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?
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