Between the idea and the story there’s a sea of uncertainty and typos, an abyss that can swallow you whole like the Star Wars desert vagina, a pit of lava with fire tigers swimming in it, a flock of hysterical teenagers that just spotted their favorite heartthrob winking at them and waving from way over there, and you’re in their way. There’s a process that can exhaust you, that turns pleasure into chore and adamant will into Call of Duty all-nighters. It’s skill, it’s effort, it’s tuning out the why-bother elf that whispers in your ear: Why bother? You’re not Asimov, you’re not Cortázar, you’re not Tolkien or Le Guin. Hell, you’re not even Dan Brown! Why bother, we could be readingwatchingthatmoviegamingreading, why bother?
But someday, if I’m ever good enough, headstrong enough, lucky enough, I would like to write the story about the louse that awakened to socialism, and rallied its fellow lice to fight for their rights to a little bit of blood, to live freely instead of being despised and killed on sight. I want to write about the odd little man that sailed between the Pacific islands putting out volcanoes for a fee, about the genius boy whose sole goal in life was to know everything that there was to be known, until his head got so big its gravity started pulling everything towards him, everything, until the entire universe was within him, was him. Those, and many others, even if only Leta will read, because they feel heavy inside my chest, and I need them out.