Every writing routine I have ever abandoned was designed for a version of me who had slept well and had nowhere to be. That person shows up about once a fortnight.
Lower the bar until it is embarrassing
My rule is one paragraph. Not a good one. On a clear morning I write for an hour and the rule is irrelevant. On the morning after a delayed flight, the rule is the only thing standing between me and a two-week gap.
Gaps are the real enemy. Not bad sentences, gaps. A bad sentence gets edited on Tuesday. A three-week silence has to be rebuilt from nothing.
Keep the file open
I never close the document. It sits there behind everything else, a little accusatory, and that is enough friction removed to get started when I have four spare minutes rather than four hours.
The habit is not the writing. The habit is the returning.
