My genre of choice is science fiction. Not Sci-fi/fantasy. Just science fiction. Where there is a plausible scientific explanation for everything. It’s not limiting, it’s merely verifying that which doesn’t currently exist could exist, if our scientists were only smart enough to figure it out. My favorite shows are Eureka, Stargate SG-1, Stargate Atlantis, Warehouse 13, Fringe…and there are not enough stories like them. Most of them exist in the obscure pages of comic books.

What excites me and is the reason behind my desire to write science fiction is the possibility that in the midst of our reality is a scientifically advanced culture that exists just under the surface of our awareness. (Probably controlled by private global corporations outside of the supervision of the government.) I like to imagine that, just like in any culture, there are rogue bad guys rebelling from the good guys, or vice versa, battling it out right in front of our eyes, the consequences of which are covered up by the globally-controlled media (obviously, owned by said global corporations) with cover stories so we’re unaware of what’s really going on.

That the political controversies, public events, movies, sports, etc. the mass population is obsessed with is actually a sham to distract us from what’s really going on. Those who are not controlled by said shams are made to feel alienated. The majority of the alienated are still seduced into the sham by stroking their egos with grades, rewarding them with degrees, and letting them be in control over departments at universities or institutions that reiterate and substantiate their own feelings of importance, all the while being controlled through funding that is only given for research that doesn’t threaten that status quo of control by said corporations. But should the alienated attempt to disrupt the status quo, they’re harassed, drugged, discredited and/or invalidated so that none of their opinions are ever taken seriously.

Then I like to imagine… what could really be going on? Most of the theories I like to come up with date back to ancient stories, archaeological mysteries, the French Revolution, Civil War, or World Wars. An epic story could probably tie them all together into one plot!

Science fiction, to me, allows the reader to broaden their horizons while still being entertained through mystery and suspense, my other favorite genres. Thus, my goal is to produce something akin to my favorites. Something that’s just as exciting to write as it is to read because it uncovers my favorite imagined conspiracies of ancient mysteries and modern tech.



Writer’s Block or Just Lazy?

Is it really writer’s block or am I just lazy? Am I purposefully finding other things to do instead of facing my mediocrity head-on? What is my psychological dilemma? I have been thinking and plotting and reading for years without even a rough draft. I could list pages of characters and tell you about their families and their secrets, but do I have a coherent story? No. I can probably draw you a map of the town and list off where certain events happen, but I can’t link all the events together. It’s like my mind is slowly putting a 10,000 piece puzzle together and I have small clusters of pieces fitted together across the table, but none of it makes any part of a coherent picture yet.

I feel like I am failing, like I am procrastinating by not putting all my time and focus into this project. I’m not being “productive,” if I had to critique myself. If this were a paying job, I would have to let myself go. Yet, I have to argue – what is productivity worth if it’s forced and only a fraction of the creativity and originality that I’m capable of? Is originality and creativity inspired or merely the product of never-ending hard work? If I forced it, would the end-product become diluted or boring or… predictable?

But that’s not entirely the issue. I’m lost. I feel like I’m in a maze with no map of which way to go. I’m sure any way is probably better than just standing still, but I’m frozen, for fear of wasting time going in the wrong direction. But I guess any direction is better than none, right?

I should know that writing isn’t like knitting a blanket. Writing is like polishing a stone. I’m not knitting a perfect row, where one wrong stitch is a glaring error that requires I undo the entire thing to fix it. No, I am picking up a rough and ugly rock and tossing it around and rubbing it and grinding it and working on it until it begins to appear somewhat like a beautiful stone. And I can’t stop and pick up a new rock just because I feel like I’m getting nowhere, or else I will get nowhere. I have to keep writing and revising and adding and writing more until it resembles something like I imagine in my mind.

I’ve been going at this like I’m knitting  a sweater, when I’ve really just been kicking a stone down the street in fear of messing it up. There’s no messing it up, the only thing that can mess it up is not working on it.