Why Sci-Fi?

In 1969, the summer after I had to travel to a new school in another town, Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin walked on the Moon.   I stayed up and awake that entire summer night, as did my whole family, watching everything the TV was able to show.  I vowed to myself that summer that I, too, would one day walk on another world.  My fantasy was, as I’m sure most thirteen-year-old boys in the entire world agreed, was to be the first Earth man to set foot on Mars.

I set out to get myself into the Air-Force Academy in Colorado Springs.  We visited there during one of our yearly family tent-camping car trips.  It was an elegant, pristine dream.  But life has a way of putting needle holes in the balloons that make up the loftiest of dreams.  I developed bursitis and eventually arthritis by the time I was eighteen.  My eyes were always too myopic to ever become an astronaut.  Then Challenger blew up.  Reagan, who didn’t believe in the U.S. Government as a way to accomplish important things, or at least, didn’t believe in spending money for such things when that money didn’t go into the pockets of his rich friends, changed young boy’s dreams.  Our trajectory towards Mars was slowed.

So, do you let dreams die?  Never me.  No, not I.  I would still travel there.  But I could not take my physical body.  I would have to go by the ship of imagination.  I would have to rely on the fantastic inner eye.

Some of my junior high English students and I took up role-playing games.  We graduated from Dungeons and Dragons into the space fantasy game called Traveller.   We fought space wars, built space colonies, absorbed Doctor Who, Star Wars, The Empire Strikes Back, Return of the Jedi, and The Last Starfighter.  All things were possible.   With a role of the dice, you could save the universe.  And so my novel Aeroquest was born.

Catch a Falling Star and all the stories I have percolating now continue that plan, that goal, that young boy’s dream of placing his feet on another world.  Today’s Paffooney is a symptom of that illness, not an absolute definition of it.  Young Buster Crabbe, if you can’t tell, is the human boy in the picture.