Space...the Final Frontier

I have a little Hallmark Christmas ornament on my desk at work. It's amazing to me that anyone wants to hang these overpriced figurines of movie characters and endangered species on a Christmas tree; somehow, the Hulk just doesn't look right in the glow of Christmas lights. And neither does Captain Jonathan Archer of the Starship Enterprise, which is why he sits quietly on my desk as I work.

I admit that this little figurine, sitting in his captain's chair on the bridge, is a strange desk companion. And I laugh about it from time to time. But I don't understand why everyone seems to think Star Trek is so ridiculous.

The future has been an obsession of mine for as long as I can remember. The present is exciting largely because of what might be. Besides, the future is the only portion of time we can manipulate. Speculation on the future is a large source of hope. We can't pretend life is just fine today, nor can we deny what's in the past. But we can make the future whatever we want--and if we work toward the future we've dreamed about, we come closer to making that future a reality.

I don't buy into everything about Star Trek. I'll be honest; I'm somewhat pessimistic about the supposed moral and ethical progress humanity makes by the 24th century. I don't understand physics enough to recognize the impossibility of warp engines, but I realize that most scientists regard it as a ridiculous notion. But then, maybe we're just not there yet.

But it's not just the futuristic element of Star Trek that intrigues me. As a writer--and as a viewer--I love its characters. The creators of Star Trek know very well who their characters are, where they've come from, and what they want in life. Although Star Trek is known for having too many main characters, I enjoy watching the depth of each character unfold. I like it that Jean-Luc Picard's first officer isn't just a flat yes-man. And Enterprise's Trip (Commander Tucker) is much more than an engineer; he has interests, weaknesses, and a personality all his own.

Well, even if people laugh at the far-fetched notion of warp engines and alien species, Captain Archer's staying on my desk.

En arche

My very own blog.... As easy as it is to get space on this worldwide forum, I feel like I've been presented with a blank book that will be published whether or not it's good, as long as I put the effort into crafting it. That feels pretty good compared to the rejection letters a rookie freelancer is so accustomed to.

And as a novice blogger, I also have very little loyalty to an audience. I have no devoted fan club of webnerds who loyally read my posts as they chug their espresso during the first drowsy half-hour of work each morning. This is my first post of my first blog, and in the eyes of the world, it doesn't matter if I never post again. I'll simply become one out of thousands of wanna-be writers who signed up for a free blog, hungry to be published, but who vanished as quickly as they came.

But to me, it matters. Writing is therapeutic--and it is just as much an exercise in self-discipline as it is an opportunity to be read--and the world could use more people who write with consistency and regularity. We certainly don't need another one-book bestselling author who's hot today and not tomorrow.

So, to open what may hopefully become an archive of thoughts, I call upon an American writer for my preface and disclaimer (who, incidentally, is one of my least favorite poets, yet has a poem that perfectly suits this purpose):

This is my letter to the World

This is my letter to the World,
That never wrote to me--
The simple News that Nature told--
With tender Majesty

Her Message is committed
To Hands I cannot see;
For love of Her--Sweet--countrymen--
Judge tenderly--of Me!

--Emily Dickinson