Poised Pen

I tried to write my first book at age twelve. I was in the seventh grade, inspired by my arrival in a new school, and determined to be published by the time I graduated.
Almost every six months, I would start a new book. Something about the old books (or "projects", as they should be called) would always begin to bore me. The tenses got old or the story felt repetitive or not enough was happening to sustain readership. These projects would only make about the 40-60 page mark before I would decide to kill it. Buried in the hard drive of my last laptop are the souls of at least seven former stories, and lying dormant in nondescript, white binders under my desk are two or three more stories, separated into parts that will never be united.
However I will go so far as to say that its not that I don't write well. I make mistakes and I have "tells" as it were (there are a choice 15 words that I probably wouldn't be able to write without, and my sentence structures are unnecessarily complex). I've come to believe that my real issue is that extended looks into the lives of my characters do not entice me. Sure, seven-book anthologies are wonderful. But true, meaningful conflicts occur in tiny spurts throughout our lives. Truthfully, if someone were to try and write a novel about my life, there are only a handful of times in the last four years that would be worthy and readable when recorded, and those times are separated by a good bit of time in-between. I feel the same way about my characters. I hate squishing the conflicts tightly together.
So outside of my current project (re-working an older story from last year I co-wrote with the wonderfully talented and intriguing Jereality) I think I'm going to start tinkering with short stories, and maybe even get back into poetry.
If I come up with anything decent, maybe I'll provide a peek up here.