Again, and again, and again
On routines, rituals, and the practice of showing up
Dearest,
1.
The first time I realised my writing rhythm was as chaotic as the rest of my life, I was sitting in a coffee shop, surrounded by the kind of effortlessly productive writers who type away at their laptops as if they’re finishing The Next Great Thing. Me? I looked like I’d been wrestling with both my journal and my inner demons—which, to be fair, I had. I was sixteen, maybe seventeen, a sophomore in college, and just starting to take poetry seriously. I was quite impressionable, and I thought, shit, I’m doing it wrong.
Back at my parents’ house, my desk was less a sacred area and more a crime scene. Empty mugs haloed with stale coffee, bits of scratch paper littered with fragments that read like fevered dreams from a half-mad stranger the next morning. Writing then felt like trying to catch smoke with a butterfly net—romantic in theory, futile in practice.
It was in those moments of mild disasters that I began to ask myself: What am I waiting for? The lightning bolt of inspiration? The perfect line to appear fully formed?
I needed something to anchor me. We call it by many names—routine, ritual, practice. They’re not interchangeable, though it’s easy to fall into the trap believing that they are. A routine is practical, even transactional—having a schedule to write, deciding how many words to aim for, making sure your pen has ink. A ritual, on the other hand, is sacred. It’s lighting a candle, arranging your desk just so, or sipping coffee in silence before you begin—a small ceremony to summon the muse. And then there’s the practice, the relationship you build with your writing life.
Perhaps you’ve felt it too: the dissonance of trying to find your flow in a life that rarely leaves room for stillness. The pull of a thousand responsibilities, the ache of being stretched too thin, and that stubborn, unrelenting desire to write anyway. We find ourselves tangled in contradiction, unsure of when or how we will arrive.
When I first read about other writers’ daily routines, something inside me both laughed and wept. Laughed, because the idea of me voluntarily waking before dawn feels about as likely as me suddenly developing the ability to teleport. Wept, because their commitment is admirable and something I wanted for myself.
So I decided to try. My younger self, ever ambitious, thought, Let’s mimic the greats. Oh, how that turned out. Let’s just say there were many failed attempts, all ending with me face-planting into reality. Now I know better: there is no one-size-fits-all.
Over the years, my writing has become a fugitive practice—a series of stolen moments negotiated between jobs, expectations, and the daily grind of adulthood. I’ve made peace with that in some ways, but here’s the truth: I want something more for myself for the rest of my life. I want to let it be something I choose rather than something I chase.
And that’s where routine, ritual, and practice come in. All three are important to me, and I’m trying to honour each of them in my life. I want the routine to create consistency. I need the ritual to ground me, to transform writing into something sacred and intentional. And I’m working on nurturing my practice, to show up with care, curiosity, and commitment, even on the days when it feels hard.
2.
Routines are about structure. They anchor us in practicalities, ensuring that creativity has a place to land.
Haruki Murakami, for example, is all about routine. His day is surprisingly choreographed:
“When I’m in writing mode for a novel, I get up at 4:00 am and work for five to six hours. In the afternoon, I run for 10km or swim for 1500m (or do both), then I read a bit and listen to some music. I go to bed at 9:00 pm. I keep to this routine every day without variation. The repetition itself becomes the important thing; it’s a form of mesmerism. I mesmerize myself to reach a deeper state of mind.”
— Haruki Murakami, The Art of Fiction No. 182, interviewed by John Wray for The Paris Review, 2004
Murakami builds his day on rigour, not waiting. His mornings are dominated by precision and feels athletic in its discipline, where writing is as much an act of endurance as it is creativity. I wonder: Do the boundaries he sets create freedom within? Could the steadiness of routine itself unlock something unpredictable?
For Kurt Vonnegut, writing is wedged between life's necessities. There's a beautiful fuck-you to the idea that creativity must look immaculate. His routine is messy, human, alive:
“In an unmoored life like mine, sleep and hunger and work arrange themselves to suit themselves, without consulting me. I’m just as glad they haven’t consulted me about the tiresome details. What they have worked out is this: I awake at 5:30, work until 8:00, eat breakfast at home, work until 10:00, walk a few blocks into town, do errands, go to the nearby municipal swimming pool, which I have all to myself, and swim for half an hour, return home at 11:45, read the mail, eat lunch at noon. In the afternoon I do schoolwork, either teach or prepare. When I get home from school at about 5:30, I numb my twanging intellect with several belts of Scotch and water ($5.00/fifth at the State Liquor store, the only liquor store in town. There are loads of bars, though.), cook supper, read and listen to jazz (lots of good music on the radio here), slip off to sleep at ten.”
— Kurt Vonnegut, in a letter to his wife Jane, dated 28 September 1965 (h/t The Marginalian)
Vonnegut’s routine feels more relatable and grounded in the ordinariness of life. And yet, I sense in it the same devotion.
3.
If you must know—poets are collectors of rituals. We gather them like talismans, each one a small attempt to tether ourselves to the ineffable. I don’t really know when inspiration will strike, but rituals become the bridge I build between the mundane and the miraculous. Rituals are the steps I take toward possibility.
Toni Morrison once wrote of her need to begin in darkness, her ritual tied to the moments before light broke over the horizon:
“Eventually I realized that I was clearer-headed, more confident and generally more intelligent in the morning. The habit of getting up early, which I had formed when the children were young, now became my choice. I am not very bright or very witty or very inventive after the sun goes down…I always get up and make a cup of coffee while it is still dark—it must be dark—and then I drink the coffee and watch the light come…And I realized that for me this ritual comprises my preparation to enter a space that I can only call nonsecular…Writers all devise ways to approach that place where they expect to make the contact, where they become the conduit, or where they engage in this mysterious process. For me, light is the signal in the transition. It’s not being in the light, it’s being there before it arrives. It enables me, in some sense.”
— Toni Morrison, The Art of Fiction No. 134, interviewed by Elissa Schappell & Claudia Brodsky Lacour for The Paris Review, 1993
“It must be dark,” she said, emphasising that the transition, not the arrival, was what mattered most. For Morrison, the act of waiting for light symbolised an entry point into something transcendental. Her process feels reverent, almost ceremonial, and it makes me think about the ways we each prepare to write—not just physically, but emotionally and spiritually. And if you ask me—yes, I think of writing, especially writing poetry, as a summoning—a prayer.
Where do rituals end and routines begin? I’ve come to think of them as partners: rituals open the door, and routines guide us through. Rituals prepare us emotionally and spiritually, while routines offer the scaffolding for consistency.
Of course, these examples aren’t universal formulas—but they are reminders that the best hours are personal and deeply tied to who we are and how we move through the world.
4.
Beyond rituals and routines lies the practice. There are the night writers like Franz Kafka, who turn conventional wisdom on its head. He wrote from the edges of exhaustion. The Lancet Neurology Journal even cites his insomnia as a “literary method”:
“For all his writing life, Kafka had insomnia and the hypnagogic hallucinations arising from his lack of sleep shaped much of his writing…
“I believe this sleeplessness comes only because I write”, Kafka noted in one of his diary entries in 1910. In 1922, to Max Brod, he writes: “Perhaps there are other forms of writing, but I know only this kind; at night, when fear keeps me from sleeping, I know only this kind.” As Aaron Mishara notes, for Kafka, writing is a trance-like Dionysian activity at night, opening the endless inner darkness of self as an abyss without an end. Kafka, writing about one of his sleepless nights, mentions a great fire in which everything appears and disappears, which Mishara suggests represents a state of cortical excitability after his withdrawal from social stimuli with sleep deprivation…”
And what about poets? In my research to learn more about how writers spend their hours, I discovered this treasure trove by Mason Currey (who writes Subtle Maneuvers):
“My writing process consists of sitting around my apartment in the afternoon, wondering if it’s gotten too late to do any writing. Around 4 or 5 I make myself a cup of tea, which I sip while reading poetry. After a while I either start to write or call it quits for the day. Usually I listen to some contemporary classical music while this is going on. I usually do it several times a month (say 10?) if other things don’t intervene.”
— John Ashbery, interviewed by Jonathan Hobratsch for The Huffington Post, 2015
“To live next door to Walcott, even for a week is to understand how he has managed to be so productive over the years. A prodigious worker, he often starts at about 4:30 in the morning and continues until he has done a four- or five-hour stint—by the time most people are getting up for the day.”
— Edward Hirsch on Derek Walcott, from an interview for The Paris Review, 1986
W.H. Auden—to which I can only say: um, whoa?
“Perhaps the finest writer ever to use speed systematically, however, was W. H. Auden. He swallowed Benzedrine every morning for twenty years, from 1938 onward, balancing its effect with the barbiturate Seconal when he wanted to sleep. (He also kept a glass of vodka by the bed, to swig if he woke up during the night.) He took a pragmatic attitude toward amphetamines, regarding them as a "labor-saving device" in the "mental kitchen," with the important proviso that "these mechanisms are very crude, liable to injure the cook, and constantly breaking down.””
— John Lanchester on W.H. Auden, from “High Style,” published in The New Yorker, 2002
“My life is as simple as I can make it. Work all day, cook, eat, wash up, telephone, hack writing, drink, television in the evenings. I almost never go out. I suppose everyone tries to ignore the passing of time—some people by doing a lot, being in California one year and Japan the next. Or there’s my way—making every day and every year exactly the same. Probably neither works…I don’t think you can write a poem for more than two hours. After that you’re going round in circles, and it’s much better to leave it for twenty-four hours, by which time your subconscious or whatever has solved the block and you’re ready to go on.”
— Philip Larkin, interviewed by Robert Phillips for The Paris Review, 1982
and Gertrude Stein:
“Miss Stein gets up every morning about ten and drinks some coffee, against her will. She's always been nervous about becoming nervous and she thought coffee would make her nervous, but her doctor prescribed it. Miss Toklas, her companion, gets up at six and starts dusting and fussing around. Once she broke a fine piece of Venetian glass and cried. Miss Stein laughed and said "Hell, oh hell, hell, objects are made to be consumed like cakes, books, people.””
— Janet Flanner, James Thurber, and Harold Ross on a day with Gertrude Stein, from “Tender Buttons,” published in The New Yorker, 1934
Every one of these writers share something fundamental: tending to the writing, no matter the hour or method. What I’m beginning to understand is that the practice itself matters more than the timing. The hours you choose, the methods you employ—they are about showing up. Again, and again, and again.
5.
The idea of rising early to seize the day isn’t new—it is woven into countless cultural and historical narratives. “The early bird catches the worm,” they say, and if you’re like me, you hear this and think: What about the worm? Did it wake up early just to be eaten?
Across cultures, morning has often been seen as a symbol of renewal, a clean slate when energy and clarity are at their peak. In many agrarian societies, life revolved around the rising sun. Farmers woke early to make the most of daylight, their routines shaped by the earth’s patterns. The morning was not just practical, it was symbolic—a time for beginnings.
This philosophy lingers in modern productivity culture, which prizes the early riser. The 5 AM club, popularised in self-help books, is an echo of these traditions. It reinforces the idea that early hours are synonymous with success and discipline.
But night has its champions, too. Evening rituals can hold spiritual weight. The poet Rumi wrote: “Don’t go to sleep one night. / What you most want will come to you then.” Even the Romantic poets walked under moonlit skies, believing that nature revealed her secrets in the dark.
Our background plays a role in shaping how we view time and, by extension, our creative practices. In most Western societies, time is often linear, a resource to be managed and optimised. Colonial time—that rigid, measured, “scarcity centred” beast—has over and over tried to convince us that our worth is tied to our productivity. Wake up. Work. Produce. Repeat.
In contrast, other societies view time as cyclical, tied to what’s natural rather than imposed schedules. What does it mean to write within such frameworks?
6.
My own cultural inheritance complicates these narratives. I am steeped in a blend of influences that shape my understanding of time and creativity. Filipino culture often places value on adaptation. Our concept of “bahala na” (which roughly means “whatever happens, happens” or “come what may”) can feel both liberating and paralysing: a surrender to the moment that can conflict with the rigour required to maintain a writing practice. I find myself caught between the pull of structure and the fluidity of improvisation.
In the context of creativity, bahala na can become a powerful tool. Writing, like life, is riddled with uncertainties: Will the words come today? Will this draft hold meaning tomorrow? The bahala na mindset allows me to release the grip of self-doubt, to step into the blank page and just embrace the unknown.
“Maski papaano,” (loosely meaning “whatever works”) or its colloquial form “maskipaps,” carries a similar sense of flexibility but leans into resourcefulness and a willingness to piece things together even when conditions aren’t ideal. In writing, perhaps I can contextualise maski papaano as a way of ad-libbing life: writing on the backs of receipts, or working while the neighbours are doing karaoke on a Sunday.
These expressions are more than linguistic quirks—they reveal how we navigate uncertainty and the act of creating.
That being said, I know only too well how these two concepts can also foster complacency and be used as an excuse to avoid the hard work of writing. At its worst, bahala na and maskipaps can become a crutch, a way of deferring duties. Creativity also requires deliberate action and not just half-measures.
These days I have settled into the ebb and flow of writing during those magic hours between midnight and 3 AM when everything goes quiet and my brain decides, finally, to cooperate. I mean—my mind is a browser with 147 tabs open, and that’s just the first window. But I’ve noticed that things can shift depending on how my daily life goes. What becomes clear is that creativity is less about the hour on the clock and more about the hours we allow ourselves to spend in the company of our own thoughts.
7.
So here’s the age-old question: How often should you be writing? Spoiler: there is no memo. Everyone’s doing their own thing.
Some poets swear by writing daily, believing that a terrible poem today could lead to a good one tomorrow—or at the very least, something you don’t immediately want to set on fire. It hinges on the principle of: The more you write, the better you become. I mean—we call it a practice, no?
But then there are also poets who lean into the fallow periods, respecting the writing as if it were a moody houseplant—sometimes it needs water and sunlight, and sometimes it needs you to leave it the hell alone. The heart of it is that you move at your own pace. Imagining is writing. Daydreaming is writing. Reading is writing.
Ocean Vuong believes in taking your time: “[T]he best way is to just live your life but tend to the work mentally. Tend to it while you’re doing your dishes, while you’re showering, taking a dog for a walk…In fact, so much of creation is thinking.”
And let’s not forget the procrastinators among us. For some, the thrill of last-minute panic is the ultimate muse. They write in glorious, chaotic bursts, fueled by caffeine, adrenaline, and possibly existential dread.
The truth is, there’s no universal formula. Some people thrive on structure; others break out in hives at the mere thought of it. What matters isn’t how often you write but how honest your writing feels.
Because let’s face it: writing daily won’t magically drop a Pulitzer on your lap. And writing sporadically doesn’t mean you’re lazy. The point is to show up when you can, in the way that you can, and let the words do their thing.
8.
Let's get something straight though: writing routines are not created equal. For some they are not even democratic. They are often romanticised and obscure a reality many of us face: that the clean slate of early morning or the serene wee hours is a luxury for those without childcare to worry about, or multiple jobs to juggle, or who don’t have to spend hours commuting. For many of us, the day begins and ends not with solitude but with urgency, a rush to meet what life demands.
Economic pressures, precarious housing situations, and health challenges compound this reality further. Marginalised writers, in particular, often face systemic barriers that limit their capacity. As they say—the privilege of writing full-time is real. These inequities shape who gets to write, when, and for how long, often leaving the rest of us to find creativity in the cracks and corners of our days. More than half of us attempting to capture our stories and document the human experience are simultaneously juggling various forms of survival. These are not abstractions. These are lived realities.
These challenges are not personal failings but the result of systemic barriers—forces that make creativity feel inaccessible for many rather than something everyone can freely pursue.
If you are balancing multiple responsibilities, adapting writing routines to fit the life you have now is crucial. Finding small pockets of time could mean the 15 minutes before the kids wake up or your one-hour lunch break at work. Creating conditions for writing (instead of waiting for it to happen) could mean putting on headphones to block out distractions, finding a undisturbed corner in a busy house, or using public libraries, parks, or community centers during available hours.
E.B. White once said, “A writer who waits for ideal conditions under which to work will die without putting a word on paper.” He’s not wrong—writing often requires us to push past imperfect circumstances and simply begin. But it’s also worth acknowledging that White’s perspective was shaped by his position in a society that offered him, a white man, opportunities and freedoms not equally available to everyone. Because, really, what are “ideal conditions”? It could very well be that the things we are advised to forgo might not be luxuries but basic necessities: time, stability, and access to resources.
Growing up in a household where financial constraints dictated every decision, I understood early that time was not always mine to claim. Space wasn’t something I owned—I didn’t even have my own bedroom, and there was never ever privacy in the house. Space was something I tried to compromise over: allow me an hour to write at this desk, and I’ll wash the all the dishes you leave in the sink.
Even now when I’m living on my own, writing had to fit into the fissures of the day, and often it didn’t. I used to feel guilty about that, as if I was failing some invisible test that all “real” writers passed. But over the years, I’ve learned that a sustainable writing practice doesn’t have to be flawless. It just has to fit your life, whatever shape that may take. I’ve learned to write in the intermissions—while waiting for a client meeting to start, while standing in line at the grocery, while waiting for the rice to cook. All those moments I’ve written, whenever, however—they’re messy, improvised, even desperate. But they’re mine.
9.
So how do you build a routine, ritual, and practice when life feels like it’s conspiring against you? Each one requires its own kind of care. Here’s how I approach them:
Building a routine: The Framework
Routines give writing a place in your day, no matter how small. They’re the practical scaffolding that ensures creativity has room to breathe. I start by asking myself:
What are my non-negotiables? Work, caregiving, errands—what parts of my day are already claimed? Acknowledging these commitments validates what’s realistic.
Where are the seams? What gaps exist in my day? Maybe it’s the lull after dinner or when I’m doom-scrolling on my phone. Even 5 minutes can be enough to get started.
What appeals to me? Usually mornings are too noisy, and I love the way the night feels calmer.
Where can I reduce friction? I find that removing the little obstacles that make writing feel harder than it needs to be is key. It could be something as small as making sure my pens are within reach instead of rummaging through a drawer, or having a small snack handy if you tend to get peckish while writing. It’s about setting up my surroundings to make writing as straightforward as possible. I try to work with what’s already in place rather than fighting against it.
Creating rituals: The Doorway
Rituals are about how you enter the creative space—they turn the act of writing into something intentional and sacred.
Find what inspires you: Light a candle, make a cup of tea, or sit in your favorite spot. Rituals don’t have to be elaborate, they just need to feel meaningful.
Use transitions: If I’ve had a chaotic day, I use small acts to shift my mindset—organising my desk, listening to music, or even just taking a deep breath before starting.
Build anticipation: The ritual itself can become a comforting part of your process, something you look forward to as much as the writing itself.
Deepening your practice: The Relationship
It’s where growth happens—not in a single session, but in the accumulation of effort over time.
Start small: I challenged myself to write for 10 minutes each day for about a week. And then I increased that slowly until I started to build my writing muscle and stamina.
Experiment with tools. I used to write my drafts exclusively in notebooks, but I’ve learned to be flexible and type notes on my phone, or drafts on the computer in between sending emails for work.
Track your energy: When do you feel most creative or focused? For me, it’s past midnight, when everyone is asleep. At 1 AM my mind is very much alive. So I write. Honour your natural rhythms.
Set clear boundaries. It can be as simple as closing a door—a small act that signals to the world (and yourself) that this time is reserved for writing.
How to make it all sustainable? I’ve had breakthroughs at odd hours—while chopping vegetables, on a rideshare in the middle of traffic, or in the shower. There’s no one right formula. But I always come back to these:
Fill your well. Read books that inspire you. Take walks. Talk to people who light up your brain.
Commit to showing up. Even if it’s just once a week. The best time to write is the time that works for you.
Allow yourself to fail. Not every session will produce brilliance. Some days, the best you can do is sit with the page. That’s progress nevertheless.
Find your best hours—and accept them. Maybe it’s 9 PM or 4 AM, or while the clothes are in the dryer. It doesn’t matter when—what matters is listening to yourself. Honour those hours.
10.
I know uninterrupted hours to myself are not always a guarantee, but I do what I can to create it when life allows. I also know that my reality doesn’t always include a stable job that doesn’t take all of my attention. Right now, I’m lucky to have a place of my own where I can write as long as I want—until I have to grapple with the reality that my landlord has raised my rent, or when my income needs to stretch further to cover meds and groceries. I dream of joining workshops, applying for residencies, taking more classes. But as someone living in a country where so much of life is about making do, I know how rare it is to be able to reach for all that I want.
I guess what I’m saying is—writing isn’t just what you do when conditions are ideal—it’s what you fight for when they’re not. The hours we call our own are not faultless—but they are ours to shape. What might happen if we trust them? What stories might emerge when we let the pulse of our lives guide us, rather than the other way around?
Where might your creativity take you if there were no rules? What stories might emerge if you let your mind wander into the absurd or the impossible? What rituals could you create to bring whimsy into your practice, to make your writing a portal to wonder?
Finally, a poem:
Four in the Morning
Wislawa Szymborska
Translated by Magnus J. Krynski and Robert A. MaguireThe hour from night to day.
The hour from side to side.
The hour for those past thirty.The hour swept clean to the crowing of cocks.
The hour when earth betrays us.
The hour when wind blows from extinguished stars.
The hour of and-what-if-nothing-remains-after-us.The hollow hour.
Blank, empty.
The very pit of all other hours.No one feels good at four in the morning.
If ants feel good at four in the morning
—three cheers for the ants. And let five o'clock come
if we're to go on living.
Yours,
T.
Something about studying how other artists go about making their work - always interesting, intriguing & inspiring; thank you!
This essay is just wonderful, thank you. Many gems and I enjoyed hearing the wisdom and sometimes strange writing practices of the greats. As a new writer, with caring responsibilities of young children, without the luxury of time to write, I was warmed to read about ‘thinking’ about your project as you go about your day being just as important as the writing itself. I am going to go away now and think about setting up a few writing rituals that I can look forward to. :)