On Writing a Book

As some of you are aware, I have been working on a book. It chronicles the rise and fall of a soldier serving in a futuristic, trans-galactic imperial army, his rise to prominence, and his subsequent decline. The book explores the tension between a military and political career and an individual's faith, as well as the implicit flaws in any and all political systems.

The story opens with the hero, Colonel Demetrius, a young but successful officer in the fleet of the Basileia, the name I have given to the trans-galactic empire, winning the final battle of a civil war that has been raging for fifteen years. Demetrius is promoted to Strategos, is awarded a triumph, and begins to threaten some of the "old guard" of the political establishment, most notably a Count Hannibalian, the Fabius to Demetrius' Scipio. Demetrius, more soldier than politician, and no hero of the people, is quickly tarnished in their eyes by the clever scheming of the imperial court, and when the people turn on him, he quickly turns against them. When he learns, however, that the political establishment has turned the people against him and that they are just as much at their mercy as he is, he joins a resistance movement modeled on the Bolsheviks, only to realize that the people are even more evil and more concerned with institutional vengeance, and ultimately refuses to work with the revolutionaries anymore and willingly accepts exile to a distant planet, where he serves as the priest of a small community for the remainder of his life.

Wanting to create something like this is a wonderful experience, but it is also a very daunting one. I am drawing on a number of very good sources of inspiration like Shakespeare's Coriolanus, and Walter M Miller's A Canticle for Leibowitz, from poetry, from the Bible, from art and music. These media, almost issuing a challenge, demand some sort of response: it is as if the reactions they generate require some grand outlet for them to be truly felt. I must confess, it is hard to look at something I have written and not laugh, as if I am a child taking themselves too seriously again. Looking at all of those things, I am confronted with the unpleasant realization that I will never be able to create anything remotely comparable. Why bother, if it can't be perfect? It is as if only the seeds of ideas are present in my mind, but that they will never mature.

Writing, I think, may never be perfect, however ultimately, I find it to be a hobby that brings me the greatest of joy, and is worth the trouble in improving.