There are two kinds of people in this world: People who believe there are two kinds of people, and people who don't.
Do you believe that?
And among those kinds of people are people who would willingly sit in a small capsule, strapped on top of a rocket ship, and blast off for space in spite of an awareness -- a likelihood -- that they may never come back.
If there is a thread that consistently runs through the things I write, a string theory that stitches my universe together, it probably has a lot to do with that idea.
There is something self-destructive in that compulsion.
My most reluctant astronaut, Troy, from Ghost Medicine, laments about his sacrifice, the trade-offs, giving up pieces of himself in exchange for an uncertain future. Jonah, the protagonist of In the Path of Falling Objects, a kind of wandering ascetic who knows he will never come back, is definitely more resigned to the lift-off, but is prepared to make the best of his trip.
And then there's Jack, from The Marbury Lens. He's terrified of the journey, but there's no reason he can come up with NOT to go. So he keeps climbing back onto that spaceship, never expecting things to get better, and finding an element of twisted, self-deprecating humor when his expectations are unfailingly met. Fuck you, Jack, he tells himself, time and again.
They ask me this with consistency: all these protagonists are me.
I am the type of person who would willingly get aboard that rocket ship, and I would do so with a certain degree of confidence that I won't ever make it back.
I think about this all the time; even more frequently now that The Marbury Lens is just days away from its release.
Like those three characters in my first novels -- and Stark McClellan, too, from Stick, my fourth -- I have spent all this personal currency, burned off a store of propellant that I'd kept locked away, and now I can't get it back. And I can't come home, either.
Writing is probably more like disappearing, evaporating, blasting off and never coming back to where you were, than anything else. That is a conservative estimate of the truth, I think.
And there is no room for regret on a rocket ship. Troy, Jonah, Jack, and Stark would all tell you that.
What did you always want to be when you grew up?
7 comments:
When I was in second grade I wanted to be shortstop for the Detroit Tigers like Alan Trammell. Then I found out I had no athletic talent.
Then I thought it'd be cool to be a hobo. Not the kind who pick through trash and beg on corners, but the kind who ride the rails with a bindle. Except most trains around here are tankers for chemicals and whatnot, and I like sleeping on a nice, soft bed, so that didn't work either.
Then in 8th grade I decided I'd do accounting as my day job and write on the side. Dreams do come true! (If you lower your expectations enough.)
I always wanted to be a writer. Now that I'm a writer, I kind of wish I was a gardener. Or an astronaut. As long as I could go by myself. I don't think I'd like being in a space capsule with another person.
If you go by yourself you'll go crazy. Or at least that's what always happens in "The Twilight Zone."
Dang! I wish someone would have told me that before I left.
When I was little I wanted to be a ballet dancer - not a professional because I always knew I didn't have the talent or the body shape of a "real" dancer (I like to eat and I don't smoke). So I decided I wanted to own a dance studio. I never got that dance studio but I did teach dance for a couple of years so that wasn't too bad. Now I teach the Months of the Year and Days of the Week dance to kindergartners and that is pretty darn fun.
Connie
Oh and Andrew I give you and A+ for exposing so much of yourself out there in your books. I could never, ever, ever do that.
RM is right, you would go crazy all by yourself in a rocket. The only question then would be; who would you take with you?
Connie
Oh. I really would go alone. When I was a kid, before I settled down, I used to do stuff like that. I'd pack what I needed in a backpack and I'd take off and travel -- alone -- for months.
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