Writer Horoscopes for April 2016: April Commas Bring May Comas

by Apostrodamus

Aries (March 21 — April 19)

This is a good month to see how the sausage (aka your cyborgian flash fiction, your one-act play starring milk-fed youths of the great Midwest, or your Tumblr-turned-novel) gets made. It’s gross, maybe lonely, work. There’s a decent chance you’ll barf. But the skies say: stay upright, keep writing. Go word by word; revise lines so one sentence slips to the next. If you do it right, you’ll squeeze out some nice fat pages. If you don’t, well, loiter round lit parties in the second half of April — and cut your agony with cheese cubes.

Lucky participle: Bangin’

Taurus (April 20 — May 20)

If you’ve ever wanted to write a book with 300+ characters (human/nonhuman, animate/inanimate/polyanimate) this is the time to do it. Neptune is sextile your decan all g-d year, which means you’ve got an executive club membership to the human condition. You’ll be picking up the vibrations of mass consciousness through 2017, and stray humans and animals may find you in the streets and tug gently at your sleeve with a simple request: Let me tell you my story. Listen well, steady Taurus, you are the empathetic ear, and the world will bring you its tales.

Lucky participle: Listening

Gemini (May 21 — June 20)

If you’ve felt mired in ancient systems (voicemail, adjuncting, all-white readings), April brings some relief. And you don’t have to go it alone: draw energy from fellow literary citizens to make headway. They might introduce you to an editor who’s all heart-eyes and incisive-squiggles over your work. Or they might ask you to take part in an anthology along with one or two of your personal faves. Stick with the community vibes in your writing too — go light (group bands together for survival, jokes), dark (group bands together for survival, murder), or conspiratorial (lizard people slink together for total human domination!).

Lucky participle: Communing

Cancer (June 21 — July 22)

If the rose-colored glasses you donned last month have cracked or the epic love poems turned to revenge haikus, fear not, Cancer! The first week of the month you’ll be tetchy and fear your writing is not up to snuff — a former colleague whose writing is sooo not as good as yours may publish to much acclaim, or you may find yourself inundated by so many rejection emails you think you’re being spammed. Fuggedaboutit! The new moon on April 7th brings new opportunities for blow-your-mind genre-bending, genre-breaking, genre-erasing work. So be like fellow Cancer Octavia E. Butler: write down your intentions and go make us something cool and weird we’ve never imagined.

Lucky participle: Imaginating

Leo (July 23 — August 22)

Power to Leo: this month lions ride high, buoyed by success and seltzer. Odds are good you’ll star in a victory montage, no “please clap” necessary. Soak it in the first couple weeks — you might land that giant byline. Your novel on grim, supernatural Antarctic voyages (there were dogs, then there weren’t; a cornucopia of body parts; doubling down on cannibalism with werewolves) could win some hearts. Handshake your way to any deals on the 14th or 20th. Your astral representatives are rooting for you.

Lucky participle: Gnawing

Virgo (August 23 — September 22)

It’s a pity that writers have to eat, but they do, and rarely does one happen upon a butcher, a baker, or a candlestick maker — never mind a web service provider or a landlord — who is willing to be paid in poetry. Same goes for the IRS, which I’m sure we all wish stood for Innovative Rhyme Scheme. But there’s no reason your tax returns can’t be “innovative,” “fresh” “fiction” “from one of the best new minds of our generation.” April 5–12, is a good time to negotiate contracts (with your publisher and the government!) so send them both a finely wrought haiku before the 17th, which is, apparently, National Haiku Poetry Day.

Lucky participle: Innovating

Libra (September 23 — October 22)

If you’ve been in a writing slump, Libra, chin up. The stars are right for you to dispatch creative gremlins and find your dream collaborator. Play with form, visit the Neapolitan Novels, veer into nonfiction. When it comes to project partners, watch out for thirsty non-pals (aka more demanding, and far less adorable, fleshy Tamagotchi). Hold fast for that psychic click — some writers might find exchanges with visual artists mega fruitful this April.

Lucky participle: Cathecting

Scorpio (October 23 — November 21)

Your flesh is willing enough — to cram yourself in another spine-yanking writing stance — but your spirit could stand a little refreshing. Some writers swear by runs to jog plots loose, some opt for chlorinated epiphany. But for you, the skies urge: for maximum pages, get a uniform. Even designated work socks would do. Or dress in restorative monochrome. Or try an invigorating Lishian jumpsuit. This is a terrific month to rekey your routines. Don’t forget to stretch (give your back a bone, jeez), and keep an eye on the 22nd; the full moon might beam big project news.

Lucky participle: Power posing

Sagittarius (November 22 — December 21)

Dang, Sagittarius, news from the astral plane says you’re some kind of word genius — at least for the first two weeks. This is an ideal time to draft a new story (save revision for May, when we’re deep in Mercury retrograde) or apply for a residency — the more isolated, the better. A very productive vibe is zen-apocalypse. After the 17th: your editorial engine isn’t as dire as a Flowers for Algernon situation, but you’ll appreciate it if you hunker down early (maybe with a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos?), and get to typing.

Lucky participle: Generating

Capricorn (December 22 — January 19)

If the starfolk were correct last month, you’ve got a stack of new pages under your belt (we all carry our novels in our pants, right?), and are most likely reading this while strutting around and patting yourself on the back (it’s ok, you deserve it). Not only are the stars impressed with the fact that you can walk around so elegantly with that stack of paper in your pants, but it looks like you’ve got more good fortune in the months ahead. After the new moon on April 7, you can take a break from your breakneck-speed writing, and start showing those pages around (a new copy, please, not the version stained by crotch-sweat).

Lucky participle: Pimpin’

Aquarius (January 20 — February 18)

If you’re hard up for inspiration, take a trip — astral or IRL. Get weird in the woods (this month has strong vibes for cryptozoological encounters), or funnel your anxieties into Herzogian monologues. Avoid islands whose economies rely on honeybees; if you find yourself in a bear suit, it’s too late and the skies are sorry. But try not to worry, Aquarius. April is still exceptional for inventing, writing, and negotiating like a pro, at least before the 17th. (Avoid rituals!)

Lucky participle: Not beekeeping

Pisces (February 19 — March 20)

Shake off last month’s aggravations like a fish with new legs and a mind toward (writerly) evolution (that stinky single-genre pond is so last month!). The first half of the month your reputation proceeds you — your hypeman Darwin has been running his mouth — and for good reason: you didn’t grow those legs quickly. You put in the time, apprenticed as a tadpole for a while, and honed your writerly strut. Furthermore, your second house is all lit the fuck up this month (let us pause for a moment to consider what it would be like to have a second house IRL… ok, good), which means this a great time to use your rep and talent to whip those acquiring editors into a bidding frenzy (and maybe get that second house?).

Lucky participle: Strutting