Reminder to myself: I should force myself to write fiction once more

The reason I went crazy four years ago -- yikes it's been four years since I uhh went crazy and started posting to this blog on an almost religious pace -- was that I wanted to write fiction. A lot of it. Novels, big meaty novels with yummy yummy stories, books that nobody would ever read maybe but it wouldn't matter because my desire to write, the inherent human desire to create, would be satiated. Books would be written, read by a dozens and maybe a few hundred, and all would be good. The first step towards getting there was to write. Actually write, with a routine, an everyday practice, show some discipline. Make writing a daily habit instead of something quirky or whimsy when the mood took hold. An activity that I'd do on a daily basis than quarterly or monthly.

In some sense that has paid dividend. Writing hasn't become any easier, and it's not yet become a part of my genetics, but it's definitely a habit now, a part of daily routine and if I don't do it I feel guilty, bad about myself, and really really want to make it look like I did it, even when I didn't do it. I still need to write the journal posts for April five months after the actual occasion, and project 240...one of the most insane and ambitious projects ever attempted, specially on this blog, is still on the cards. Yes, I have written, and I have made the habit. We're far beyond the discussing the topic of the quality of the produced material...it's almost pointless because that wasn't the original goal anyway, and I've always said getting something written, anything really regardless of the quality, is going to be better than not writing anything.

But not in all the ways.

Fiction writing has gone down considerably in the later years of my writing habit, even more so than before, if that's even possible. The novels have now become a pie-in-the-sky, if for the simple fact that they need constant focus and attention and to 'thread the needle' and turn it into a sweater with words, but I've only gone as far as...stitching patches here and there. I'm no craftsman with words, a mere technician or an operator, with a bare understanding of how things work but not enough patience to figure out the details.

There's a reason for this.

At first I did things 'timeboxed'. As in, no matter what, the goal wasn't the wordcount, the coal wasn't the number of posts (i mean I did set myself standards, but that wasn't the point). The point was to block two hours of my daily schedule and just write. Write like  madman and keep writing.

Then Covid happened. And then other disruptions. My life was upended, and my ability to timebox activities and organize myself within strict clear rules went down.

What. A. Bummer.

The failure of fiction writing in this blog is not a failure of writing, or one of motivation, but strictly of self-discipline, and not living to reasonable standards. I need to set simple rules for myself, and live by them. That is all there is.

Nothing more.

What stops me?