Honey, that was your first mistake.
I feel better now that I've remembered that, in the first hundred pages of any given novel, I always feel as if I'm wandering about windmilling my hands and having no clue what the hell I'm on about or how I'm going to cram everything I need to cram into the narrative.
The story-generating engine is pretty well trained, at this point. I should just get the hell out of its way and let it write the book.
This reminds me of the distant past, when I was trying to get sane, and part of that process was become hyperconscious and analytical about everything I did or said, considering my motives and reactions and so forth. Finally, my then-boyfriend said the most important thing to me that anybody had or has ever said. "You're not as crazy as you think you are."
Which triggered the realization that the self-training had started to take. It was very freeing.
Now, perhaps I need to understand that I have reached a point in my writing where I don't have to do everything consciously and through intellectualization anymore. Maybe I can relax, a little, and let the story tell itself.
Which would be good. Because really, I think I may be overthinking this novel.
Now if I can just figure out how to get all this plot, these necessary characters, the thematic elements I like, the worldbuilding, and the several shiny ideas into the same jigsaw puzzle, I may yet pull this thing off.
Also, books that one has not been thinking about for the past fifteen years are harder to write than books that one has been thinking about for the past fifteen years. My problem is, I get more fantasy ideas than I can actually write or sell, so they sit longer and get more cooking time and are thus easier to write when the time comes. But I could probably sell more SF than I get ideas for, and so they get written faster, which means I have to do the thinking and worldbuilding and plotting frontbrain instead of backbrain.
And that's like, you know, work.
Yesterday, at stillsostrange's journal, we learned that Emerson College is hell. (Go ahead and click on the location link if you don't believe me.)
Alien report: alien fragments coughed up smaller and less frequent today, but I still sound like Kermit with laryngitis.