Most authors gravitate to certain topics. Even if not exclusive we can attribute a word to conjure up the sum, albeit grossly summarized, of an author’s work. Asimov had robots, Shakespeare had tragedy, Nietzsche had power.
What do I have? What is it that makes my mind spin, lying awake at night? Sure, there is math, the latest why doesn’t this car start, how to pay my bills…
But as far as writing, its the notion of self as it fits in the concept of humanity. Where does individuality start and species end? What factors make us human? What circumstances push us away from that? Either back to beast, or onward to god.
My characters face these questions, either through long life, and I mean truly long. Eons. Solitude. Genocide. Total loss. Some of these are also factors that push the limits of human understanding and handling.
But what about consciousness itself? If that is altered, or transferred. Is that still a human being? How much is almost human still human?
There is no clear answer. Each individual will react differently. Some shedding humanity, other clinging to it until the very last moment. Others face even stranger dilemmas.
Loss of humanity is mine. My word, my work. At least so far, because maybe the world will remember me for finding humanity. Because you can’t find something that has not been lost yet.
Signed, Somebody that isn’t afraid to cross the line into madness.