A Bruja's Writing Rituals

Coming to terms with my creative process

Writing a book is a catalyst for my transformation. I am not qualified to write a book. The only way I will become qualified to write a book is by writing a book. But the writing can only move at the speed of my body’s capacity to handle that transformation. I have to cultivate a safe, cozy cocoon for the metamorphosis that is taking place. Poco a poco, I expand with each chapter.

The hard part is not writing. It’s battling my inner demons, breaking intergenerational curses, and regularly refilling my energetic cup.

In November, I wrote, Why the F- am I writing a book about finishing my first chapter six months into starting. Four months later, my fears are still intense, but I have one chapter to go until my first draft is done. (Cross my fingers, knock on wood, I expect it to be done in two weeks).

I did this without writing every day.

I did this with a clingy 2 and 4 year old. I did this while traveling to the end of the earth and back, literally going to Antarctica. I did this with many breaks without writing weeks. I did this with months of my household being overrun with flu, drowning in mucus, and getting up to change vomit sheets at 2am. I did this by rocking on my hands and knees and surrendering to my waves of emotions as they came.

Every creative has a unique process, but we only see the outcome. I want to share my embodied process, with a warning: Don’t try this at home. But I hope sharing my process helps others claim their own.

When I started, I imagined writing a book like Henry David Thoreau at Walden Pond, shutting out the world and emerging with a great work.

I hired a book coach for accountability. I was drinking 2 cups of coffee a day and eating sporadically. I stopped exercising. I went into digital exile–getting off all media. I sometimes woke up at 5am to write. I tried writing with a microdose of psilocybin chocolate. I tried AI tools and techniques to help me write.

But all of this led to a miserable process, miserable life, and miserable writing.

Here I was without a boss, oppressing myself, pushing myself to work when I didn’t want to. Ignoring my body’s hunger cues, tired cues, fuck this cues. I had to get off Twitter and stop following advice from men, whose hormones don’t fluctuate with the 28-day cycle of the moon. After trying to grind my way through a book, I realized general writing advice doesn’t apply to me, a bruja, mother of dragons learning to fly, ethereal spirit feeling into everything, everywhere all at once.

In a world where I am being pulled apart by opposing information telling me how to be healthy and happy, I realized the only truth is the one my body tells me.

The shift started simply—acknowledging my discomfort in my body.

My achy body made me prioritize yoga class over writing time. If I felt anxiety, I journaled to process my fears. I realized good sleep was the most important factor for good writing (and being a good mother, wife, and overall health and happiness). I traded reading or TV time for stretching or meditation before bed. I mostly gave up coffee because it increased my anxiety and made me unintentional, wasting time working in the wrong direction. I say mostly because I don’t like strict rules of what I must or can’t do. There are still days I want coffee, beer, or to binge TV, and I don’t guilt myself about it.

Triaging my discomfort was a runway to finding pleasure. Improved sleep let me wake up 30 minutes before my kids to ground myself with me-time before the chaos of the morning routine.

I start everyday with a tea ceremony where I express gratitude, move emotions, and set intentions. Each day that my biggest worry is my book, I am grateful. My tea ceremony turned into daily prayers, where I listen for guidance from my ancestors and vocalize my desires. I instituted “Flirty Fridays” where I flirt with life, go to Flamenco class, and follow the whims of the day. Before my husband picks up the kids, I take transition time, napping, walking, or calling a friend.

I realized that going on a walk and taking in the sights, sounds, and smells is writing. Laying in my hammock and reading is writing. Connecting with others is writing. Being present to my life is writing.

I discovered writing a book could be playful, embodied, and spiritual. It clicked when I started reading The Artist’s Way where Julia Cameron says, “...creativity is a spiritual, not an ego, issue.”

For the last two months, I’ve been following The Artist’s Way practice of morning pages (3 pages of handwritten journaling), a weekly Artist Date, and saying cheesy affirmations to myself, “I, Lauren, am a brilliant and prolific writer.” I’m finally writing everyday in my journal. My morning pages are about whatever comes to my mind, summarizing the day prior and funny things the kids said or did. I write about my anxieties and ugly thoughts I would never say aloud. I use morning pages to coach myself through difficulties, pretending my best friend is sharing her situation and I respond with compassion. Sometimes I realize how tired I am and go back to sleep. A piece of my book often comes out in my morning pages. Most of my Substack posts come from my morning pages. The no-pressure aspect of morning pages makes them a magical space for creation.

The most important outcome of morning pages and embodied practices is noticing my body’s language. I can identify patterns between my actions and how it makes me feel. I see what causes a good flow day and what creates blockages.

I keep my body online while I write. If I feel the urge to run away from the page, I come back, close my eyes and ask myself, “What am I afraid to say?” I’ve mapped my emotions to their physical location in my body. If my breath rises to my chest, I know there’s fear to process. I can feel grief pooling in my pelvis and shame weighing down my shoulders. I know that with stretching into these areas and releasing a big cry, I can move the emotion even if I had no idea why I am crying. Then I laugh hysterically at myself thinking, “This can’t be how other people write!”

I am breaking ancestral curses as I move into a space of expressing myself and being seen. A lot of my book is memoir and I have to quiet myself and feel into the shadowy places to express scary truths that will help my readers access their truth. I can’t follow an outline (as my book coach discovered) or strict writing rules like word count or dedicated writing time. I have to write myself into a maze and find my way out. I probably write for about 2 hours, three days a week.

I am owning this process, which may not be the most efficient, but it's the process that will birth this book. It's transforming me in real time.

I recognize my transformation is not about doing, but undoing: slowing down enough to listen to my body. Writing a book is not about grinding, but trusting–trusting myself, trusting God.

With that, my trust in my bruja process grew. I write more around the full moon and veg out before the new moon. I sound kooky to people who know my moontime and seasonal work schedules, seeming to give up my power to the elements. But my work is about aligning my body to the heavens. When the stars align, I can flow. When I clear my negative energetic channels, I can hear God.

When I started this book, I didn’t even believe in God. That’s how transformational writing a book is: The book is creating me more than I am creating it.

It turns out that the benefit of writing a book is not the outcome, but the process–my becoming. I’ve become a more present and patient mom. I’ve become healthier as I respond to the needs of my body. I’ve become a more accepting, whole version of myself.

My book coach said today, “Whatever you’re doing, keep doing it. Wait, what is it you are doing?” And I responded that I’m doing what I’ve always done, but I’ve finally accepted that this is my process. I’m no longer making myself wrong or feeling guilty for not doing more.