hitting my stride

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?

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