I liken the progression most writers have to make when creating not only masterful works but careers and private lives as well to the fable of the three mice that fell into the bucket of cream. Rarely do they get any progress without feeling as though they're dragging the weight of the world behind them. You'll find a good number of them rarely indulge in social events and even fewer still have any free time, period. The more technologically advanced the world becomes, it would seem that there are fewer and fewer opportunities for them.
I can't think of a time when writing, especially when starting a new story when I didn't feel stuck in the mud. After so many similar circumstances happen upon you, you begin to question the very fabric of life itself. Yet, even still, I can't find within me one suitable excuse for giving up quite yet.
So, for myself, a question begs the mind, 'What direction do I take now?' And still, any adequate answer eludes me. But perhaps, as I've always stated before in similar circumstances, the solution lies within. Until I'm a worm feast it's probably always gonna be this way so, in that sense, let me give credence to an old Russian proverb
'The hammer shatters glass, but forges steel'