It's been so very long since I sat down to write for the pure joy of it. For the past...year? It's been nothing but picking up a pen because I feel my duty to my book hanging over my head. I think that may be why it's suffering so much; it used to invigorate me, get my heart pumping and send my mind spinning down a million different avenues of potential. I used to pull out a pen and paper just for the hell of it, just to see where the ink would take me. Now every word on the page feels forced and artificial.

I know that the story is good. I know that the characters are solid and that the world could stand on its own and that its natural and societal laws all function coherently. It's my own world that's incredibly real to me and a few of my friends, but for some reason my hands refuse to bring it to life for everyone else.

Long story short, and minus all the emo shit; writer's block sucks a bunch of ass.