In my teens, twenties, and thirties I desperately wanted to be a science fiction writer. At least I thought I did until I got married and got a job I liked. I still took creative writing classes and even attended Clarion West in 2002 when I was fifty-one. However, I never could stick with writing until I had a polished story. I’m just too lazy. Writing science fiction has always been more of a fantasy than a reality. I turn seventy-two next month, and I wonder if I’m too old to even dream that old dream. Why hasn’t it just faded away? (I wish it had — I could use the peace of mind.)
In recent years, I’ve often wondered if I could make myself write one story worthy of an editor’s acceptance? I have ideas, lots of ideas. Lots of finished but unpolished stories. I don’t know if I have any talent, but I do know I lack focus and perseverance to stick with writing a story until it’s worth submitting. But let’s imagine if I could muster up some discipline, what would I write about?
I no longer like science fiction the way I liked it when I was younger. For the most part, I don’t even like reading modern science fiction. And I’m not talking about plot ideas or prose styles. I always assumed I could never completely finish any of my stories because I didn’t like them enough.
It looks like I have two desires: one to write a story I love, and second to write a story an editor will buy. But that’s wrong too. Maybe I shouldn’t be thinking about editors and instead just try to please myself.
Putting it that way, I can see why I’ve always given up. I love very few stories. Writing something I loved will take a huge effort, maybe even an impossible one. Is this an ego problem I’m having, or am I just chicken about rejection? Probably all writers who got published just wrote stories until they found an audience and didn’t worry about who would like them. I should do that too, but I don’t know if I can. Knowing that advice is not enough to inspire me to keep working.
I’ve read many books advising would-be writers. They all say to not wait for inspiration, but just develop the discipline to write daily. This probably explains my failure. I don’t like writing fiction, it’s demanding work. The people I know that became successful fiction writers started writing stories early in life and always kept at it. They couldn’t stop writing. Evidently, wanting to do something is much different from doing something.
I’ve tried to forget this desire to write fiction for most of my life. It won’t go away. It just keeps gnawing at me. I knew one woman who had a science fiction story published and then never tried again. I wonder if that would free me too.
When I was young, I wanted to be a successful writer to make money, so I wouldn’t need to work a 9 to 5 job. But I’m retired now, and money and jobs aren’t an issue. At 72, I’d be writing just to write. I do write by blogging. Evidently, there’s something special about fiction that blogging doesn’t satisfy.
Is it an urge to create? To leave something behind? I’ve always been fascinated by those writers I find on ISFDB.org that have just a few stories listed. A fitting example is “The Short Life” by Francis Donovan which I wrote about last time. Donovan has one published story. Did he encapsulate everything he wanted to say about reality with that one fictional statement? That might come closest to explaining my urge to write a science fiction story. I want to say something that will be remembered.
Of course, having a science fiction story published isn’t like writing hieroglyphics on a pyramid. Still, I think I’ve dug up a clue about my life-long hankering to crank out a science fiction story. And it might also explain why I’d need to love it. Who wants to write a crappy epitaph for themselves?
I wish I could write something like “The Star Pit” by Samuel R. Delany. Or “An Appearance of Life” by Brian W. Aldiss. Or “Vintage Season” by C. L. Moore. Or even something short, like “The Light of Other Days” by Bob Shaw. Those would all be epitaph-worthy stories.
[Thank you for being my psychiatrist or priest and listening to my confessions.]
James Wallace Harris



















