Every writer has their own set of strange, non-negotiable rituals. We know the famous fictional examples, like Paul Sheldon in Stephen King’s Misery, with his meticulous finishing ritual of champagne and a cigarette. The reality for most of us, however, is much less glamorous; it’s a collection of small, necessary quirks that our brains rely on to transition into—and out of—the fictional world. My own process certainly doesn’t involve French bubbly, but it is a vital cycle of creation, doubt, analysis, and ultimate release.
The Engine of the Session
My writing process must begin with firm anchors to signal to the brain that it’s time to work. This often means ensuring the environment is right: a specific ambient playlist, the perfect cup of coffee, and a clear desk. These small, sensory details are not superstitions; they are focused triggers that shut off the ‘business brain’—the part responsible for digital marketing and client edits—and engage the creative engine.
There is also the matter of the physical tools. While the final draft is digital, I maintain a strong connection to the physical space of creation. I find the initial freedom of writing longhand, away from the rigid structure of the screen, is often necessary for those crucial early scenes. This shift from the digital, analytical world of the business to the analogue, fluid world of the imagination is the critical first step.
The Immediate Aftermath
My finishing ritual is nothing like Paul Sheldon’s celebratory champagne; it’s quieter, and far more steeped in uncertainty. When I finish a substantial session, my first physical action is to simply sit back and let out a huge sigh. That sigh is the release of tension, the physical letting go of the words that were just pulled from the imagination. But that release is immediately followed by doubt.
I then start pacing around the room. I feel lost, disconnected from the rhythm of the scene I just finished, and immediately start questioning its validity—was the ending strong enough? Should the character have done that? This is the physical manifestation of the inner critic, forcing me to move away from the screen and process the uncertainty on my feet.
The Critical Comparison
The next step is my specific method for conquering that pacing doubt: actively jotting down alternative endings. This isn’t a sign that the ending is weak; it’s my way of stress-testing the narrative and ensuring I’ve chosen the very best path for the story. I will write two or three completely different versions of the final few paragraphs, comparing them side-by-side.
This process of comparative analysis is how I solidify my commitment to the manuscript. By deliberately laying out the options, I move from emotional uncertainty to rational confidence. Once I review the alternatives and confirm that my original choice was indeed the most powerful and narratively sound, the uncertainty is replaced by conviction.
The Final Release
Once I’ve settled the structural debate and the scene is locked in, the final, necessary step is to play the guitar. This is the conscious and deliberate act of shifting my brain from the rigorous analysis of writing and editing to a space of pure, non-verbal creativity. The guitar offers an entirely different kind of rhythm and release, washing away the mental labour of the writing session.
My entire creative cycle—from the initial longhand draft to the final musical release—is a highly personal system for managing the immense mental energy required to tell a story. It’s a unique cycle of creation, doubt, analysis, and resolution that, however weird it looks, is the only way I can consistently get to the finish line.
A. R. Hurst 