I am sure that most readers here are familiar either with the Stephen King novel, Misery, or the movie adaptation of the same name. It's okay if you never read/saw Misery - the point is fairly simple. While the two versions are at times wildly different, they each portray something about writers that shows up more often than not. The main character, author Paul Sheldon, is a creature of habit, and has certain ways about him that are more than just things that he does simply for the sake of doing. They are rituals, and they feed his writing process. The individual actions have very little to do with writing itself - champagne and one cigarette after he finishes every manuscript, for example - but they are a part of what makes him feel complete as a writer.
Now, having quirky little rituals might seem like a weird routine to engage in to make yourself feel like a writer. However, there is a certain mind-over-matter power that takes hold here, and it is a strong one indeed. Again, it's not the action itself that makes you better, but rather the meaning of the action. When Paul would celebrate his manuscript with champagne and a cigarette, he was indulging himself in a way that was important to him. This had meaning that might not resonate with anyone else but him, but he is the one that matters, so it works. Furthermore, such a ritual drives home the subconscious feeling that this is how things are supposed to be. Even when everything else is chaos, one ritual, one habit will put that part of the world firmly on its axis.I often mention how, as a child, I would sit by my mother as she wrote and edited her news stories. It was just her, a legal pad, a pen, and her Cutty Sark on the rocks (maybe with water or soda - I don't know. I was four at the time). She would read, re-read, mark up, change, and rewrite those stories to perfection as I watched in utter silence, but in my mind, I picked up on the little notes of what made editing possible. Of particular note was the smell of that blended Scotch whisky - that wove itself into my mind as an integral part of the process. Scotch whisky in itself does not launch the process (and too much can impede it), but the smell brings me into a proper frame of mind to where I am very much an editor. It simply helps me put on my editor's hat; it fits better with a scotch at my side.
Unfortunately, this has become problematic of late. When I would get together with other writing friends for sessions of editing each others' work, they would supply the scotch much to my delight. It was my ritual, and it brought the experience together for me. The part I did not expect, however, was that I fused my ritual with these friends. Sometimes I would visit and socialize, and have my scotch on the rocks as we just chatted. It became something more than just my editing ritual. It became a bonding ritual.
The last of these writing friends recently passed away, and now that glass of scotch takes on a new meaning. It isn't about editing. It's about loss. The smell reminds me of all the writing friends I've been with who I will never share a written word with again. It actually interferes with editing now, because there's still grief to be dealt with. The scotch didn't make the grief, but it's a constant reminder of it.
The takeaway from this? If you develop a writing ritual (and I hope you do), keep it exclusive to the writing process you want to bond with. Like Paul Sheldon's cigarette, only have a smoke as part of the ritual, and at no other time should you even smoke (a good life lesson, actually). Make your writing habits sacred, make the rituals personal, and respect them. Otherwise, you might end up staring at a bottle of scotch, wondering why it no longer has the power it once contained.