This is the first time I’ve had a short story do that thing that some author’s talk about, namely blooming into a novel. It was supposed to be a 3 part short-story, but I realised that the third part (which I wrote first) doesn’t make any sense as the ending I had thought it was going to be and instead stands as a perfect beginning to a novella/short novel.
It’s got some fun ruductio ad absurdum weirdness with the imperial hierarchy of the corporation, and I get to play out my own paranoid fantasies about the ultimate power of the C-level sociopaths who run every major business these days.
It’s really not a bad thing, I think just liked the lazy alliteration of the title. But I am indeed working very hard to keep myself from going out and doing another 3-4 hours of physical labour on a hot day. I’m really dumb about this one and I’m generally starting to see summer, like winter, as a time to hunker down and write and save outdoor work for spring and autumn. Giving myself heatstroke twice a week is dumb to begin with, but it also fucks with my ability to do the job that makes me my money.