Growing up, I always admired my father’s Saturday morning ritual of washing the family car. Every Saturday, the bucket, rags, soap, and Turtle Wax would appear from his tool shed, and he’d go to work. Hours would go by as he washed and detailed the interior and exterior of the car, never asking or wanting any help from anyone. When I moved out for college, I found myself taking my car to the local do it yourself car wash with a handful of quarters to wash my old blue hatchback, gaining some sort of satisfaction out of scrubbing the tires,wiping the dashboard with protectant, and every so often changing the wiper blades. 

Now I still do find myself on days off dragging out the bucket and hose to wash mine and my husband’s cars. There seems to be a sense of pride I take in knowing my dad would nod his head in approval. More so now than car washing, I find myself creating my own writing ritual. I treat Mondays as my day to escape to a local cafe where I know my corner table facing the door will be free. I’ll sit for hours with a notebook and pen writing, sketching ideas, people watching while munching on the nearby goodies from the pastry case and drinking several cups of coffee. Sitting in the corner table listening to the older women talk small-town politics and business men off the street discussing finance over turkey sandwiches seems to add to the atmosphere that I fade into. This is an environment that I can relax in, block out the customers rushing in and out, and the young staff huddled around the pastry case whispering about their lives. This is a place I can write and that works for me. 

I’ve tried other places, too. The library doesn’t work; I end up wandering like I would in a grocery store to fill my cart with what I could be craving at that moment. I also tried an airport once and found its just a good place for me to make notes, ponder upon potential characters, and perfect for people watching. Eventually, my eyes would wander, though, from my notepad to the sound of the passing luggage wheels, or bothered by a bump in with someone sitting next to me and taking off their coat. 

Sure, I can write at home, too – especially late at night when my husband and the dogs are asleep, the college neighbors aren’t on their porch drinking and playing darts, and all that can be heard from my office window is the lone call of a barred owl or an occasional siren. Having my own little place to write, a good cup of a coffee, in a place I feel comfortable is essential to my own writing ritual and makes each time approaching a clean page not so much a duty, but my need to write it down and continue on.