Writing—Routine, Habit, or Ritual?

As a writer, you’re trying to form a daily routine of writing well. Or is that a good habit of writing well? Or a ritual? Let’s clear this up.

According to neuroscience expert Anne-Laure Le Cunff of Ness Labs, all three are periodically repeating actions, but there are differences. I’m going to put my own spin on the ideas Ms. Le Cunff presented in her article.

Routine. This type of action is conscious and deliberate. A routine requires thought and willpower to do. If a strong intent isn’t there each time, you’ll just stop doing the routine, or you’ll delay it until the last minute.

Examples of routines include exercising, cleaning your room, and paying taxes.

Habit. This is an action prompted by an automatic urge, usually triggered by some cue. The closer your mind connects the action to the cue, the more fixed the habit becomes. Habits can be good or bad, and human nature makes it easy to slip into bad ones and easy to slip out of good ones.

Examples of habits include getting up with an alarm clock, brushing teeth after eating, and checking email first after turning on your computer.

Ritual. An action intended to better yourself, not just maintain your existence. It gives you purpose and fulfillment. Your focus is on enjoying the task, not just getting through it.

Examples of rituals include meditation, learning a new language, and practicing a musical instrument.

If you intend to be a good writer, which of the three are you aiming for? To answer that, you need to understand one more concept first—the Habit Loop.

I believe all habits start off as routines. For example, the first time you brushed your teeth, you had to think through the process. It was a routine, requiring intent and concentration. Later, after it became a habit, you performed it automatically, usually right after eating.

How do routines become habits? By using the Habit Loop.

The idea here is to use a cue of some kind to trigger the task, and then reward yourself for completing it. By shortening the time of the cycle, particularly the cue-routine gap and the routine-reward gap, you help ingrain the routine as a habit. That’s what the inward-pointing arrows signify.

How does all this apply to writing? For simplicity, let’s separate writing into three tasks:

  1. Initiation—sitting down to write. I recommend making this a daily habit. Use the Habit Loop to ingrain it, if necessary. For beginning writers, Initiation is the most important task. After all, the other two can’t take place if you don’t plunk yourself down in the chair to write first.
  • Conceptualization—choosing a genre, constructing a plot, fleshing out characters. I think of this as a ritual, in the sense of being done for the sheer joy of writing. This requires considerable conscious thought and creativity, and should not be considered a chore. Don’t get into a habit rut by writing stories with the same theme, similar characters, common settings, etc. Keep things fresh.
  • Mechanics—stringing sentences together, choosing words, etc. Some days, this may seem like a ritual, an enjoyable task done for its own sake. Other days, it may seem like a routine, a task requiring thought but one you look forward to completing. Perhaps for truly experienced authors, this becomes more automatic, like a habit.

Is writing a routine, habit, or ritual? Apparently, it is all three. It’s a routine/habit/ritual much loved by—

Poseidon’s Scribe

Getting Words Down

When I began my writing hobby, I wondered about the mechanics of how real authors worked.  I figured real authors (famous ones, for whom writing was their day job) just sat at their keyboards producing electronic reams of high-quality prose, stealing glances out the window across the acreage of their vast estates.  Or maybe some of them lounged by the side of their Olympic pool with a voice recorder in hand, speaking the words that one of their staff would later type up in a manuscript.  Perhaps some of the older, less techno-savvy of these authors still used their favorite typewriter (remember those?), or wrote on paper with a diamond-studded fountain pen.  Again, the task of typing all those magical, money-making lines into a word processor would fall to a minion.

The daily routine of a real author, I imagined, would go something like this.  Noon: wake up.  Afternoon:  Do something to get in the writing mood, such as scuba diving, skiing, hunting bear, skydiving, or piloting your private jet to some city for lunch or dinner with famous editor or agent.  After dinner:  intimate party with one hundred celebrity friends.  Midnight:  write until four a.m.  Sleep.  Repeat every day.

Such imaginings did my psyche no good at all.  Inevitably I would compare my own situation to that of my fantasy author and find that I fell somewhat short.  I lacked not only the vast estate and Olympic pool, but even the diamond-studded pen and private jet.  Most of all, I lacked the long stretches of time available to famous writers.

Somehow I would have to make due with a computer located in a small downstairs den, a plastic ballpoint pen, and the short, irregular snatches of time I could steal from my day job and family obligations.

How should I make best use of these scanty resources?  Should I carve out an hour of each day and declare it my writing hour?  Sit down at the computer and do nothing else but write during that time?  Such a strategy would have the advantage of forming a habit, establishing a mental boundary that would keep other activities out and ensure a fixed routine.  The act of sitting down every day to write at the same time, in the same setting, would ensure a steady flow of output.

That approach might work for some, and how I wish it worked for me.  But my muse would have none of it.  I’d sit down at the beginning of my writing hour and think, “Now, be creative.”  But nothing happened.  Apparently my carefully arranged writing hour was inconvenient for my muse, damn her.  So a wasted sixty minutes ensued in which a few words got typed, the delete and backspace keys saw much action, and nothing of consequence resulted.  In frustration I retired for bed, first taking my customary nighttime shower.  Don’t you know—it was then the stupid muse decided to visit, with me naked and soaking wet, without a computer in sight.

In time, I came to realize that writing—for me—would mean adapting my schedule to that of my muse.  I’d have to be ready for her appearance at any time of day.  I formed the habit of carrying a writing pad in my briefcase to and from work or when going on errands.  I put a voice recorder in the car, and another writing pad on the nightstand.  Yes, it means extra work since I write by hand first, then type the same words into my computer’s word processor.  But I find the typing process serves as a first edit along the way to a finished draft.

As a story progresses, I hand-write several pages, then type them up and print them out.  By stapling blank pages to the back, I can then use my (and my muse’s) available time to edit what I’ve done before and add to it.  Then type and print some more, etc. and edit the result until the story’s done.  It may seem cumbersome, but it works for me.

Those last four words are the main point.  If a writer you would be, then you’ll have to work out the mechanics of the process for yourself.  I wish you luck, says–

Poseidon’s Scribe