I like my science fiction hot and sweaty: laserbeams and electrobombs, starships stuffed with surfer hunks and soda bar babes, xenocolonialism and wormholes into the digestive tracks of alterdimensional biotyrants; and I like my heroes fussin', cussin', and doing something else that rhymes with both. Favorite branch of science? You guessed it: biology. My work is, metaphorically, DQ soft serve--versus the hard chunks they serve in a cup down at Baskin Robbins.
So imagine my surprise when I was assaulted with not one, but two hard science fiction ideas. Not space opera, not spacewestern, not even space fantasy: no, these tachyon bursts of inspirado equate to fiction that authentically speculates on things that might possibly be--rather on the things that will never exist outside of the speculation that bears them. How my brain dreamed up semi-realistic (in a techno-scientific sense) fiction is anyone's guess; but I'm going to have to slam my head into the elevator mirrors in my apartment building to get back at it. Treacherous brain.
It isn't like I don't enjoy reading science fiction; it's just that submitting work to markets like Asimov's and Analog feels so... sophisticated.
And me, well, I'm just a hootenanny and an FTL drive away from being a star-flung, gunslinging sonofagun terretic.