Somehow half of yesterday was me staring at chapter 42 going "I just don't know what the fuck to do. I want to watch Futurama. Apparently I'm not as excited about this story as I thought," and the other half was me working on it for a number of hours, nonstop. I have nine pages now.

I described Giry as a "female face" in the doorway that made Lily's nerves subside and suddenly I was in the moment and I ran with it, even though I had a lot of German Cinema reading homework. (I still haven't done it.) Then, just after I'd made my tea, some douche in the apartments nearby started playing Rock Band loudly enough to vibrate his organs and the sound was so distracting. The sound of TV or radio is always coming out of my roommate's room, so the living room was just as bad. I had nowhere to go, so I closed myself into the closet with our washer and dryer and sat on top of the washer. Eventually, I got to go back to my room, which was nice because my foot was going numb.

Anyway, I was enthused to start working on it, and enthused to finish it, but I feel like I'm contradicting myself. I feel like I feel one way when I write a chapter, and another when I start a new one. It hasn't been good, spacing out this story so long. I keep evolving as a person, I keep having new things happen to me, and it makes it harder to understand what I aimed for whenever I started an idea or situation that needed continuity. Writers deal with this problem often, I'm sure, as many write novels for years... I'm just bad at it. I'm bad at most things to do with writing.

I'm going to go and alter things around. I worry I'm confused about something.

Damnit, writing stories is haaaaard.