In his audio discourse on the 60th Gene Key, Richard Rudd says something along the lines of: No one knows the meaning of being stuck like someone under the influence of the 60th shadow of limitation.
He also described the key as opaque. Mysterious. A tough nut to crack.
(P.S. I’m paraphrasing)
I have this key in both my Life’s Work sphere, as well as my Attractor. I understand very little about it, or how it expresses through me. I know I have a knack for creating sound structures, and some very pronounced authority issues. I believe wholeheartedly in magic. I am deeply and profoundly fascinated by language, and spend quite a lot of time playing with words.
I know that some vague aspect of me resents this key, and its prominence in my chart. It feels heavy. Serious. Red tape, ugh.
I do know that I get stuck. I mean, in hindsight I do. I spent five years writing my first book three times from scratch, only to realize (after a handful of rejections) that it’s a cleverly disguised batch of rambling indulgence that embarrasses me.
I’ve spent the past two and a half years writing a television show six times. Perfecting the pilot. Long-arcing seven seasons’ worth of story lines and character transformations that are novel, meaningful, illuminating, relevant and hilarious. I have a team of big shots who believe in me and in this project, and are waiting for me to get it right, and who I fear are also wondering if it’s worth banking on me to ever get it right.
“Are you starting to panic?” asked a friend of mine when I told him I was delving into rewrite #7.
He was referring to far more than the television show. He was referring to the success I haven’t yet attained. The potential I’ve yet to realize. The cautionary tale I may very well be.
Last week, I did a coaching intensive that inspired me to connect deeply to what I really want. To this television show I’ve yet to get right, let alone off the ground.
Why am I not doing the thing I want to be doing the most? I wondered.
Because I’m still writing the pilot, I thought.
Why? I pressed.
I reviewed the last two and a half years spent fighting with my Gemini-rising writing partner over time and and scheduling. The draining task of trying to wrangle his attention towards our show.
I’ve published two books, and several dozen articles in the last two and a half years. I’m a finisher. I’m a disciplined writer with a chart riddled with one lines, who has no trouble sacrificing fun and adventure to stay in and write.
My writing partner has been working on the same script he was writing when I met him nine years ago.
I flashed on the producer who pulled me aside to tell me, “You don’t need anyone’s help with this. You can do this on your own.”
I flashed on the big shot agent who signed me in my 20s, who called me into his office and asked me why I’d brought my boyfriend in as a co-writer on the project that was clearly mine, and mine alone.
I flashed on so many moments of frustration wherein I felt unmet, like it was all on me.
I flashed on that dream wherein my writing partner and I ran into my dance teacher during a 3 AM stroll along an imaginary Echo Park river, and she pulled me aside and said: “He’s not the guy for you,” and I tried to explain it wasn’t romantic, but she had already morphed into someone else entirely.
Last week, I blew up the partnership in a flash of shock and fire (God bless that 51.2 EQ). I’ve been writing solo ever since.
I am blown away by what’s coming through. By how easy it is. By the structures that are showing themselves to me. By how much fun I’m having, and by how alive it all feels and is.
I am bowing big time to the 60th Gene Key, and to this tiny flash of insight this remarkable (if exhausting) experience has gifted me.
Okay, Synarchy. Thanks for reading. Back to writing my show. I have seven seasons’ worth of structure to magically channel.