In my sci-fi series, I do have wars, I do have contention – I have murder and threats and all the bits that get the heart pumping (a happy-ever-after story that’s happy-ever-after right from the start is nice, but there’s no challenge) Humans thrive on challenge, we want villains to overcome, we want something to strive for that will make us feel like heroes.
What I DON’T have in my science fiction is self-loathing. I don’t have the perverseness of hatred for all things human. I don’t portray the human animal as a blight upon the world (any world), nor human intelligence as some kind of disease.
We are as we are, as God or Nature intended us to be. I don’t do fear-mongering. I don’t do propaganda. I don’t use story-telling to create guilt in my readers. You’ll find my writing racy and fun and exciting. You might even find it a breath of fresh air.
Why are stories so important? Why are fictional characters and their worlds so gripping?
They’re all just ideas and pretty words on paper, right? There’s plenty of important stuff going on in the world – and there are writers and dreamers just wasting their time, pretending that imagination is important.
And yet… we all need them. Most of us read, most of us love to get lost in a tale and step away from the routines and the mundane, from the problems and the woes of our lives. We all escape into stories – movies, books, games – whatever form they come in. We’re driven to.
It must be important. Even in our sleep, there are stories.
The story forms out of passion and images, heart and mind and creativity weaving a world so tangible that it must be shared – has to be shared – because it really has become an amazing place.
In my darkest hour, when I truly thought my science fiction series would never see life in print, my biggest, deepest woe was that these worlds, these people would vanish with me when I died and no one would ever know their stories, their secrets, their tantalizing dreams.
It drives us all, all writers. It’s the passion to share the majesty within, something that has built over the years and grown into something whole and unique, something much bigger than we are – something that causes us to say, “I have something. It’s marvelous. Look!”
The knife was wet with blood, the handle slippery with it, the huge blade dark and crimson. He was splashed with its color, drenched with its odor. The coppery smell, warm and fresh, filled his nostrils and lungs, exciting him.
Charlie’s an old man now, working as the supervisor of Transport and Trade, handling the workload and scheduling of transport teams that carry goods to distant settlements – Some of the teams are like family to him.
That’s why he cares so much and why Aleisha’s situation is so shocking to him. She’s young, she’s a newcomer, she’s a nice kid, and she’s in terrible danger.