I love space. Ever since, as a child, my parents took me to see that one rocket take off from Cape Canaveral. Suddenly light and sound and speed weren’t just vague ideas some science teacher planted in my head. Now they were visceral bone shaking rib-vibrating realities that all came together as this shuttle whooshed off into space and I felt the boom of the engines only when it was barely a dot in the sky.
I love space.
And how in looking out at the universe somehow we’re always looking inward to ourselves as well. I love how no matter how big the universe gets here we are on clinging to this watery life-raft as we twirl through the galaxy. A tiny particle of hope in an otherwise (as yet) unknown universe.
Space has a way of putting things into perspective. When you think about the incredible series of events that had to happen to spawn life on this planet, let alone spawn you. When you think about the shrinking percentages of likelihood that life would make it this long and this far that I might even be writing this. My mind is blown away by space, and by volcanoes that spew into space, and by planets where its -170 degrees.
I’m engrossed by space, and by the weird noises our tiny planet makes when you translate light into sound. And by the hopeful messages we’ve sent out etched into golden discs on tin cans riding their way out of the solar system.
I love space.
That’s why I keep coming back to spacey stuff and YA fiction set in space. And that’s why Constellations of You (my current WIP) means so much to me. To me, space isn’t just cool. I’m hoping it’s our future too. And I’m so excited I keep writing stories about what it might be like when we get there.