Writing angst (or, UGHHHH HOW I HATE WRITING SOMETIMES)

I would like to write a short story in which no one dies horribly in an accident, no one attempts suicide, no one commits an act of unspeakable cruelty and no one finds herself up against some insurmountable odds in a world hellbent on screwing her over. In other words, I would like to write a story about decent people in ordinary life. I would like to write about kindness, and about friendship, and about grace.

That shouldn't be impossible, right? It really shouldn't, and so I don't know why it feels like it really is.

I have just finished rereading, for the sixth time, a story that a classmate turned in for workshop this week. It's one of the finest stories I've ever read from a peer, and it accomplished exactly what I've always wanted to: good people, good story, good writing. I'm jealous, and intimidated, and also so frustrated with myself: why can I not do this?

UGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

=(