Every Little Ritual

Every writer has their own way to get in the zone. Some need to have their space set up just so. A certain order of events might have to happen for others. It’s a sacred ritual that many writers rely on, and I’m no exception.

I don’t have to have my writing space just so, I can write either at my desk or scattered across the kitchen table. I’ve also been known to nest into my easy chair with files and folders and papers spread all around me. I tote around my current WIP every where I go. Each space has to have a set order and its own unique ritual before I can pull the story from the Library.

My tools also have to be just right. I can’t use just any pencil, it must be mechanical with a rubber grip, size 5 lead, on the wide side with the clicker on the end and a good eraser. Not one of those rubber bits that just smug the lead, but a good one. I have to have wide ruled loose leaf paper. I also have to have a good red ink pen. Not one of those gel pens that smear if you don’t let it dry long enough. I like roller ball pens but they have to be reliable. I can’t sit there scratching waiting for it to warm up.

One thing that is universal in all my writing locations is the order in which I write. The first thing I write up is my goal list. What do I want to accomplish this time? Do I need to research anything? What other things do I need to write before I can start my WIP? Then I start on the smaller projects. A blog post, say, or a short story maybe. After that I dive into some research, but I only research the items I need to know for that writing session. Then, and only then, can I start the novel.

What if....

Today I didn’t get my magic in the morning, and it has really messed with me. I’m less able to cope with the demands of mother hood. It’s incredibly difficult to put words on paper. I’m one big ball of insaneness just ripe to burst at any given moment. Innocent bystanders beware.

It makes me wonder though, how other people react when something they’ve come to rely on doesn’t happen, either by choice or otherwise. How would Jamie react or Josh or Debbie and Iris? What do they rely on? What would happen if Penny couldn’t wear her ankle breakers? Would she lose her pep? Her bubbly personality? What would happen if Debbie didn’t have her Buba any more? Would she be unable to cope with the stress of a new life? What would happen to Jamie if she cut off all her hair? Would she lose her identity? What would happen to Amanda if no one catered to her anymore? Would she fall into a pit of self loathing or find another way to validate her worth? How would they then turn it around and grow to a better person? Would they grow to a better person or would they give up on that path and move to wickedness?

How far would they go to get it back? What would they gladly give up in exchange? Me, I’ll gladly give up sleep in order to get my sun rises. I’ll trudge through the week in a fog of sleep deprivation for those few hours in the morning when it’s just me and the click of the keys, the scratch of a pencil.

Today, I just want to hit the redo button and wake at my normal hour. Instead I’ll take deep breaths until my fingers tingle and work this nightmare of a morning into something I can use in my books. A way to make Jamie, Josh, Sarah, Penny, Rob, Debbie, Amanda, Renee, Iris, Shelia, Jake, Aleme, Matt, Hope, Faith, Lilly, Seth, and Star that much more of a person, that much more believable.

Of Two Minds

At just before four in the morning I’m torn. Should I go back to bed, get a few more hours of sleep or should I take advantage of the predawn stillness and let the whispers guide my hand to bring life onto paper?

As I wait for the Bright Eyed Quill to slip once more into the land of sweet dreams the stories take shape in the sleep-fogged recesses of my mind. Three to four hours of rare uninterrupted writing time lay right within my grasp. I can all but taste the sharp tang of graphite dust, the promise of a blissful hit of my sweet addiction.

I yearn for that escape, the joy of watching worlds unfold across off white and the thrill of exploring the minds of unnumbered people. To cast aside all worries of my mundane life and simply exist would be damn near orgasmic.

Yet the responsible adult in me is appalled. I’m about to endure a long stretch of late nights and early mornings. I should sleep while I have the chance. I’d regret the lack of sleep as I make the midnight drive home tonight.

“You cannot count on a nap before work,” my mind says, “Sleep while you have the chance.”

“You sleep every night, how often do you get to write now a days?” The voices whisper. “You got a solid three hours already. Indulge your passion, your dreams and the rewards will be well worth the loss of a few hours tonight.”

I can’t decide as both hold equal draw, the same importance and mutual priority. Yet, I cannot simply remain in this purgatory. I’ll flip a coin and let it guide my actions.

Heads-I let my mind unfold across the infinite nothingness and allow myself to be possessed by those who need to share their stories.

Tails-I lay myself down to sleep with the promise of another opportunity as this and the knowledge that I’ll start the swing refreshed.

The coin is warm between my fingers, a testament to the heat that awaits the dawn. I close my eyes and send a slight prayer to guide the coin and flip it into the air.

Stark man-made light glints off the etched surface as it falls end over end. A regal profile, a majestic bird, heads, tails and back again. I shut my eyes once more as it nears the ground and wait for the muffled signal.

The coin, which was to help my indecision lodged into the tight coarse weave of the carpet. On it’s edge, nether heads nor tails.

Well shit.

When the Lights Go Out

I don’t get spooked easily, but stick me in a darkened bookstore after hours and the hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention.

The way the shadows play across countless eyes and half-hidden smirks, is like nothing I’ve ever experienced before. Power down the sound system and it gets loud. I can hear the stories whispering to each other. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the character’s move within the cover art.

I can say this; you’re never truly alone in a bookstore. Each story comes alive at night; the characters leave the pages and seek adventure between their neighbor’s bindings. When the lights go out Vikings war with Space Cadets, Dragon’s fly through the London Blitz, the women of Romance gossip about their men with the ladies of magazines and zombies learn to cook.

Now that I work at a bookstore, (yes such a wonderful cliché) my muse has gone into overdrive. Last night as I closed up, new stories rushed to fill my mind, begging to be let lose. I see many new stories coming to life on the paper and I’m so looking forward to sitting down to really follow my dreams.