Because let's face it, nobody wants to see The Tower rearing up from the deck. Other cards may look scary -- Death, The Devil, The Ten of Swords -- but nothing delivers that sinking feeling of "aw crap" like The Tower.
So let's take a deep breath before proceeding, shall we?
Okay.
Here we go.
The Tower shows up when imminent destruction is on the horizon, and not just any ol' random destruction -- something you have crafted and assembled, something that has value and substance, is tumbling lightning-struck into the sea. And you're tumbling with it (or some part of you is, some piece of your identity). Down down down.
Here's the thing, though -- whatever it is that's crumbling right now, it's outlived its usefulness. Maybe it seemed a good idea at the time. Maybe it was. As writers, our curiosity is voracious and cosmopolitan, free range and full steam. We join this group, sign up for that workshop. We agree to this event, that blog tour. All of these create our authorial "platform," our professional presence in the world. It's a necessary part of being a professional writer . . . but it's not writing. And it's the writing that makes a writer. Neglect that foundational part of your platform and . . . ka-blam.
It's all too easy to create a pretty version of who we are as writers, and then live that version as if it were the reality. Our version is often well-designed and structurally sound. It makes for comfortable living. But no matter how pretty, it's a copy. And this week, it begins its crumble into dust.
What's beginning to fall apart in your life? Is it something you built? Might it have a large chunk of your ego bricked up in one of the load-bearing walls?
If so, the Tower reminds you that you can only forestall the inevitable for so long -- best stay out of the way and let it tumble. Afterwards, you can take a deep breath and go through the rubble. You can try to see to the clear horizon behind, the clean plot of land below.
But for now . . . watch for falling rocks.
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