Here’s how to craft a writing ritual out of the jagged, jangling pieces of real life.

1. Take Inventory of the Wreckage

You can’t build a cathedral if you don’t know where the ruins lie. Before you romanticize “making time,” take a scalpel to your day. Where’s the rot? Where’s the bone?

Start by tracking your time—not for productivity, but for honesty. Where are you leaking hours? Scrolling, doom-reading, staring blankly at a fridge that contains nothing but mustard?

Find the cracks. That’s where the light—and the writing—gets in.

2. Scavenge, Don’t Schedule

Forget lofty schedules with color-coded blocks. Instead, scavenge. Look for what already exists: 15 quiet minutes while the coffee brews. A lunch break that could be more than just doom-chewing leftovers. That strange twilight sliver before sleep.

Those are your bones. Scrappy, unspectacular, but yours.

Writing rituals don’t require hours—they require intention.

3. Shrink the Dream to Fit the Container

You’re not trying to write a novel in a thunderclap. You’re trying to build a bridge to yourself, brick by humble brick. So shrink the task.

Don’t say, “I’ll write 2,000 words.” Say, “I’ll write for ten minutes.” Or “one paragraph.” Or “I’ll name a character and give them a terrible secret.”

Tiny rituals, done regularly, beat grand plans that never leave the harbor.

4. Anchor It to a Habit You Already Have

Habits stick best when they piggyback. Tie your ritual to something immovable—your morning coffee, brushing your teeth, your nightly playlist of sad girl indie rock. When X happens, you write.

Make it automatic. A reflex. A ritualized handshake with your creative self.

Your brain craves routine. Give it a script.

5. Make the Entry Easy, the Exit Satisfying

Don’t set yourself up for dread. Make your ritual low-friction and a little luxurious. Light a candle. Play a specific song. Write with a pen that feels like a wand.

And when it’s done, close it with ceremony. A breath. A note to tomorrow’s self. A small reward—chocolate, perhaps, or a smug sense of superiority.

You showed up. That’s the miracle. Honor it.

6. Embrace the Frankenstein Vibe

This ritual may not be pretty. It may be stitched together from the sinew of school drop-offs, emails, and existential fatigue. That’s fine.

Ritual isn’t about aesthetic—it’s about anchoring your soul in something that matters. Even if it’s messy. Especially if it’s messy.

You’re building a living thing from bones. Let it be imperfect and alive.

You don’t need a retreat. You don’t need silence or sweeping views or a latte served in a handmade mug from Portland. You need to carve time from the day you actually live—then honor it like it’s holy. Because it is.

So go on. Hunt the bones. Stitch the ritual. And write like your voice matters.

Because it does.

Need help finding the bones in your day? Throw me the corpse of your schedule—I’ll help you Frankenstein it into something sacred.

Because Time Won’t Find You, Darling : You’ve Got to Hunt It Down.

Let’s be honest: most of us aren’t living in a Wes Anderson film. We don’t have an antique typewriter, a lighthouse writing desk, or four undisturbed hours to commune with our “art.” What we do have is a day—a day full of cracked routines, stolen moments, and too many damn notifications.

But buried in that mess are bones. And bones can be built into something sacred.