The Grimoire That Almost Was: How I’m Finally Filling Its Pages

Author’s Note: The content of this blog reflects my personal experiences and perspectives on magic. Witchcraft is a deeply individual practice, and my approach may not align with everyone’s beliefs or traditions. I encourage readers to explore, question, and adapt what resonates with them. Nothing shared here is meant to serve as absolute truth or professional advice. Trust your intuition, do your own research, and walk your own path.

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I have been practicing magic for 25 years, but I don’t have an established grimoire. I have started one—many times. I have even purchased a big, beautiful leather-bound book with the intention of filling it with my practice, my spells, my formulas. And yet, it sits empty beneath my working altar, waiting for me.

It’s not that I don’t practice. I do magic every day. I weave it into my routines, into my breath, into the way I move through the world. My craft is alive, evolving, deeply personal. But when it comes to writing it down—for my wife, for my sisters, for anyone else who might one day hold my grimoire in their hands—perfectionism grips me.

The Fear of the Imperfect Grimoire

Perfectionism in magic is a paradox. Magic is fluid, intuitive, and deeply personal, yet the moment I try to record it, I feel the weight of expectation. What if I don’t explain it well enough? What if my handwriting is messy? What if I discover a better method later? What is my practice changes again? What if I get something wrong?

There is something sacred about the permanence of ink on paper that both calls to me and terrifies me all at once. A spell spoken aloud can change in the moment. A working adapted to the circumstances feels natural. But a grimoire? A grimoire feels like a commitment. And, while it’s fair to say I’ve committed to witchcraft, I evidently haven’t committed to each individual spell or ritual enough to write it down.

Reframing the Purpose of My Grimoire

I have begun to challenge the idea that my grimoire must be a perfect, polished tome of knowledge. Instead, I am working to embrace it as a part of a living craft—more like a family recipe box than a pristine, published cookbook. Magic is not static. It evolves with experience, adapts to what’s available, and carries the imprint of those who practice it. My grimoire should reflect that.

Rather than seeing it as a formal book that must be flawless and complete, I am trying to treat it like a collection of well-loved recipes—some scribbled on scraps of paper, others carefully transcribed, all subject to tweaking over time. For me, my grimoire needs to a place for tried-and-true spells alongside experimental workings, for notes in the margins and ingredients swapped on instinct. A working record of my magic, its spells and methods growing with me instead of holding me to an impossible standard of continuity and perfection.

Practical Steps to Overcome Perfectionism

1. Allowing Myself a Drafting Space
   I have started using a digital document (as well as a blog) to jot down research, thoughts, and correspondences without pressure. The grimoire can come later—when I feel ready to transcribe, refine, or elaborate.

2. Embracing the Beauty of Imperfection
   A grimoire filled with smudges, cross-outs, and margin notes is evidence of a lived practice. A “perfect” book that never gets written serves no one.

3. Starting Small
   Instead of feeling like I have to write everything all at once, I am beginning with simple entries—spells I use frequently, invocations I’ve crafted over the years, notes on spirits and deities I work with.

4. Letting Go of the Final Audience
   Yes, I want my grimoire to be something my wife, my sisters, or my magical kin could read and learn from. But first and foremost, it must be for me. I am allowed to make notes only I understand. I am allowed to be imperfect.

Committing to the Work

So, I am making a promise—not to perfection, but to presence. To showing up for my craft in a new way, to putting pen to paper even when it feels messy. My magic deserves to be recorded. Not because it must be preserved perfectly, but because it is worthy of being remembered at all.

And maybe, one day, when my wife or my sisters hold my grimoire in their hands, they won’t see a book of rigid, unattainable perfection. They’ll see a record of a life spent in devotion to magic—flawed, evolving, and beautifully real.