Tendril stirs

[vaneramos]

A sailboat hull across the street from my apartment


My breathless exploration of science fiction has almost come to a close, for now. Happily, the Philip Dick novel isn't taking long to read. I'm growing impatient with the inconsistencies and superficiality that fill the pulp of this genre.

Tendril rolled over in her sleep yesterday, stirring bubbles of consciousness to the surface. A writer must live and breathe a character for some time to bring her to life. I've been mulling, struggling over architecture of the plot, fretting about my lack of knowledge, when what I really need is to listen to my own inner story.

The writing style that moves me most is poetic. Writers like Michael Ondaatje, Anne Michaels and Dionne Brand impress sensual sceneries of words into memory. My favourite science fiction writer, Ursula LeGuin, does the same.

When I summon the courage to unbutton my own inhibitions and trust my voice, filled with imagery, I unleash something sudden as a dark horse, vast as a nebula. It emerges from years of despair and loneliness, frightens me. After such a long voyage, I've reached this tiny peaceful planet, only to discover my passion is rooted in the turbulent space left behind. The journey is not over.