What conceit. What gall.
What pride to think that I can bring something new into the world. Something hopeful, something bright, something warm and welcoming and familiar but still unseen before.
Who am I to do this thing, to craft this future that becomes increasingly unlikely each passing day. To ignore the dark, the faded, the ragged and torn, the overwhelming and mounting evidence that we are well past the point of no return. That mankind is doomed, fated to never escape our little gravity well, to never see distant stars with naked eyes, to never have colonies on other worlds, other stars, other galactic arms, other galaxies.
And why? Why sit here, nearly penniless and frayed from working to pay for editing for books that will probably never see publication? To incorporate edits that hint that this pursuit isn't worthwhile, that I have learned nothing, that, worse, I can teach nothing, have nothing to say that should be said. Why bother?
Back to work. Those edits ain't gonna do themselves.