Leviathan

I yearn for the Cold War—not for some idealized America nor a rose-tinted view of a time gone past, but because of the fascination with space the world as suddenly developed as it did lose.

There’s a reason all good sci-fi comes from a certain era: humanity was truly hopeful, for the first time, that we may yet attain interplanetary travel. Hell, we were hopeful that we’d go well beyond that. It only seemed a logical extrapolation of the Space Race, which was spurred by a tiny shiny dumb metal ball, hurtling high above. Innovation seemed cutting-edge and on the cusp of greatness; humanity was poised to leap to the stars, venturing to the edges of nebulae and the borders of galaxies. Our outreach into the celestial was inevitable; the heavens begged for humanity’s touch. We were slumbering gods, awaiting our hibernation’s end: we would be great, and we would move on from the petty things we toyed with down on Earth, and most of all we would be profound. And happy.

And in this hope literature was born: the Clarkes and Asimovs, penning masterpieces. Speculative futures were bright amid the oppressive fear that communism may yet win—founded or not. It was an escape, yes, but also a way of life. A backdrop for the everyday, an exhilerating thought that we were moving into the Space Age; that the next step for humanity was emerging, and that we would enter it with unbridled tenacity. It brought together nations; it made them mortal enemies, too. And as the Soviets crumbled, a new, unified belief began to take place. The ISS, the innovations of the Internet and the advent of peace among the developed world: they ushered a new realm of optimism, at least in the unconscious, that we may yet move on from our fruitless fiddling down here on the ground.

Yet here we are today: if you were to ask, I believe most would struggle to fathom a realistic world where we are beyond the one they stand on now. We were supposed to be at Saturn by 2001, according to Clarke. And, not to discount the incredible work of unbelievable intelligent scientists, we’ve not even gone back to the Moon. Programs keep being promised and then extended, or just forgotten—by the public and politicians. And it’s a shame.

Because space is the harbinger of hope—the hope of something beyond the pettiness that we spear ourselves upon. Beyond the greed that plagues our genetics and societies. Beyond the horizons we’ve well-charted and traveled until there are grooves in the waters themselves. There’s so much more humanity could be, and the future of our Utopia lies in the stars.

It’s a stark lesson in not only the fickleness of human interest—how quickly such fanatic fantasies become obsolete—but also the reality of political idealism, and how it shapes us. Space became a mainstream idea much because of the Cold War. America was terrified of what the Soviets may be capable of if they were to achieve interplanetary dominance, and it drove our sudden interest—yes, even the novel interest—in the grander things in which I believe our future lies. The widespread hope and ideas of space travel seemed to have died with the War.

And it leads me to ask: how much will the world today change with its political landscape? Will space once again blossom in the minds of both authors and readers? It’s just about the most awe-inspiring, impossibly incredible concept one might imagine; and we trod over the idea, leaving it forgotten, in favor of flatter phones and VR. And, if it were to become mainstream again—in the way it once was, that is—what will we have done to make it so?

Nobody builds a nuke for the fun of it; what will have come of our cosmic endeavors so that we may finally refocus our attention to them?

J.T. Schay

It is the fear of every writer, no matter how experienced or self assured (though usually it is the inexperienced and, while maybe skilled, still just-budding authors), that their upcoming book is, put simply, the worst thing a human being has ever come to fathom. Ever.

And if you are a beginning author, like yours truly, then you most likely struggle to come to terms with – or in some regard become used to – the nigh ever-present self-guessing that goes into putting pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard). I am not a published author; hell, I'm not a good one, but I am somebody with opinions, and this is the internet: I'm going to share them.

To begin the matter: your book is not horrible. Nowhere close. But it isn't exactly a masterpiece either – despite what the 3:00am euphoria might tell you. In all likelihood, you have written, or you are writing, a decent book, or an okay one. It's why I wouldn't recommend starting out with something so monumental as a novel: you'll hate it by the end. Because we, as people and authors, are forever changing, and especially when we are developing a new skill. Even more so when that skill is one so deep and personal as writing often is. Just months ago I wrote stories and essays that, while still admittedly good, barely hold a candle to what I'm capable of now – even if some particular progress may be more subtle, I certainly see it. It certainly haunts ME.

Over time, as I've grown in my ability, I've become more comfortable with my style, with how I write prose and wrought stories; with how I wrench ideas from the deepest catacombs and crevices of my mind. I've dusted off old vocabulary and expanded my library; I've found a love of reading once thought lost in the back end of the closet, cobwebbed and forgotten; and still I weep when I read Dickens. Or, really, any good author. Because, in my mind, I'll never be like them: not just in sales, or in petty things like that, but in greatness, in likeness or nobility; really, in skill. I want to be great – every author does, even if they don't admit it so freely. Nobody loves to consider themselves inferior to another, and yet how could one look at a great work and say, “Yes, I've accomplished this!”

It would be textbook narcissism.

So how do I stave off this loathing of my own works? How do I persevere amidst a sea of millions, all of which are pushing themselves vainly to the top? How do I rationalize that I am unique, and capable, and not a talentless dolt drowning in the water?

Hah. You're funny. “Rationalization.”

As cliche as it may seem and as foolishly simple as it is, yet secretly (outrageously) difficult: accepting yourself is key. Looking at your writing and taking pride in it, unabashed, and saying, “Well, I couldn't accomplish that,” whilst pointing at A Space Odyssey or what have you, “But I quite like that I made this!” Yes, what you write will be nowhere near perfect – but that is a touch of the glory, isn't it? That you might create something even though you and it are imperfect, a spit in the face to entropy and perfectionist standards alike. Really, it is the acceptance and pride in what I create now in hopes of being great one day, or some semblance of it, that drives me. It is looking at my work, as horrid as I believe it may be, and realizing its inherent worth as something created: a stepping stone of my life; a frozen stream of thoughts.

And it isn't like I don't enjoy the process, either: have fun with what you're doing! If you don't like it, scrap it! Otherwise you, and any readers you might have, will be entirely disinterested in whatever it is you're writing. Creation is for enjoyment, whether that be the slight respite of putting to ink one's feelings or the unbridled joy of a manic mind burning like a star. Without fun, without joy or the simple catharsis of creation, the act means nothing. Without emotion, and without purpose to it, it means nothing. I enjoy writing, deeply, and if you do too, you'll keep on even as the doubt creeps in; enjoying what you create is ninety-percent of why you should create it. The other ten should be proving a point, or bringing a problem to attention, or, frankly, putting food on the table (if your gig can bring you that much).

Best of luck, fellow authors and writers and artists; be creative, be brazen, be innovative and novel and petty if you must.

J.T. Schay

Writer's block is the curse that endlessly plagues creatives – it takes many names, of course: endless pseudonyms that all lead back to that root fog that settles over the minds of the artist. And always, always, it is frustration incarnate. Whether it be the refusal of words or brushstrokes to come forth from their hidden box in the back of one's head, no matter the coaxing, this vexing phenomena (which we shall call writer's block, for simplicity and self-indulgence) never fails to enrage and depress.

“But just yesterday I was so excited, so creative!” you may cry, “Ready was I to unleash my potential upon the world, so unfortunate without my genius.” And yet here we are, hm? Here we are, staring inside ourselves, at the void – not malignant, probably – festering in the depths, and we feel like death would be a mercy. Maybe the fog spurs frustration, or anger, and you take to an anonymous blog to express it; or maybe it breeds aggravated sadness, stirs that depressing thought deep within your gut that no, truly, you can't ever succeed, and that you shouldn't have tried to begin with.

“Is there a solution? Might I return from this whirlpool of drab misery?” you might ask. Well, er, no. Not easily. But there are a few remedies that tend to jog the old creative engine, though it will ultimately be up to you to right yourself.

Reading helps. Yes, reading, the cliche every poor budding author is endlessly burdened with when they ask for advice; it holds weight. Reading books, old or new, (but especially new), introduces fresh ideas and revitalizes one's love for the craft – “I want to wrangle words like this!” you might resolve, rushing to tinker with your own little projects in a flurry of inspiration. Countless times when new ideas, for a current running story or a wispy one just out of my grasp, come to me, I look a little deeper and find the work of innumerable authors before me, conflated in a centrifuge flavored with my own style.

Taking a break, a walk, a shower – all have proven effective. Especially showers, and nature. The shower, indeterminably, tends to jog my own creative notions into beautiful or harshly incredible stories, writing them so plainly in my mind. The unfortunate bit is that they tend to leave before I can rush to my paper. But breaks still help: shaking oneself out of a particular mindset may help root out the weeds in one's creative garden.

And, finally, brute-force refusal to give up might just crack that block in half. Sometimes, this method fails; in fact, it often does. But if one has a good foothold, if the block is a weak one, it might be dislodged or even shattered by the building flood of emotion and ideas dammed up behind it: no longer will the roaring oceans of your limning waters be reduced to mere droplets trickling down from the cement pillar that refutes their flow.

No matter if these fail, however: time will weather everything. Life is short, yes, but sometimes not quite so short as we tend to imagine. Offer yourself respite. Give yourself time. Temporal distance may be all the space you need; a quick essay or short story that breaks the norm might just break the block with it. And, whatever way you choose to overcome this blight, know that you aren't alone in it. Thousands and thousands of others are wallowing in their own ineffectual talents as I write this, and as you read it.

The greats are only great because they persevered; untold thousands never tried. The very fact you're struggling, that you are persevering, only intimates that you are walking right alongside those like Shakespeare, and Hemingway, and any others you might idolize or adore. Best of luck in your endeavors, as always.

J.T. Schay