When I was in the 7th grade a teacher gave me a bag filled with old copies of Fantasy & Science Fiction. I was already a fan of Star Trek and Lost in Space and just about every other clunky sci-fi show I could find. But these stories were something different. They demanded more from me than passive viewership, they made me think. Many of them made me think, hell, I can do better than that.
Turns out after lo these many years, well, I couldn’t do better than punished writers from forty years ago. I stopped writing short stories. Stopped submitting my novels to regular publishers and spent several years writing blog posts few people read and publishing books on Amazon to even fewer readers.
I loved Asimov and Heinlein and Ellison. I was inspired by their tales of banging out short stories and making a living that way. I also liked the idea that these guys were all curmudgeonly jerks, much like myself. Now, of course, these behaviors I found amusing are viewed with a more critical eye. They were flawed people who still managed to write a lot of stuff that I loved.
I also read countless other author’s who put out books with spaceships and aliens and massive cities of the future on their covers. I still read a few new books and have a few new favorite authors. I’m not as up to date as I could be. Old Man’s War and Ready Player One were the last books I really loved.
I’ve written a few books about a vampire named Wilhem Walengrave. I enjoy writing, but, well, I don’t do it often enough. The Pandemic has not inspired me to write more than a few hundred words here and there. The idea that we might all be dead soon has put a bit of a damper on my spirits.
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