By the Book

I outline the circle in a thin line of chalk. Thin because this is the fifth time I’ve done this in this month alone. 

Note to self, go to Mike’s Friday for more.

Mike’s, the only mom and pop hobby store in town, is the only place I’ll spend my money for something as important as this… Plus, the ten percent employee discount makes anything I buy at Mike's a steal. I write out the string of sigils along the outline in red paint. It’s too runny from the water I’ve added to the bottle, but it’s important to use every last bit. At least, that’s what I tell myself. In reality, I’m too broke to buy more before next week.

But, I can’t wait that long. I have to do it now, or else I won’t be able to follow the plan.

I stop, staring at the last four sigils I’ve just written. This part always trips me up… Is it up arrow, side arrow, swirly, then tilde? Or, is it side arrow, other side arrow, tilde, and three loops side by side? Two side arrows signify a string of energy bouncing between two walls, which should symbolize my brain. Right? However, the up arrow means a raise in energies, that is a raise in my creative energies. 

I roll my eyes and step away from the ritual area. I'm never able to keep up with the book I got this whole idea from, though I need it every time. 

Damn my ADHD-addled brain.

It isn’t enough that I can’t finish a project as short as 500 words without starting three other things in the same hour, now I can’t find the one thing that's gotten me anywhere with my dreams in the last twenty years of my life. It’s not enough to be an utter failure as an artist, now I’ve got to be a failure at helping myse—

Ah, there again.

I spot the book shoved behind a stack of papers on my desk. I grip the papers and set them in the crook of my left arm. The corners poke at the fleshy inside of my arm elbow, tickling me. Hooking my foot through the handle on the bottom drawer, I twist at my hip to open it. I drop the papers into the drawer and kick it shut before grabbing the necessary book. 

I sit down and fan through the pages fast, not blinking until I reach page 392. Written in the margins is the collection of sigils I need, concocted from the deep corners of my mind in a fevered haze. 

I had been sick for two weeks, a whole pay period, a few months back. In desperation, I turned to my practice and asked the gods for some way to pay my electric bill and buy enough food to make it through. I wasn’t even entirely over my sickness before I stumbled out of bed and scribbled out the ritual—my ritual—for the first time. 

Adrenaline filled me, and I didn’t sleep for a second. That night, after finishing, I submitted to eight different magazines, having written almost ten thousand words among them all. 

It was my first time submitting to anything, and six of the pieces were accepted. More than a stroke of luck, in my opinion. It had to do with this ritual, there was no other explanation. To prove it, I’ve been submitting around the clock two, three times a week, and out of every four submissions at least half have been accepted. I’ve been writing like I’ve never written before, crafted whole words the likes of which I’ve never dreamt of a moment before I put them on the page. 

I’ve never done anything like this pre-ritual in my life, and I’m never going to fall from this high. 

I snap my head towards the kitchen, remembering another piece of the ritual I always forget. I jump over a heap of clothes by the door that I’ve yet to put up—there’s no time for chores when I’ve got a name to make for myself in the creative world—and slide into the kitchen. I snatch open the fridge door with a squeak and ignore the blinking light bulb. 

The tea is front and center on the top shelf, and I grab it. It’s nothing special, chilled lion’s mane tea I make every night. Nothing like a good herbal remedy to help the ritual really set into your bones.

I make my way back to my spare room, my makeshift office, and set the tea down in the middle of the circle. I get my book, pen, paper, ceremonial brass bowl and lighter from my desk, and sit down next to my tea. I scribble down what I need to write this week, a new piece for a horror anthology and then two pieces need edits for a more compelling narrative. I light it on fire and drop it into the bowl, focusing on the names of each publication I need to submit to.

A blank laptop screen comes to mind and I close my eyes to focus on filling it with words, words that will inspire, words that will evoke the exact reactions I need them to, words that will make me money that’ll make me more money for my savings. I imagine the blank laptop screen in my mind emitting a warm golden glow, and my chest tightens. Exactly what I need. 

I open the tea and chug it, all 22.3 ounces. 22.3 because, in numerology, those numbers reduce to the number 5, which is the number of communication. A powerful number for writers.

I keep the golden image in my mind until the acrid, musty aroma doesn't tickle at my nose anymore. I open my eyes and glance down at the bowl. The warmth from the embers within still grazes against my skin, so I’m careful as I grip it from the top and take it back to my desk. 

To close the ritual out, I scrub the floor clean and sweep the room. I don’t want any residual energies from it to linger, that would be bad luck. Stagnant energy, in general, is never healthy to have around, according to the book. I have to do everything by the book, or else the ritual won’t work. 

And, if the ritual doesn’t work, then my acceptance rate will fall.

And, if my acceptance rate falls, I won’t be able to save any money.

If I don’t save money, I won’t be able to move into a home of my own.

No American Dream for me.

So, I have to do everything by the book. 

Once everything is clean, I sit at my desk and open my laptop. I light my favorite cappuccino-scented candle and tie my hair back.

Time to get to work.