I’m at something of a loss again recently, and it’s annoying how often this seems to come up, but I don’t really know what I should be doing with my life right now.

As it stands, I’m having a lot of trouble finishing up the Aluvalia novelette. I know where I want it to go, I simply cannot find the willpower to write it. I have ample time to, and I can’t even pretend that I don’t. All I have left in regards to this semester is two finals, one of which I don’t even feel the list bit pressured to study for at all. Yet I cannot write any more. That being said, I’m going to start publishing Story posts on Sundays. It’ll mean my free day is on Saturday, which, honestly, will mean that I’ll still be writing every day, it will just give me a bit more time to publish the short stories.

Here’s the weird part, though. I don’t mind writing any other kind of blog post. True, Learning! posts are annoying, but that’s simply because I rarely know what I’m going to talk about until ten minutes before I start writing. So it’s not writing that’s the issue, it’s the fiction! It’s not that I’m unprepared: as I said I already know where this story is going and where it’ll finish.

It’s not that I’m lazy, either. In fact I’m working on writing a synopsis of every audiobook I have just to help my parents get into reading them! (My brother predicted this would take an hour, but really it took me an hour just to write out and organize all the books into a Google Doc!) I’ve written nothing about the books genres or plot synopses. I actually enjoy that sort of organization and structuring. The only reason I’m not doing it now is because I want to dedicate quality time to actually writing out those descriptions, and I need to go to bed soon.

The worst part is, I really don’t know enough about myself to be able to understand how to process this information. I don’t know why I can’t just enjoy writing fiction. I love my characters and my world, and I can’t blame my lack of motivation on writing anymore: I do this blog every day for crying out loud. The only thing that can mean is my stigma against writing fiction lies purely in my head. It’s not real. At least, that’s the conclusion I’ve come to. But, if that’s the case, how do I dispel it?

I simply don’t know how to make it make sense, and even that angers and annoys me. I hate being very aware (and involved in) things I can’t know and problems I can’t solve. I suppose it will sort itself out in time, but where does that leave the current me? I can’t sit quietly and wait for time to pass: it’s valuable time after all.

I miss April and May. I felt so relaxed and optimistic back then. I thought I had finally found my place: writing and practicing every day, soon to turn into a butterfly of a writer or whatever. But, no. My blog is nearly a year old. It has literally doubled my word count (I’m near four hundred thousand if you count my blog), and yet I don’t feel I’ve improved much at all. My blog structure has organized a bit, and I feel my writing capabilities have improved dramatically, but nothing has ever gotten any easier. When does it get easier? And if it doesn’t get easier, what’s the point? What is it all for? I’m not depressed or cynical or anything. Simply frustrated. Carry on with your day.