Rituals
a short story about writers rituals and the paths they can lead you down
1
There was nothing like that first cold sip after a long day’s hot writing. Even a short day. Hell, sometimes he got up and the first thing he craved was the cold crisp, harsh tang of lager. A little pickup juice. A little fire in the belly to get the day underway. Forget coffee, screw tea or orange juice. Stella Artois was just as good a breakfast brew as any.
But not today.
Today he’d been disciplined. Determined not to crack a can until he’d gotten his final four thousand words down; the last chapter of his novel.
A smile split Tom Hardwicke’s face at the thought of finally finishing the beast that his latest book had become. When he’d gotten the idea of a book that stole the soul of its reader, he had imagined it being just another short story. Something he could churn out in a weekend and flog to the New Yorker, or Dark mysteries Online, that website that had taken a few of his earlier works and helped launch his career as the new “King” of British horror. A quick hundred quid either way.
That had been three months and a hundred and seventy thousand words ago. As he’d written—and drank—the story had grown beyond the confines of his original idea. The characters had taken over and done their own thing, treating his work like he—allegedly—treated his marriage. The only thing was, he couldn’t be divorced from his writing as easily as his, now ex, wife had divorced him from his marriage. His story had become theirs.
It had been a struggle to keep up, but Tom had, getting his minimum 6 pages a day on the page, writing as soon as he got up—after feeding the cats, of course. In contrast to his last book, Duncan’s Folly, this one appeared fully formed. He knew what was happening right to the bitter end; all the twists and turns. What he hadn’t known or been prepared for, was the depth of detail that his characters demanded. There was no skimming here. No short-cuts. Nothing that his wife would have called Hardwickian.
But now he was close to finishing, close to finally writing The End on what he thought—quite modestly for Tom who had been called a precocious, master storyteller (he had also been called an arrogant pretender to the throne in one particularly brutal piece in The Times)—was the best thing he had ever written.
With a smile, Tom dropped his laptop in his bag, grabbed his jacket and set out.
It was time.
The Ritual was at hand.