* My line of direction in this book sucks. I think it's been fiddled too much, and there's bits poking out every which way.
* I am, in part, neurotic about this book because I think it's the closest thing I've written yet to an important book. (Which means it will sink without a ripple, of course.) It's a farce--in a really quiet, underhanded, dark, Kit-Marlowe kind of way--and it's a spy novel and it's got strains of criticism of feminist and libertarian and liberal and conservative SFF running through it, and I am really, really proud of a lot of the things it does.
Really, I think it's a book about how everybody's Utopia is somebody else's dystopia.
But as a result, it's really packed.
* And I love the characters. Love them to death. I want to do them justice.
* It's written in a pretty plain style, which means I can't hide my missteps under fancy footwork.
* It's got a metric butt ton of exposition. Making three cultures, three political systems, one hundred fifty years of history, an alien species, and a thoroughly dysfunctional forty-year love affair plain enough to the reader that he can understand them all without talking down is hard.
Also, that totally ignores all the bloody SF in the damned thing. Of which there is a metric butt ton. And somewhere in here, I need to explain what a brane is, apparently....
* Again, everybody in this damned book is smarter than I am. I keep writing these things. I need some books with boneheads.
Science fiction is hard. Literary fiction is hard. Spy novels are hard.
Trying to write all three at once? What was I smoking?