I don’t need deep knowledge to believe in astrology, just enough to suspend disbelief, buoyed by my own experiences of enchantment and synchronicity that skirt all logic. But five years from now? That I can see.” If you told me today you were writing a novel, I’d say, well, you could try. What if I wrote a novel? He stared into the middle distance, where I guess all our birth charts live, and said, “Hmm. It’d been years of heartbreaking near misses as a screenwriter, I told him. The last time I saw him, I wanted to talk about my writing life. A friend gives me the present of a session with her long-time astrologer, John, who doesn’t nail everything all the time, but gets uncomfortably close, like when he predicted she’d have plumbing problems and she went home to a flood. I’m in New York on my birthday, a confluence that hasn’t happened in more than a decade, though I’m often in New York, and have a birthday reliably once a year.
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