|Me at the age of seven.|
I was precocious.
That little boy grew up, kept reading comics and eating cookies, but gave up on his childhood dreams of galactic dominance; after all, it’s 2014 and we don’t even have affordable jetpacks, let alone the interplanetary infrastructure that would give rise to a galaxy-spanning empire of absolute evil.
And you just know the first galactic empire would be founded by seriously nasty people. I mean, look at Genghis Khan or Ivan the Terrible. Look at Napoleon. Look at Ming, the Merciless!
|Look at him!|
Anyway, you ask, “What’s the point of all this?”
The point, my faithful reader, is that pulp contains enormous potential when it comes to inspiration. True, potential doesn’t always lead to accomplishment, but… The freedom to create unselfconsciously, with a child’s delight in the ridiculous and unlikely, doesn’t that appeal to you?
When I was a child, “Internet” wasn’t even a word in my household, and covers provided my first encounter with a book or magazine. I don’t remember reading any book reviews between the ages of 6 and 14. So, setting aside for now the books that relatives gave me, I bought my own on the strength of a particular cover. As you may imagine, I saw little beyond the awesome.
I now see so far beyond the awesome that I’ve come full circle — well, no, not full circle. I’ve done a 359°, not a 360°. You could say I’m through the looking glass, privy to a strangeness that few can behold.
And that strangeness is the place where stories come to life. Nothing is more personal than midwifing a story into this world; and what a messy business that can be, full of blood and guts and screaming and passing out and…
Anyway. Shall we begin our educational tour?