow, did I ever love this imagery. This fish-riding king gave me major goosebumps.

What if slowing down isn’t the opposite of progress?

For decades, Busy Bunny and I lived under the maxim “let me just finish one more thing” before we were allowed to take a break.

Through some impressively acrobatic rationalizations, I’d convinced myself that doing so resulted in getting more done.

What I’ve come to see, though, is that my energy is like a rubber band. If I stretch it too far (“just one more email,” “just one more paragraph,” “just just just…”), the band snaps and cracks somebody in the eyeball. Usually me.

And when it does, I have to take a break, no matter how big a conniption fit Busy Bunny throws. Invariably, this forced downtime gobbles up more time than if I’d proactively let myself rest.

(Not to mention, slingshotting myself in the eye isn’t very kind to myself. 👀)

Nancy Drew and the Mystery of Lost Time

Ruptured rubber bands got me thinking about the six months I’d spent on my previous draft, Draft 6, which is an unusually long stretch for me to spend on any one draft.

So long, in fact, that I recorded a whole podcast about it: ​Will I Ever Finish This F%#king Book?​

When Busy Bunny is running the show, all I can see is: THIS IS TAKING FOREVER AND THAT IS REALLY BAD.

But when I shift into King of Cups mode, a different question bobs to the ocean’s surface: What if the time I thought I’d “lost” was actually changing me as an artist?

Draft 6 was an alchemical crockpot of a draft. Into the pot went four-ish years of fiction writing, dozens of writing craft books, and countless hours musing on craft issues.

What came out?

🔍 A much sharper ability to diagnose why a scene isn’t working—and the shot of creative energy that comes from knowing how to fix it.

🪓 A willingness to slash scenes or lines that are clever or swoony but don’t strengthen the story.

🚀 Some really cool fucking insights about propulsive pacing—and, just as importantly, the restraint to apply the biggest lessons to my next novel instead of blowing up this one in the 11th hour.

✍️ A number of useful craft case studies and copious notes for my future writing craft book.

📝 A much clearer plan for revising my previous novel, ​The Fool & the Threads of Time​ (as well as a clear, spirit-guide-sanctioned timeline for doing so).

I mean…how on earth could I consider this lost time??

I could not have become the writer who is revising Draft 7 without having spent all that time inside Draft 6.

Sleep Your Way to Success

Which brings us back to the rubber band. Rest isn’t merely a way to avoid burnout—although, hey! That’s a pretty big vote in its favor.

Rest is a vital mechanism by which artistic change (or any change, really) occurs, because those six months I spent with Draft 6 weren’t solely spent sitting at my desk, of course.

Sometimes craft insights came while I was journaling, or chilling with my spirit guides, or hiking, or dusting my altar, or reading something totally unrelated. Or sleeping.

There are forms of progress that only become available when I’m not grinding my conscious mind into paste. Something our barefoot, wave-napping king clearly knows a lot about.

I mean, just look at the guy:

Synchronicities on Tap

The second I pulled this tarot card, another insight rippled straight from my solar plexus to my third eye.

When I stop white-knuckling everything, I become more receptive—to unconscious insights, intuitive nudges, and beneficial unseen currents. Said another way, I become a synchronicity magnet.

This has happened to me so many times, it’s truly astonishing that I keep forgetting. ̄ \_(ツ)_/ ̄

Let me tell you what happened this time.

Right before heading upstairs to pull a tarot card and redo my crystal grid, I paused before a dollhouse pastry case, which is on display in my office. (Or at least, it was…)

I sculpted the dozens of teeny-tiny treats filling this case last winter, and it’s been languishing in my Etsy shop ever since. While admiring the sparkly gum drops on the sugar plum fairy bundt cake, I thought, “Wouldn’t it be so fun if this sold?”

Smiling, I went upstairs and busied myself with card pulls and crystals. Two hours later…the pastry case sold. For $330.

Can I prove a connection?

Nope. All I know is that it felt pretty darn magical, and that experiences like this seem to happen much more often when I’m resting before my rubber band rips in half.

A Tarot Spread for You

If you’re drumming your fingers, wishing you could magically fast forward to the “good part”—first of all, I feel ya.

And second, here’s a simple tarot spread to help you squeeze a little magical juice from your situation. If it’s going to take a while, there might as well be refreshments, right?

Card One: What energy/attitude would be most beneficial right now?

Card Two: What awesome thing is this slower season making possible?

Card Three: How can I use the resources of cards 1 and 2 to become a synchronicity magnet?

Next time…

I have one more magical insight to share, my friend, before I burrow back into my writing cave. Because while I was rebuilding that crystal grid last week, I realized something about working magic when your best-laid plans get fed into a wood chipper.

This one’s all about keystone spells.

See you next time.