Selling my soul like a pimp

I’m so sick of writing crime fiction right now. I don;t like the clues or the plots or any of the other things that make writing crime fiction so much freaking harder than other kinds of books. If I didn’t have to worry about money or marketability or any of the realities of publishing I’d be writing a voice-driven semi-autobiographical literary novel full of interesting people talking and doing interesting things.

But no, I’ve got to try crime fiction. I love reading it, but I’m wondering if I’m really capable of writing it. I’ve tried to work on my plottong skills, and they’ve been getting a little better, but they’re still not where they need to be. I know there are people who write the type of book I’d rather be writing and then casually throw in a simple crime to be solved just to make sure it gets onto mystery readers radars. Can I be one of those people? I’m having a mid-writing-life crisis and I don’t know who I am as a writer any more. I know my characters and my voice are there, but I’m really having trouble finding the right story to put them into.