I think I've gone far enough.

In three months I've gotten sixty chapters, thirty short of what I would've intended. I promised myself I'd write two chapters a day, then I promised myself I'd write one chapter a day. Promise after promise, I lowered the bar until I finally understood why I'd promise myself into a hole.

A few days past writing, and I'm looking back at every single chapter second-guessing whether I've made the right choices, whether the story I'm communicating is enjoyable to read, and yet I don't believe any of that stems from some genuine dislike of the story I've created, some actual doubt of my imagination, but rather my lack of motivation to write.

The core tenet I stand by when it comes to anything in the creative field is that if you force it, it will never truly be good, at least not to you. Other people can praise it as they please, but the fact that you sat yourself down and refused to stand until you had concocted some substitute for a piece of substance will never escape your mind. It will keep you from ever enjoying what you've made.

This is where I stand. From specific word counts to specific amounts of chapters, I've forced something every step of the way and I haven't even made a fraction of what I initially intended to do.

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I started with a story that I thought was brilliant, one I assumed would be a joy to write and read, but if I can't enjoy writing it then I could never imagine that someone could enjoy reading it. I don't wish for praise because no amount of praise will make me enjoy writing this, no amount of compliments will make me believe that I've created the story that I want.

Ultimately I could create a story I am proud of and share it with an audience of none, yet I would still be content. There may be no value in the piece, there may be no value in my contentedness, but there is significant time invested into something that I have refused to give up on, and there must be worth to that.

I hope I write again. I hope I find another idea that I develop, one that I don't restrict myself to. I hope I can find the same joy that I found daydreaming about a plot that only exists as a collection of pivotal points in writing once more. Sixty chapters in, but I had felt something awry since chapter six.

If you enjoyed this, I am glad. I don't wish to restrict anyone from liking what they like, their will is irrespective of mine.

I once said that if I had one reader I would write as much as I needed, but the first reader, the first judge of what you make is none other than yourself.

Consider this a formal ending to a chaotic story, and a series yet to be that maybe never will.