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Writing is a bitch
2006-07-03 02:01Why does it take so long to produce an actual story from the space of (im)possibilities when - look:
The straightjacket of terrestrial life was soon left far behind. The giant planets provided far superior opportunities for humanity, with their vast living space and equally vast resources free for the taking. The very idea of living anywhere but the floating cities - some, indeed, as larges as once the empires of Earth had been and yet with no need to encounter each other except when desired - was laughable. The thought of a sky of only a single colour, or two at most, was dull in the extreme. A horizon only a dozen kilometres away? Sky only above? Movement restricted to two dimensions? How had humanity borne this barbarism?
This, then, is how h. sapiens sapiens spread through the galaxy, scornful of the world that had birthed them and of all others like it. They scarcely payed attention to such puny planets any longer and terrology was an almost dead science, a relic of their primitive past.
Ok, that was basically me getting a few buckets of paint and splashing the canvas. It is not terribly original but offhand I can see maybe half a dozen stories in there, easy, of various scales (writing is fractal!). Maybe more if I pair it with another idea from today. This entry started out as if it was going to be a whine about how difficult it is to actually produce art (and it is difficult, but everyone else has to do it too) when really I think I am more annoyed that just about any setting contains enough material for a lifetime of exploration but it is impossible to do it for all of them.
Right. I am starting to write things which are stupid and wrong for a number of reasons I am too tired to go into right now. So I will stop hereish. The intent behind this really was originally to say "Look, making an actual story is hard but making up that fragment is easy. I should think about that for a bit and see if I can find any new insight. Or an old one I have forgotten."
The straightjacket of terrestrial life was soon left far behind. The giant planets provided far superior opportunities for humanity, with their vast living space and equally vast resources free for the taking. The very idea of living anywhere but the floating cities - some, indeed, as larges as once the empires of Earth had been and yet with no need to encounter each other except when desired - was laughable. The thought of a sky of only a single colour, or two at most, was dull in the extreme. A horizon only a dozen kilometres away? Sky only above? Movement restricted to two dimensions? How had humanity borne this barbarism?
This, then, is how h. sapiens sapiens spread through the galaxy, scornful of the world that had birthed them and of all others like it. They scarcely payed attention to such puny planets any longer and terrology was an almost dead science, a relic of their primitive past.
Ok, that was basically me getting a few buckets of paint and splashing the canvas. It is not terribly original but offhand I can see maybe half a dozen stories in there, easy, of various scales (writing is fractal!). Maybe more if I pair it with another idea from today. This entry started out as if it was going to be a whine about how difficult it is to actually produce art (and it is difficult, but everyone else has to do it too) when really I think I am more annoyed that just about any setting contains enough material for a lifetime of exploration but it is impossible to do it for all of them.
Right. I am starting to write things which are stupid and wrong for a number of reasons I am too tired to go into right now. So I will stop hereish. The intent behind this really was originally to say "Look, making an actual story is hard but making up that fragment is easy. I should think about that for a bit and see if I can find any new insight. Or an old one I have forgotten."
