I walk to work each weekday morning, and unless a co-worker offers me an unsolicited ride, I walk home again at the end of each working day. I have a thirty-minute pedestrian commute each way, untroubled by traffic and impacted far less by surface conditions. I will be glad when the last of the snow and ice melts into the spring mud; unsure footing is the biggest difficulty I face, because it keeps me from really hitting my stride.
When it comes to writing, I have never hit my stride. I may run along pretty well for a short sprint, and sometimes I have been able to sustain a brisk pace for somewhat longer stretches, but even then only comparatively so. Always I flag, losing breath, spirit, drive, will, and I stumble, fall, or just sit down and, well, sit.
Lack of routine is probably a contributing factor to this trend, but what routine can I reasonably hope to have with a young, growing family requiring my love and attention around the clock (almost literally)? Routine feels like a luxury for Others, those with time to spare for and on themselves and their own selfish interests, rather than the needs of dependants.
Will I find a way to build routine in my life, even though I share that life with others whom I love and care for? Will I keep pushing the pen across the page in every spare moment I can seize for such purpose? Or will I just give up and start playing solitaire with actual playing cards again?
