Today was productive, if not in the ways I wanted or expected. Last night, I stayed up far too late trying to figure out where my novel was going, because the plot is a bloated mess and the parameters I’ve set for myself mean that the story doesn’t work whatsoever. (Those parameters being, the hyper-rationalist nature of my characters, the hard sci-fi I’m insistent must be present, and the biology of my main alien antagonists.) At the moment, I start from the inciting incident - the aliens trying, and failing, to take my main characters. (The aliens are parasites.) But thinking about it, maybe I don’t need that; maybe the story should start later, six or twelve or eighteen months down the line, when my alien parasites are already embedded into wider society and a culture of fear surrounds society. It would make my life easier, because even though my story makes sense at the moment, it’s not interesting to actually read. And, I figure I can use at least some of the copy I’ve already written - a lot of the novel is my five characters debating about whether what they’re doing is ethical or not, who the aliens are and what they want and how their biology functions, and what the hell they need to do next. Well, that last bit I’ll obviously not use, but the rest still works, with tweaking.

It does bring up a host of other issues which I need to figure out, though. I tell you, writing a novel is pretty easy, to be honest. It’s writing a novel you don’t want to throw in the bath along with your toaster which is fucking difficult. First, it decreases the level of character development I’m able to write. My five characters, my likeable but flawed teenage protagonists, have already been a part of a war for however long it’s been going on. They’ve already experienced the anguish of having their friends and family taken; they’re in the middle of their PTSD. Rather than writing a story which deals with them getting to that stage, it’ll be about what they’re like now they have it; the memories of who they were before, and reconciling that with who they are now. Still interesting, but not necessarily the story I wanted to write, and requires taking some time to rethink who my characters are, now, in this new world.

Which is all okay, I suppose. Realising your story doesn’t work whatsoever is annoying, but frankly, I wasn’t that hot on the plot anyway. What I really like is my characters - I think my aliens are interesting and believable (and the science is correct, as far as I can tell), and my protagonists are really enjoyable to write; it’s like I’m writing about my friendship group when we were teenagers - except the alien invasion stuff, obviously.

I’ve been quite inspired by watching and starting to read The Hunger Games over the last couple of days. I never used to like the films that much, but rewatching the first one actually made me realise it’s really good. Like, really good. And for a teen film, surprisingly violent, particularly the first scene when they enter the arena. The third one slows down the pace a little, but I’m kind of okay with that. Everyone likes the second one the most, but I think the first is the best. I’ve had it on in the background while doing up my flat, which I’ve been putting off for months after I painted the thing, got a new sofa, and decided I was done. But I had a load of pictures I needed to hang on the walls, and the place is in general in a state. So I tidied, drilled some holes, hammered some nails, and then went to get drunk with a friend of mine.

It’s now tomorrow, when I finish writing this short post. I’m hungover, so I’m going to finish the Hunger Games films and then, if I find the energy, start rewriting my novel. Remember to wash your hands.