​This was a hard year for me on the writing front (well, all fronts) and damn it, I’m not comfortable with that. Stories have come hard and slow to me, and novel drafts I typically would have dashed out in under a month now take me twice that amount of time. I’m not short of ideas, and I have enough time in my schedule to get these things done. My agent says I am turning in my best work (such as ADRIFT, recently), with each manuscript getting better and better. But for the last several months, it has been as if the passion was sucked out of me. No amount of coffee, tea, or motivational viewings of 2001: A Space Odyssey could lift me from the funk.
 
I’m sure other writers go through phases where their output waxes or wanes; I know I have. But this time was different. The specter of quitting what I do has never haunted my thoughts, but self-doubt more than took its place. I even took to procrastinating when it came to writing, something I rarely did in previous years.
 
Either I’m losing my touch, or my mind needs more time to realize these stories on a subconscious level. We write stories based on our experiences in the real world, and I’ve been trying to tackle deeper, more ‘cerebral’ material instead of the action/adventure stories I typically write. Perhaps, in going for more depth, I’ve had to explore my own psychological depths. One would think that requires more gestation time for such stories. This isn’t an excuse for writing less this year: I haven’t lost any of my excitement for the craft, for science fiction and the genre at large, or for fandom.
 
I’m hoping this is part of my evolution as an author, and that I come out of it stronger and more focused. I intend for it to be.
 
As this year draws to a close, I’m roughly halfway through another first draft, AFTERWORLD. I wrote a synopsis as a guideline, and I have the overall plot envisioned. Pretty typical for me, since I’m a panster anyway. All I will say about AFTERWORLD is that it’s a ‘post-human’ story, set far into the future at a point where humanity is extinct. The main characters are all biomechanical. This has led me to think more about how we humans express ourselves, how we see the world, and the things we take for granted, more than ever before. Even though I’m well into the first draft, new ideas are still coalescing in my mind. Should I take this narrative route, or that one? I don’t find these questions to be obstacles, but they have caused me to slow my progress and ponder certain issues a little more before returning to the manuscript.
 
Before this year, I would have cautioned against such a thing. Usually, once I’ve started a new story, I don’t stop until it’s finished. For a novel, that meant not pausing to reconsider character motivations or plot maturation. I simply charged ahead. And that has always given me grief when revising my first drafts into second ones. Maybe now, I’m finally slowing down so that I can craft better stories, and get more of it right the first time around. If I were superstitious, I’d say this is my muse striking back, after I’ve sent her changing through the burning ruins of Pansterville for years.
 
Anyway. I plan to complete the initial draft of AFTERWORLD before 2017 finally ends. I’m excited for 2018. I’m ready for the muse to kick my ass from one globular star cluster to the next, because, even though I’ve slowed down for a while, I’m not giving up. 

​When I was in high school, I noticed my classmates had seemingly changed over the summer and entered the new school year as members of certain cliques. People who’d been friends were now too cool to speak to me. Not a fun place to be. In our society this is a part of growing up, unfortunately. Many people mature out of this phase—but many never do. That is how I see the toxic side of fandom.
 
I was never part of a clique. All I had other than a handful of friends were the science fiction and fantasy books I loved to read, Dungeons & Dragons, and heavy metal music. Little communities I felt part of, separate from those who shunned me in everyday life. I never felt others should be prevented from enjoying these things; the more people I had things in common with, the better. So even though, more than two decades later, I still read SF, still play tabletop RPGs, (my taste in music has since greatly expanded, thankfully), I reiterate that I was never in a clique. A clique is exclusive. It forbids entry to those it considers beneath them. It rescinds membership to any who might be interested but simply doesn’t understand every aspect of said clique’s minutiae.
 
Many of today’s fandoms contain people who view their favorite films, comics, games, or books as just another clique. To hell with the mundanes who assume they are fans. I know most fans aren’t like this, but enough are to become noticeable. Enough to make the rest of us look bad. They remind me of the cliques in high school that regarded themselves as superior to everyone else—with just as much maturity.
 
The current outcry over the 13th Doctor getting cast as a woman, the bitching about Ed Sheeran having a cameo in Game of Thrones Season 7, or the vitriol regarding Idris Elba portraying the Gunslinger in the new Dark Tower movie—it all sounds like a bunch of children squabbling over a pie they have always claimed is available to everyone. Star Trek fans say their fandom represents that future utopian society yet some complain when two women of color are cast in the lead roles for the new show Discovery. Star Wars fans love to imagine battling an evil empire in a galaxy featuring countless alien species, but some got butthurt when a POC was cast as a stormtrooper in The Force Awakens. And don’t get me started on the comics industry.
 
A lot of this can be blamed on simple bigotry and misogyny. Racism and sexism are alive and well in the 21st century, but often in places no one would have suspected. But the more I talk to other writers, the more I learn that this behavior has went on for quite some time. Since I wasn’t among those typically shunned from SF (women, people of color, LGBT people), I never realized how deep some of this went. It’s certainly made me rethink how I see the SF genre and the things I’ve enjoyed for years. How my interest and involvement in them has never been questioned, while the inclusion of others is.
 
Hey, I get it. You bonded with a certain movie, story, or character that helped you understand yourself and provided insulation from the horrors of the world outside. Something that seemed truly yours, that only you understood. This thing has been there for you when nobody else was. When you laid alone at night, shunned by all else, you still had this one thing that offered comfort and escape. There’s nothing wrong with that.
 
Telling someone else they can’t have the same thing is not only wrong, it’s hypocritical. It’s selfish. It reveals a lack of empathy, for if this one thing gives you comfort, you wish to keep others from feeling the same. Where you might have turned to fandom to deal with the sanctimoniousness of other cliques, you have contributed to the very same behavior. You assume this identity is yours alone, and all others are thieves, pretenders, or those wishing to use that identity to further a political agenda. But if you’re the one complaining, or trying to prohibit others from finding solace in what you like, you’re the one with the agenda.
 
The easy thing is to tell these people ‘you should live up to the ideals of your heroes’. That they missed the true message behind Star Trek, Steven Universe, Doctor Who, and others. Sometimes you block them on social media, and in some cases that can’t be avoided. But they never learn what their real problem is as a result.
 
The real problem is that they don’t understand—or accept—that their hero, their ideal, their one shining thing, can inspire and comfort someone else. Not just them. No single person, group, or community owns these fictional worlds and characters. They belong to all of us. It doesn’t matter if their gender or skin color changes. As long as these worlds and characters remain true to what they represent, what they inspired, then nothing has fundamentally changed. They are the new mythology and change with the times.
 
They change because we do. Because some of us need them to. 

​For decades, science fiction has been the genre of future speculation, hope, and even warning. Though its trends have changed with the times, there remains one constant the genre never abandons: its regard for science, knowledge, and reason. Regardless of whether fans prefer space opera over social SF, or what their politics are, science fiction has remained the champion of forward-thinking in the face of ignorance and zealotry.
 
Can that still be true in our new, so-called ‘post-truth’ society? Where it is now fashionable, in certain circles, to proudly disregard knowledge and intellect, to give opinion the same weight as fact? When daily, we watch the frightening rise of regressive behaviors such as bigotry, assault on women’s rights, climate change denial, and even those who believe the Earth is flat? Or that we never landed on the Moon? When elected leaders freely cast doubt on what is true or false, for blatant political gain?
 
What worth can science fiction have in such a society? This question is more important than ever, as the general public’s main exposure to SF is the big Hollywood blockbuster: big explosions, dumbed-down plot, technology akin to magic. When people doubt we ever sent humans into space, while using a mobile phone that receives signals from orbiting satellites. Post-modern ideas claiming science (and thus critical thought) is just another religion. Worst of all, empowered racists that ask if some people can even be considered human beings.
 
The best way to fight this nonsense is to maintain our standard of knowledge. One that never normalizes ignorance. A standard that science fiction epitomizes.
 
But wait, I know what some will say: the genre itself has always been politicized. From the Libertarian-tinged works of Robert A. Heinlein, to the feminist perspectives given by Ursula K. Le Guin, science fiction has never been a stranger to controversy (in fact, what works are considered controversial is in itself a controversy). There’s nothing wrong with this; having multiple perspectives on how humans will advance (or not) is what gives the field its strength. There’s something for all tastes, all political persuasions. That doesn’t mean we should normalize racism, sexism, and otherwise hateful material when it arises. Recognizing and calling out such things doesn’t stifle creativity. But abiding them certainly stifles the SF community, and, ultimately, the rest of society.
 
Yet, for all the friction within SF fandom, we’ve always been united by a respect for learning. I hope this continues. As the cultural wars spill over into the SF community, I fear some authors will assume the same stubborn, ignorant, even petty stances that certain elements of society now espouse. We’ve already witnessed that in regards to the Sad/Rabid Puppies movement. Regardless of where one stands on that issue, it’s mere distraction compared to what is happening around us. What we once read about in SF books, has now, or likely will, come true:
 
The mass-surveillance state as shown in George Orwell’s 1984;
The rise of corporatism, as depicted in William Gibson’s Neuromancer;
Women as baby-making machines, from Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale;
The deterioration of urban, non-white neighborhoods, from Octavia Butler’s Parable of the Sower;
Rising sea levels, like those from JG Ballard’s The Drowned World.
 
There are other examples, but this list suffices to make my point. True, some of these haven’t come to pass, or aren’t as extreme as their fictional counterpart. But the signs are there, much more so than when the author in question penned said work (which is why I didn’t select recent titles). We are walking the razor’s edge, barefoot and blindfolded.
 
So, what can we, as science fiction writers, do?
 
Some will say, ‘do nothing, keep it business as usual’. I can’t condemn that. Just because we write SF, that doesn’t make us activists, prophets, or anything bent on swaying another’s thinking. That’s not my intent when I write a short story or novel. Our beliefs, hopes, prejudices, and all else that makes us individuals, will surface in our art, regardless of authorial intent. But there is one thing we can all do: maintain respect for knowledge.
 
Support reason, praise intellect, require facts instead of opinions. Keep these tenements in your work, subtle or no. Inspire with that sense of wonder, like Arthur C. Clarke did with his work. Foster hope that humanity can overcome these challenges, like Octavia Butler. Challenge our concepts of gender and civilization, like Ursula K. Le Guin or Samuel Delaney. Or, like George Orwell and Margaret Atwood, tell us your greatest fears, so that we might be forewarned.
 
Never forget that science fiction inspired some of our greatest scientists and inventors; without this genre, rockets and mobile devices might never have left the proverbial drawing board. Our knowledge sets us apart from every other lifeform we currently know; therefore, let us celebrate it, increase it, and most importantly, share it, so that the idea of a ‘post-truth’ era dies like all other ephemeral, meaningless trends. Let science fiction be a pestilence upon ignorance, a poison against irrationality, and an antidote to regressive thinking.
 
“There is a single light of science, and to brighten it anywhere is to brighten it everywhere.”
Isaac Asimov 

​It was a chilly February morning in Roanoke as I entered the hotel where Mysticon 2016 was being held. Dusty, one of my local writer friends, had managed to get me a pass. The rest had sold out weeks beforehand, due to the anticipated appearance of George R. R. Martin. This would be my first ‘con’, short for convention. But, as you’ll see below, it seems as if I stalked poor GRRM the whole time.
 
After receiving my pass and perusing the vendor displays (I purchased a book and art print by fantasy artist J.P Targete, and a book from fellow HWA member, Pamela Kinney), Dusty and I made our way to the GRRM reading. No electronic devices were allowed; if they saw you so much as check your phone or tablet, the reading would end. I found that a bit harsh, but I waited with everyone else in that crowded room. Including two infants who were most enthusiastic to see the infamous architect of the Red Wedding.
 
GRRM walked in, wearing that customary hat and suspenders that lend a dark Santa Clause air about him. Well, he was dressed all in black. And lots of characters die in his books. Badly.
 
He was going to read two chapters from his upcoming novel, The Winds of Winter. You know, the novel all fandom is waiting for, from A Song of Ice and Fire. The passages were interesting, but gave nothing away (and certainly left every mystery unanswered, all of you Jon Snow hopefuls). But that’s all I will say about his text; you’ll have to wait like everyone else to find out what we heard in that room. Though it was cool, finding out something before the rest of fandom, I was glad when GRRM finished, because I’m not fond of readings (much rather be at home, alone, reading, with tea or coffee handy). Dusty almost fell asleep, I think.
 
From there, we sampled a panel about colonizing Venus. After realizing these people had no idea for how they would deal with planetary surfaces reaching 800 degrees Fahrenheit, much less the massive atmospheric pressures, Dusty and I left. I wish those people luck, but I’m certain we’ll have colonized Io before they convince anyone to live on Venus. And Io’s covered in frigging volcanoes.
 
By this time, many more attendees had shown up. Cosplayers, fans, and even writers like myself. It felt weird and fun at the same time, knowing these people shared many of my own interests. In my Star Trek t-shirt, complete with the rainbow warp colors, I felt at home. No one realized I was trying to cosplay Neil Gaiman in that leather jacket, though.
 
Dusty introduced me to a favorite local writer of his, P.S. Belcher, and I purchased one of Belcher’s books to sign, The Six-Gun Tarot. He said he’d heard of my own book, and I simply smiled and said ‘cool’ (Oh shit, did he read the positive or negative reviews? Had he heard good or bad things? Hey, we writers are an insecure lot.). Dusty and I stayed for a few moments as Belcher took part in a panel on beta readers. But, alas, we had to run, to once again trail GRRM through the fan-filled halls of the hotel.
 
Once we finally found the signing line, our wait was relatively short. That was the good part. The bad? GRRM would only sign one item, without inscriptions, and if I wanted a photo with him, I had to have my camera out and already set to the camera app. This wouldn’t have bothered me if I hadn’t already purchased two copies of A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms (one for me, one for my cousin, who is a huge GRRM fan) from the Barnes & Noble vendor in the hotel. I pity anyone who bought all five volumes of A Song of Ice and Fire in the hopes of getting them signed.
 
But that wasn’t the best part. By the time I got to the small room where GRRM was signing, I had the single book out, the camera was ready, and I’d cleared my throat to say something. As GRRM was signing his angular scribble on the book’s title page (I’d have been pissed if he had marred the colorful, illustrated end paper), I said ‘Hello, Mr. Martin.’ Respectful, friendly, not attempting to start a conversation because the con staff wanted us to move our asses faster than a Sand Snake could kill a man. GRRM looked up and said ‘Hello, how are you today?’, and I replied, ‘I’m fine,’ as I took my signed book and retrieved my phone from the con staff member. Once I was away, I examined the picture they’d taken.
 
Holy shit. It was terrible. But in a way, it was hilarious.
 
The photo, which I uploaded to social media, shows me apparently frowning down at GRRM, and he’s looking up at me, his pen scratching over that title page. It appears confrontational, like a stare down. Of course, when I uploaded the photo, I typed in a caption: ‘I’m warning you…if Brienne dies, we riot.’ Game of Thrones fans will get it.
 
After we grabbed lunch at Bellacino’s (excellent toasted subs), we returned to the hotel so that we could listen to the GRRM Q&A. We attended another panel, this one with another local writer, Tiffany Trent, on it (author of The Unnaturalists), who received us warmly, and mentioned seeing my book advertised in the local newspaper. That made me happy and embarrassed at the same time; I’m not accustomed to praise or attention. The panel discussed raising children in a post-apocalyptic world, which I found quite interesting, but—yep, you guessed it—we left early to stalk GRRM one last time.
 
This time, Dusty and I managed to get a seat just to the left of the Q&A table, being closer to GRRM than anyone else. Yet, when the venerable slayer of favorite characters arrived, he made eye contact with me as he neared the stage. The dude probably thought I was some crazed fan, seeing me once again, but I managed to refrain myself from prostrating. I did smile, though. A Littlefinger kinda smile. Well, not really.
 
The Q&A was both entertaining and enlightening; GRRM came across as a down to earth guy, and, as Dusty commented, he was very generous with his answers to the audience’s questions. This was easily the highlight for me, for, as I watched and listened, I considered my own writing hopes and dreams. GRRM makes no secret of his dislike for fame, and I got the impression he just wants to enjoy fandom like the rest of us. He really cares about the genre, and about the fans. Yes, it might seem that I complained about the limitations of the book signing, but honestly, there are far less famous and accomplished celebrities out there who charge far more for the opportunity, and GRRM lacked such arrogance. I’d do it all over again. Especially for another photo like that.
 
I almost got in line to ask him a question, but I couldn’t think of anything worthwhile (I wanted to crack a joke about, ‘hey see you at the next Hugo Loser’s Party’, but that’ll probably never happen for me). I’m not a novice any longer, but I’m far from a master of my craft, and no doubt, there is much GRRM could fill me in on. But I found the best way to learn, in this situation, was to simply listen and observe.
 
Afterward, as Dusty and I passed through a Roanoke fading into twilight, I knew I would come back to Mysticon, and to other cons. My swag bag may have been filled with signed books, but my mind was filled with the possibility that, yes, I belonged there.
 
But I’ll try not to creep out the guest author next time. 

​Finally, the day has arrived: November 3rd, 2015. The day I can stop retweeting ‘preorder my book!’, the day I can start worrying about the reviews I’ll get, and the day I’m supposed to gulp down several bottles of champagne.
 
It’s the day I can honestly say that I am a professionally published novelist. A real science fiction author.
 
I can remember signing that contract like it was yesterday, wondering if the release date would ever arrive, when would I get to see the cover art, or when would the ARCs go out to interested readers and publications. Now that the big day is here, I feel I have forgotten something, or there’s another task to complete, or I neglected to meet a deadline buried somewhere in my inbox. A writer’s life isn’t filled with celebratory toasts, pats on the back, or ticker tape parades, you know.
 
On my debut novel’s release day, all I can think about is: what comes next?
 
The obvious answer is to keep writing, keep submitting. But there are other considerations now. The way people view me, and the way I view myself.
 
It feels great to sign a copy of my book for someone, but it’s also strange. As my pen scratches my name on the title page, I try to think of clever, meaningful things to say. My cursive is horrible, so I have to print out the message, save for my signature at the end, which, despite practice, still resembles rejected characters from a chicken alphabet. Then it hits me that I really wrote this frigging thing, and I try not to screw up my signature.
 
Some of my relatives now say ‘hey, I know someone famous!’, but I merely grin and shake my head. I’m not a celebrity by any stretch, but it’s nice to think that anyone would think I’m cool now. I mean, one of my nieces Googled me, so that should mean something, right? Maybe I’ll get a Wikipedia page soon—the goal of all serious novelists.
 
I won’t know what fellow authors think unless they read my book, but we’re all part of the same club—one in which I can hold my head high, regardless of the novel’s success.
 
Some people may think ‘hey, you’ve made it!’, but no—all I did was climb a hill that allows me to actually see the mountain of challenges ahead. But the important thing is…now I know that I can climb.
 
So really, what is next?
 
I’ve already written both sequels to Inherit the Stars; one is in polished form, the other was written this past August. The story was always meant to be a trilogy, though the setting itself could be expanded in a second series. I have other science fiction and fantasy novels completed that I hope to get published, and I’m gearing up to write a brand new science fiction novel this month. I’d love to pen an epic fantasy saga down the road. There’s no end to the projects I have in mind.
 
Plus…I have more confidence now. No one can accuse me of pursuing a ‘thankless hobby’—which writing never was to me. Since I started writing seriously, it has always been, and remains, my passion. I have succeeded where many others have failed, and I know all too well just how special any success in this business is.
 
Now, I have business cards to pass out. I need to schedule myself for cons. I need to book some signings. My philosophy of ‘if you don’t regard yourself as a professional, then no one else will’ is now more important than ever. The pressure doesn’t go away simply because I achieved my first success.
 
Yet there is still much to celebrate. If writing were always a miserable enterprise, I wouldn’t do it. I love what I do. C’mon, you can order my book from Amazon, it’s on the shelf at Barnes & Noble and Books-A-Million, and it got a nice nod from Publishers Weekly! It’s got a great cover and has the thickness of an epic. Wooo! Beyond such achievements, though, is the real release this day: it is the new me, no longer crippled by self-doubt and disillusionment. It is the start of a new chapter in my life, and my career. Inherit the Stars, indeed.
 
So…anyway. I can’t drink too much champagne, or sing out of tune to ‘We Are the Champions’ all night long. Remember: I’ve got another book to write.