During our perambulations today, though, I talked with Mrs. Fungus about the story; and before falling asleep Tuesday night I had some thoughts about where to go to start collecting threads into a cohesive whole. 5.5 pages is barely an introduction, but there has to be an obvious direction from the get-go or no one will want to read the thing.
I'm really happy with the very first page. All that has to happen is for someone to get to the end of that page, and if he is possessed of even ordinary curiosity it should have enough of a hook to get him to read the story to find out WTF I meant by the last two sentences on that page.
So far we have five apparently unconnected things, but it's all related. And there are other threads coming, besides; in #Release_Candidate_One the story refers to a band of troubleshooters who do something important during this story; well, I need to assemble that band and get them on Earth and ready to do that, and that's probably going to be about a third of the book done before the big moment comes to pass, and writing about that from everyone's viewpoint will take another third. Once that's done? Then we're all about picking up the pieces; there's at least one interstellar war to write about--a brief one, fortunately--and then the last bits about how things shake out as a long, dark interregnum settles over explored space.
This one's being written full anti-SJW. That much is obvious from how the toady chief executive is being portrayed; in fact, the very next scene he's in contains this line: "How dare you mis-gender me? I just told you that I've recently realized that I'm actually a woman. From now on you'll address me as 'Madame Secretary General.' I'm not 'mister' anything." (Exact wording not guaranteed, but that'll be the gist of it.)
Gonna piss a lot of people off. People whose opinions I do not care about. This guy is a symptom of what has gone wrong with his society, and guess what? When a society starts celebrating the aberrant and the insane, and begins to insist that their oddities be taken seriously, and accommodated, at that point you're looking at a doomed society. This story is not meant to be a cautionary tale--it's meant to be an entertaining yarn that people will enjoy--but I'll be damned if I'm going to write it to suit the delicate sensibilities of idiots who'd never pay to read it anyway. The trigglypuff crowd is not my audience, and as far as I'm concerned they can go scratch.
Well, hopefully tomorrow I can get a few more pages written.
"Why didn't you write some story instead of this post, idiot?"
I don't think I can explain it.
Writing a blog post is very easy; 90% of this stuff is stream-of-consciousness and I don't need to leave this reality. But when I'm writing a story, I have to crowbar myself out of this world and into another one, and I'm out of practice at doing that; it takes effort, and once I'm there it takes effort to get back. (Witness the other night when my brain kept going even after I'd written 3.5 pages.) I frequently use the example of the scene in Amadeus, where he's sitting at the table writing music, lush orchestral themes thundering around him...until his wife calls his name for the second or third time, breaking his concentration, at which point the music stops completely and he's left in ringing silence. Again I must say that I am not comparing myself to Mozart; this is just the best example I can think of for what it's like.
And I need to go to bed. So I'll have to write more later.