I never feel right at my desk until there is a cup of hot tea to my right, and my list of submission possibilities to my left. I write a few lines, read refdesk.com. Write a few more lines, sip. Play with small pebbles on my desk that my husband’s grandmother gave me, direct from a beach in Nice via her bedside table for 70 years. Lines. Repeat.
In the end, sometimes, I have a poem. Most of the time, I have a stream of consciousness that sometimes I can chip away into something else. The ritual keeps me going, and when I abandon it, I feel a little bit at sea when I try to start. What are your rituals, reader?