As an avid reader of science fiction, I spent my early childhood enraptured by the stories of Golden Age giants like Asimov, Clarke, Heinlein, and Bradbury, writers with the ability to transport me to other worlds. I marveled at their talent to construct alternate realities where heroes triumphed and set the world right again, usually in the face of overwhelming odds. In fact, I was fascinated with writing because of my love for reading; however, fascination diminished over the years, replaced by practical utility.
I remember trying to write science fiction stories for class assignments, stories that spanned the present and the future, with unlikely heroes – usually my friends and I – doing battle for the future of humanity. Of course, I thought I was writing pure poetry, but my teachers used red ink to share a different perspective. Indeed, imagination was my friend and grammar my sworn enemy. Truly, I despised grammar with all of its past participles, indefinite articles, and subordinating conjunctions, apparently built for the singular purpose of making life difficult.
I do not remember exactly when I stopped writing for sheer enjoyment, certainly by the time I entered high school. Frustrated with my ability to live up to the standard set by the grand masters, it seems I gradually began to think about writing as a means to an end. Indeed, I stopped writing out of desire, instead only writing when I had to. Of course, the future is full of possibility; perhaps I can still recapture the wonder of childhood imagination and rekindle the passion to tell a great tale.