What’s Your Ritual?

Twice this week I’ve been asked, “What’s your ritual?”

It’s a fun question, and a great measure of imagination (or, in my case, limitation). People want to know about the idiosyncratic actions of others. A special pen, a catchy song, a lucky shirt?

What do you do to prepare for writing and life?

Short answer: I don’t light a candle, walk the streets, or breathe deep.

A RITUAL FOR THE SMALL-HEARTED

This is not a recipe, but a ritual. They are sorta the same but ritual has a pinch of magic, while recipe has detailed directions, ingredients you don’t have, and temperature requirements beyond your patience. Like my meals, I keep it simple.

I drink a cup of hot tea, the cliche of writers worldwide. I’m embarrassed to even share this “insider” tip.

I should have told you Diet Coke, which is my chemical favorite. Or a shot of tequila. Even now, hours from the sanctioned time for drinking, I can see the amber liquid in the small clear glass. See how it stands eager beside journal and pen? I can taste the burn that shakes me awake.

But no, it’s tea I prepare before writing. A ritual so pedestrian and routine, so ridiculously obvious. And it’s not even a precious age-old routine, or my grandma’s special-blend ritual. It's a recent acquisition — or maybe affectation — lifted from a writer-teacher I don’t even like.

It was January. I was glum. She led class in a whispered plummy British accent that was both clever and cloying.

It was a long winter, a bleak season. I struggled to write. I couldn’t climb out of myself without scratching others. I lashed out silently in a booming voice that did me no good.

“Make a cuppa,” she said the first day of class, encouraging a comfy tone.

Words matter and few things annoy me more than using sammy for sandwich and hubs for husband. “Make a cuppa,” annoyed me right out of the room.

I wanted coffee and frenzy. I wanted to thrash and feel, not settle in for cozy biscuits and warm comfort. Give me snot and tears, eyes rubbed raw and a fever running through the heart. I wanted lightning and shock.     

And then pounding stillness — the way the sky spins after a storm, the wind slows and the world takes a breath. I wanted reset. But not without purging the poison of guilt and grief.

I didn’t know how to get there. Desperate, I turned to that teacher with the forced cheer. Word by word, I swallowed my oozing collection of bitter resistance, lifted my pen, and made a cup of tea.

What’s your ritual?

* * *

The world turns on words. Thank you for reading & writing.

• If you know someone who might enjoy this blog — please share.

• If you want to read more — subscribe for free.

• If you are here, reading this now — thank you!