I love writing. I live to write, really. I could give a crap about earning a living, honestly. I loved being in college and having reason to read and an excuse to spend hours frittered away in front of my computer at home or in a notebook in the student center.
I could write all day every day, and writer's block isn't really a problem for me. I count myself blessed in that respect because the one or two times I did really honestly have it, I was going insane.
If you cared to torture me, send me to a personal hell-- tell me I can't write. The whole reason I think I did bang out that 350-page tome was because I was denied any form of joy at my particular place of employment*. I would get home, feed my husband**, and sit down with the laptop and bang out 10 pages a night.
Remember though how I said previously: my story need room to mature in my brain.
That's when I get something I call Writer's Boredom.
I hit a point in a story, and I know what has to happen. It's the part that's not fun to write. The background. Pure non-action exposition. Nothing that compels the story to go forward. Nothing that makes me want to write it anymore.
So, I sit and reread what I've written. Time after time, thinking about all the fun action that I have in store for the characters, if only I could get through this boring bit.
Example: right now, I'm working on an origin story for some of my characters. Good stories need good plot lines, and I have one. But the background for the conflict is exposition. It's getting the character set up for the fall. Digging himself in deep to create the right tension in the story.
But I don'wanna! I wanna just write the rest of it! *wah*
Here I am, stuck in Writer's Boredom land. Each time I reread I might another line or paragraph out of myself and get that much closer to the 'fun' parts again. But for now, it's like Groundhog Day in here.
* No, 'joy' is not an exaggeration. We had no internet, save intranet and the Weather Channel online. We weren't allowed to do anything at all but work. Using your phone to call your spouse was frowned upon. If you left your desk to tell someone something, even work related, you'd better have a paper in your hand. Personalization of workspace had to be handled properly. You could get in big trouble for even trying to do something else while you were waiting for the crap computers to load anything. No texting, no dressing up, no dressing down. Just show up and work for 8 hours. No, you didn't even officially get your 2 20 minute breaks in the place because we were salaried and not obligated to stay at our "post" the whole time. Which was also a lie... but enough about that hell...
**Feed = the man was living on Taylor Ham, hamburgers and steak sandwiches for 10 weeks.