The new novel, Protoplasm, is going well, but even now, 38k words and 138 pp deep, it's still a toss-off.
How, you ask, can something so daunting as writing a novel—or painting a portrait, penning a book of poetry, writing a screenplay, composing a symphony, or making a movie—ever be considered a toss-off?
Well, an acquaintance taking an art class said one of the assignments was to compose a piece of art, didn't matter what it was, what materials were used, what its subject matter was, and display it prominently somewhere in public. And leave it. Yes, leave it. Abandon it. Foist it upon the world and let them have it and have at it. When asked about the reasoning behind such an assignment, the instructor said, "What good is art if it isn't displayed, consumed, destroyed, and replaced?" Somewhat like an Ozymandias of art, where the colossal wreck of our vanity is left to the depredations of time, erosion, and subsidence, where the wind, rain, and sun reveal our works to be the impermanent folly they are, where the artistry on display today is replaced by the artistry created tomorrow.
In this instance, I started Protoplasm with nothing more than a simple premise and a desire to write about an alien species. The premise: "A young woman reared by giant paramecium has no idea the lengths they'll go to to protect her. Or why."
And to have fun. If it happens to entertain others, even better. Even its impermanence is immaterial. Thus, the engines of creation continue to churn.

SMD