Creatively speaking, I've been at war with myself for nearly a decade. My most prolific writing year was 2003, by just about every measure. That was the year I finished my novel. That was the year I wrote half a dozen short stories that I would consider professional or semi-professional level.
That was also the year I stopped writing.
I say I stopped, but what I really mean is, I stopped finishing anything. I've started two dozen other things in the years since then (more, actually), and I've polished and edited and done lots of writerly things, including getting published. But what I have not done, save one little micro-flash story that was terrible, was write something completely new from beginning to end (blog posts don't count*). I've tried, and tried, and beat my head bloody.
This week I finally broke through.
The story might be brilliant or terrible, I'm no judge at this point (though experience tells me it's likely neither), but that doesn't matter. I get to declare victory. I get to laugh and catcall at writer's block's retreating hairy backside.
*Why don't blog posts count? I don't know. Ask my subconscious. He made the rules.