This month we take a look at the guidance of the ancient gods and goddesses guiding the Zodiac. But what does it mean for your writing?


March 21 – April 20: Your personal ancient god: Janus, that two-faced creep, always showing up to add an element of schizophrenia for the impending new year? Looking forward and backward at the same time? Seems he should be special to writers, constantly digging into the past for things that are better left alone, or wishing to be published. Idiot. Look at the present. They just cut off your water and all your underpants are dirty.


April 21 – May 20: Think your ancient god is the best? Zeus, the all-powerful? Perhaps in only in the negative sense in your regard. He doesn’t even recognize you. It’s like literary magazines. They don’t recognize you either. Even your friends sidelong-glance at each other when you say you are a writer. Something fundamental about you has changed, and you are not the person they once knew. You never have enough scratch to cover your round. Sad.


May 21 – June 20: Ah, your sign is are represented by the ancient goddesses; how lucky you are! Aphrodite: Love and pleasure. Venus: Same thing, borrowed from the Greek gal. Ixcuiname: Not likely, she’s Aztec and I doubt you have the necessary framework for understanding her culture. It is an unfortunate situation here. I’m tired of hunting for a goddess that will throw some happy coupling your way. It is not in store for you. Sorry. Go back and finish writing The Summer of the Red Swan.


June 21 – July 20: The winged feet of your sign’s ancient god Mercury, are swift to deliver, just like the florist. Except for acceptance letters. Those are not fast, because they’re as rare as pegasi (or is it pegasusses?). To think of it, your rejection letters are nearly as slow. Perhaps your timing is off and other writers’ work just smothers yours. It can difficult to rise from the bottom of the slush pile. Blow out that hope candle on your mantle, even if you glued a picture of Tennessee Williams on the side of it. His letters would have been slow in coming, too.


July 21 – August 20: Did you know there was a Greek god named Hypnos? He’s perfect for you; not an authentic god, just the is the personification of sleep. You’re a writer; you know about personification, but not so much about sleep. Maybe he will creep into your bedroom tonight as you stare at the ceiling, thinking about that syllabus you are late in completing. He can help you. If you sleep a bit you can churn out that syllabus in no time. Then again, he could engage you in pointless chatter until 4:00 a.m. Good luck either way.


August 21 – September 20: God. Not oh-my-god or even OMG. Epic horsemen of pestilence, lakes of fire. Wow, did you get picked last for dodgeball? When this one rolls in on you, things are redundantly dire-critical-dreadful-alarming. Brutal. Make-your-arm-hairs-stand up. You should have had second thoughts about bragging on your atheism. Burn that manuscript before He sees it, but wait – He already has. Too late now, sweetheart. Your mother warned you about dirty words.


September 21 – October 20: Your ancient god is quite meddlesome. She thinks she is Queen of the Gods, Juno. And she is not helping your relationship. She finds you self-absorbed and inattentive to your lover. As the goddess of marriage (and therefore relationships in general), she will give you writers block until you take your special person out on a special date. But don’t bring flowers. Your dearest will think you are trying to hide a mistake. You are. You got involved and now you feel trapped. The only reason you are on a date at all is to break your writers block. Asshole.


October 21 – November 20: The Aventine Triad has adopted you and they’re gathering data regarding your eating habits. That’s right, Ceres, Liber and Libera work together to assure fertility and harvest. You are a Cheeto and Coca-Cola mess. Hit pause on the writing for a bit and get out there in the community garden. Meet some earthy people. Or go to Trader Joe’s and get annoyed by hipsters. Their triangular warning: you are slowly killing yourself through Trader JoJos and Two Buck Chuck and should be grateful for this joint invention.


November 21 – December 20:You think you know where you are going with that essay but Minerva, the goddess of wisdom, is commandeering your life whether you like it or not. She knows more about your essay than you do. And don’t try to argue. She’ll smack the back of your hand with a ruler. She made me kneel on rice once, just because I said her clothes were too loose. Better get a reader before you turn in that draft. She spits fire over a comma splice and is said to have started the rumor that you can deep clean your keyboard using the dishwasher.


December 21 – January 20:Tick-tock-tick-tock. Time to meet your personal ancient god: Chronus, the ultimate time-management micromanaging god. Chop-chop. Lickety-split. The people in the office over at the Weekly Penny-Saver are bugging you to get that article about the cheerleading injury over to them toot-sweet! Save-a-Bunch needs those coupons printed and Farmers Land and Home Supply wants to advertise for a part-time floor sweeper. Which could end up being you.


January 21 – February 20: Ananke is also a personification, but she works like a goddess, so don’t try to figure it out, just accept her as yours and try to live with it. Her powers of inevitability, compulsion and necessity have allowed her to hijack your Google profile picture. You want to know if the essay you wrote on enriched retirement living was accepted by Real Estate Today: The Coastal Southeast. A couple of keystrokes later, when the predictable rejection appears, Ananke smirks from the little circle on the screen and shakes her head. Then she pings you a Hangouts text that says, “I told you so.”


February 21 – March 20: You have a most interesting and unique ancient goddess, but she seems to have very limited power. Sort of like you. Her name is Icaunus. She is the goddess of a river in a land once known as Gaul. Gaul is large and does not exist politically anymore, so don’t go looking for it alone. She’s only got one little river to watch over. She can’t be all that busy, right? You might even seek her as your muse. You are still working on your questionable autobiography, which you’ll market as creative nonfiction. She could be fun at making things up and exaggerating along with you. Or, you could go to her singular Yonne River, the one little river where she presides, and ask her to push you under.