I am a creature of routine. I drink the same kind of tea from the same mug every morning. I have favorite pens, favorite inks, requirements about lighting and sound in my work space, specific types of note cards I like to work with, websites I like to read before I settle down to work.
I like to tell myself that these routines are an important part of my writing, but lately I've come to realize that this isn't true. The only important routine I have for writing is actually writing.
See, one of the joys of summer is that it has a strange ability to mess with my routines. My schedule as a parent is completely different from normal. Hanging out all day in my office has less appeal when the front porch is so inviting. Finding out there is no milk for my tea (which most days is such a tragedy I can't write at all until I've gone to the grocery store to fix it) seems less important when the birds in the nest in our backyard have just hatched.
Summer makes me re-evaluate the whole idea of routines, and makes me recognize that sometimes they can become little prisons.