It’s a question I’ve asked myself many times.
Particularly in the depths of a difficult section of a story, I wonder why I drag myself out of bed in the wee hours to stare at a laptop screen and mourn my creativity.
At those times, only routine saves me from giving up. I get out of bed, make a coffee, sit in my favourite armchair, laptop at the ready. I do that because, these days, it’s simply what I do.
But why tap at the keyboard and slap words onto the screen?
Why spend weeks (or months) planning what I’m going to write, where some mornings the only progress might be a single idea that makes me giddy?
Or, let’s be honest: sometimes nothing at all. Why slavishly work and rework stories until they meet some indefinable self-standard of “good”?
And more, why science fiction & fantasy?
The answer is pretty simple. And if you think about it too long, perhaps a little disturbing.
So what is it?
Possibility.
Potential.
Potato.
No, wait. Not that last one. (though they are quite versatile)
It’s because I can write anything I fucking want.
Post-apocalyptic vampires with Matrix vibes and robots? Sure. Go for it. Galaxy-spanning sagas with spaceships, magic, and a lovable crew of idiots and nincompoops? Hell yes. A short story about a bowl of sauceless pasta with the powers of precognition? Write that sucker.
I write sci-fi and fantasy because the only limits I have are my own creativity, and my ability to put coherent words onto the page.
I fucking love that.