Stephen King

Some souls shine not in the limelight but through the sheer labour of doing a thing perfectly, and this is the heart of Stephen King. His Sun in Virgo is the vitality that expresses itself through craft and service, the jack of all arts who insists on mastering them, forever his own worst critic. That Mercurial diligence sits in the third house of the hands and the words: the Sun of a communicator who shines by writing and never takes the back seat. Little wonder he has poured out more than sixty novels since the discarded pages of Carrie (1974), rescued from the bin by his wife Tabitha, opened the door to The Shining, The Stand and It.

His Moon in Sagittarius is the philosopher's psyche, at peace only through freedom and the open dark of the imagination, and it falls in the fifth house of creativity, where every book becomes his baby, his output ebbing and flowing like the phases themselves. Cancer rising gives him the soft, watchful shell of the storyteller, the crab who knows exactly how emotion works and can make you feel every one. From that guarded, tender mask, King learned to frighten the world by understanding, with maternal precision, what it loves and fears most.