Thinking about a routine, because I miss this

I finally wrote something for the magazine I work for. And I think, because of that, I'm going to have my first byline in 12 years. Like, literally, 12 years. A DOZEN years.
I'm actually pretty excited about it. It'll be nice to see my name in a magazine again, in some capacity that's not just in the masthead. Who knows, maybe I'll even write more if I feel like it. Or maybe they won't want me to. We'll cross that bridge when we get to it.
But I've figured out that the problem lately with the writing is both a lack of motivation and a lack of, I almost want to say confidence, but it's not really that. Granted, I was totally afraid of writing for the magazine, and I'm feeling pretty good that they seem to like it. But I guess I just feel like I don't have anything to say anymore.
Which is weird, because I talk about a lot. I mean, I talk a lot. I still get mad about stuff. I still want to scream from the rooftops about stuff. I just don't have a comfortable place from which to do it anymore. It's a weird thing, when your equilibrium gets messed up. I don't have a comfortable computer to sit at in my bed anymore. The tablet is okay, but the keyboard and all that still doesn't really work for me psychologically. The computer, which I'm at right now, is in the office, and surrounded in dirty kid plates, Nintendo Switch games, slime and putty, and more than two stuffed animals that are "watching." I feel like when I sit down here, I had better know what I'm going to say. There's no luxuy of sitting and staring at a blank white page in the office.
But maybe I've got something set up that may be comfortable right now? I'm thinking that I need to set up a routine. * Make a cup of tea. * Go up to the office. * Sit down and type some shit. ... Now. Having said that, I don't have a cup of hot tea right now, but I did come upstairs to the office and go to the computer and started typing some shit.
I can't lie and tell you that some of this also may still have to do with the fact that I stopped blogging regularly after Oliver died. And that's not lost on me. The entire situation with the blog was that I sit on my bed, with my dog laying next to me, and I write about my day, thoughts, dreams, angers and whatnot, with him snoring comfortably next to me. That's simply not the case anymore, and it doesn't feel right.
And having said that, I seem to have done pretty well tonight. I'll make a concerted effort to blog tomorrow night, too, and see if I can't set up this routine. Because I do miss writing. I miss writing. I miss it.