Sonia M. Rompoti, MSc, Bsc

No, you don’t need candles. But they do help with the drama.

There are two kinds of people in the writing world. The first kind wakes at dawn, drinks water, stretches, writes two thousand polished words in silence, and somehow remembers where they left their good pen.

Suspicious behavior.

The second kind stares into the void, rearranges notebooks, changes playlists six times, wonders if the desk energy feels wrong, and then produces something brilliant at 11:47 p.m. fueled by tea and unresolved feelings.

I know which camp tends to be more entertaining.

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Writers are often told that creativity should be disciplined, efficient, and sensible. Sit down, produce, repeat. There is truth in that. Consistency matters. Finishing matters. Habits matter. But many creative people hear this advice and accidentally turn writing into punishment. They wait for the “perfect” schedule, the ideal mood, the pristine workspace, the expensive software, the magical notebook, the version of themselves who has transcended distraction and become deeply organized. A lovely fantasy. Tragically fictional.

The real problem for many writers is not lack of talent. It is difficulty entering the mental and emotional state where writing becomes possible.

This matters more than people realize. Writing is not only a task. It is a transition. You are moving from everyday life into imagination, structure, emotion, and focus. If your day has been full of errands, children, work, messages, noise, obligations, and the general nonsense of modern existence, you cannot always leap straight into chapter twelve where two enemies are about to kiss in a thunderstorm. Your brain may require a bridge.

That bridge is ritual.

A ritual is not superstition. It is a signal. It tells your mind, we are doing this now. It creates familiarity. It reduces resistance. It helps you return to yourself. Humans do this constantly. Athletes have routines before performance. Children need bedtime rituals. Even people who claim they have no rituals usually make coffee the same way every morning like tiny domestic priests.

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My own writing ritual is less elegant than mystical Pinterest would suggest. Sometimes it begins with tea. Sometimes with a playlist that sounds like yearning in expensive shoes. Sometimes with a candle, because if I am going to suffer through edits, I would at least like flattering lighting. Sometimes I reread one paragraph from the previous session so my brain remembers we are not starting from nothing. Sometimes I complain dramatically first. A valid warm-up.

The point is not the object. The point is repetition.

When I sit down to write books like Witch, Unleashed or Witch, Undone, I am not waiting for a divine beam of inspiration to hit my keyboard. I am creating conditions that make inspiration more likely to visit. The same happened when writing emotionally heavier stories like The Widow’s Curse. Different mood, same principle. You do not wait to feel ready forever. You help readiness arrive.

What often goes wrong for writers is that they confuse ritual with procrastination. Lighting three candles, buying another journal, making aesthetic mood boards, researching “best writing fonts,” and posting about your future novel online can feel productive. Sometimes it is. Often it is decorative avoidance in a silk robe.

A ritual should lead into the work, not replace it.

That means after the tea, after the playlist, after the dramatic sigh, you begin. Even badly. Especially badly. You write the awkward sentence. Then the less awkward one. Then the one that surprises you. Momentum is built, not granted.

Another common mistake is believing your ritual must look impressive. It does not. Your ritual can be five deep breaths and opening the laptop. It can be sitting in the same chair each night. It can be writing for twenty minutes after the school run. It can be putting your phone in another room and telling the world to cope without you briefly. It can be one song that always means it is time.

The simpler the ritual, the easier it is to repeat when life becomes messy.

If you are struggling to finish books, stop asking, “How do I become a more magical writer?” Ask, “How do I make starting easier?” Those are different questions. One feeds fantasy. The other creates output.

There is also something worth saying about mood. Many writers believe they must protect a specific emotional atmosphere to create good work. Not always. Some days you will feel inspired. Some days tired. Some days distracted. Some days mildly feral. You can still write under all those conditions. The ritual helps because it teaches your brain that creativity is not reserved for rare, perfect evenings. It is available through practice.

To maintain this habit long term, keep your ritual flexible. Life changes. Seasons change. Energy changes. A parent with young children may need ten-minute windows. A full-time worker may write at night. A freelancer may sprint in the afternoon. Do not abandon writing because your old routine no longer fits. Build a new doorway.

And protect your writing ritual from unnecessary shame. If soft music helps, use it. If silence helps, guard it. If candles help, light them. If spreadsheets help, you strange and magnificent creature, enjoy them. What matters is whether it gets you to the page.

Books are not written by the most glamorous writer. They are written by the one who returns.

Sometimes by moonlight. Sometimes in chaos. Sometimes with tea gone cold beside the keyboard and a scene so good it makes the whole ridiculous process worth it.

Annoying, really, how often persistence wins.