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?  

Write the ritual.  Imagine your altar.  If you don’t have a ritual for writing, or making art, invent one.  Write about the process of making your own writing retreat, accessible daily.