What the Cards Know Best: A Guest Post by Rachael Herron
A sudden separation leads to a miraculous encounter in this magic-infused tale about unconditional love, family bonds and rediscovering what matters most. Read on for an exclusive essay from Rachael Herron on writing The Seven Miracles of Beatrix Holland.
Paperback $19.99
The Seven Miracles of Beatrix Holland
The Seven Miracles of Beatrix Holland
In Stock Online
Paperback $19.99
A “warm, witchy, and wonderful” family story that is the queer love-child of Practical Magic and The Parent Trap as one woman is about to discover that she’s a witch (Sarah Beth Durst).
A “warm, witchy, and wonderful” family story that is the queer love-child of Practical Magic and The Parent Trap as one woman is about to discover that she’s a witch (Sarah Beth Durst).
I started writing The Seven Miracles of Beatrix Holland knowing only one thing: the main character would be told by a psychic that she would experience seven miracles.
And then she would die.
Honestly, it seemed like a pretty big pickle to get into, especially for someone who had trouble believing in psychics, mediums, witches, or magic. Here I’m talking about Beatrix, the main character, but also about myself.
I’ve always wanted to believe in magic, but I’ve found myself reluctant to believe in anything that doesn’t make scientific sense.
So I approached tarot cards with that same skepticism. They seemed like beautiful art, interesting psychology, maybe useful for creative inspiration—but actual guidance? I wasn’t convinced. Still, writing a book like this one made me think: why not experiment?
At first, I used the cards the way I imagined a practical person like Beatrix would—as elaborate story prompts. Stuck on a plot point? Pull a card and see what it suggested. The Tower card led to the dramatic tree house lightning strike (don’t worry, I won’t spoil anything). The Three of Swords guided me through Beatrix’s heartbreak over a betrayal.
I told myself I was just using pretty pictures to jog my creativity.
But then something strange started happening. The cards began offering guidance that felt too specific, too perfectly timed to be coincidence. When I was struggling with whether Beatrix should trust her newfound abilities, I pulled the Fool card, which is about taking leaps of faith into the unknown (and I knew it applied to both Beatrix and myself). When I wasn’t sure if I should deepen the sapphic relationship between Beatrix and a reclusive carpenter, the Two of Cups appeared, leading them to deep emotional connection and romantic love.
Most unsettling of all was when I kept drawing the Death card while struggling to write the ending. In tarot, Death rarely means literal death—it stands for transformation, endings that lead to new beginnings. Beatrix had been told by a psychic to expect death, and since all those miracles had actually occurred, this started to loom as a really big problem. Would I, as the author, have to strike her down myself? Was that the right thing to do? Or was I just some jerk with a pen and a pretty deck of tarot cards?
By then, I wasn’t entirely sure how magic worked but I was unable to deny that it did. Luckily, Beatrix and I both discovered that you don’t need to understand magic for it to work. Sometimes you just have to shuffle the deck, ask your question, and trust that the answer you need will appear. The cards guided me through every chapter, every character arc, every moment of doubt (including the ending).
Maybe that’s the real magic—learning to trust the process. Trusting that when you leap, you will be caught by those who love you.
