I’m a Mercurial Scorpio.
For those not that familiar with astrology, this means the way that I express myself (Mercury being communication and thought) is naturally very Scorpionic. It’s particularly noticeable in my writing — I prefer my prose smoky, blurring almost into poetry, where direct statements are all but mythical creatures and instead double-meanings and wordplay abound. (And when something is direct, it is typically either snark or sex. Or death, whether metaphorical or no. Or all of the above.) Rebirth is a very common theme; I am all about the Persephone archetype, here.
And it was in all of the Scorpio that I found my voice. All of the Scorpio is my voice.
But there’s another side to it, too, another way that Scorpio can manifest, that I never really touched. Not until last night.
And then last night, my muse was suddenly somehow ripping it right out of me, and I found myself spilling words in a voice that hardly anyone would recognise as mine.
This? This is raw and bloody and blatant and bruised and desperate and absolutely unapologetic in its wants. (And it does want. Badly.)
And damn did I have fun.
I’m thinking this may just need to be something that I explore further and continue to play around with — so don’t be surprised if you find some rather un-Jaceylike prose popping up here soon! :)
(Also, expect more on the subject of astrology as it pertains to writing — astrology and tarot for writers are two of my biggest passions. Or, rather, it’s all of my biggest passions, rolled into one.)