Every generation has its icons. Towering images that overshadow everything that toils beneath their likeness. Today, that pantheon of icons is smaller. And all will feel that contraction. Who will emerge to enthrall the imagination of today’s child?
The giants of my generation received their due. It begs, who comes next? Who will seize the mantle and stir up wonder? Someone must step forward and show the folly of statements like “no one could imagine that.” To every writer with any ambition, I say it could be you; it could be me.
We can’t know such things, and we won’t until it manifests. The world of imaginary be fickle, and it’s resonance near random. All we can do is write. Tell tales channeling from mind to reality. The life of art breathes in its audience. So write for writing’s sake and push your work to where the fates may allow.