I like sci-fi. I love watching proper sci-fi. I love reading it. Ray Bradbury, Harlan Ellison, Philip K Dick – I happily read them all. I am, however, no good at writing sci-fi. I just cannot write proper sci-fi to save my life – it always drifts onto into some sort of horror story, or just drifts.
This week, I was backing up some work onto a flash drive, and I noticed a story on there called ’15 days’. I didn’t remember writing this, and looking at it, I saw I wrote it in 2006.
I opened it up. It was definitely mine. It was my style, my themes, my obsessions.
And it was sci-fi.
Pure, proper sci-fi. And good too. The kind I read in an anthology, and read again, and go back to.
I’d written it 4 years ago, saved it, and then forgotten all about it. All the times I’d thought I couldn’t write sci-fi, and there my own little sci-fi short story sat on my flash drive all this time.
As it turns out, much to my surprise and astonishment, I can write sci-fi. (And can now add sci-fi to the list of magazines and short story competitions I look for).
I’ve been writing for around 15 years now. There’s odd little scraps of stories scattered all over the flat. (A whole bureau full, around 20 discs, and 1 huge big flash drive). Perhaps, once in a while, instead of struggling with something new, I should look through all these scraps. There seems to be some treasure hidden amongst them.