Why so difficult?

Writing fiction is hard.

For every essay, for every poem, for every journal entry I ever sat down to write, I at least had some semblance of a plan. Sitting down to write fiction requires no such plan — and that is why it is so hard.

There are plenty of outlines, plenty of vague ideas, plenty of zany plotlines I could write out first that might inform my attempts at writing fiction. But ultimately, I still need to sit there and will it from nothing. This is not the simple task it seems.

The roadblock I keep running into is not getting an idea started, or even starting to write. Writing is actually pretty easy to get started on once I convince myself to just do it. The thing I’m having so much trouble with is writing something down that I really care about.

When I choose some memory to write about, I’m immediately invested in trying to convey the way I felt during that memory. I feel it. I want to get it on paper. When I try to make something up, it all feels hollow and weird. If I can’t make myself care about it, how could I possibly expect you, the reader, to care about it? Even worse is that it starts to bore me. Me! The guy writing it!

There must be a way to get past this. For now I will keep trying to write. I will keep experimenting with taking my own experiences and shifting them a bit to make them fiction. I suppose I should try to outline plot a bit, too — maybe that would give me some grounding.

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