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I saw Quantum of Solace yesterday with my husband and son, and we really enjoyed it. It was loud and fast and had pretty women for them and a dashing spy for me. For the first time since Connery, we can all agree that we like the actor playing Bond (I didn’t like Roger Moore, my husband never liked Pierce Brosnan in the role).

But my real moment of geek-dom came during the previews.

I have a confession to make. Some of you might be surprised. Others, not so much.

My name is Gina Wilkins, and I’m a closet Trekker.

No, I don’t dress up in costume and go to cons (I haven’t had the body to wear a Seven of Nine catsuit in some time now). I don’t read the novels. But I have seen every episode of every live-action Star Trek series, multiple times (maybe I missed a couple of DS9s. I’m not sure). I even watched all four seasons of Star Trek Enterprise, which was so poorly executed and ended so abysmally that my daughter and I call it “the Star Trek that never existed.” I have seen every Star Trek film — and yes, I own every one except that awful “Star Trek V: The Final Frontier.” Not even for Trek would I watch that one again.

Seeing the preview for the new Star Trek movie made me sit up in my seat and say out loud, “I am so there.” I don’t know what they did to Zachary Quinto’s eyebrows (someone on Television Without Pity suggested that it involved salad tongs and a weed whacker), but he actually looked Spock-ish. As long as he doesn’t slice off any skulls, I can accept him in the role (for those who don’t recognize the allusion, I also watch Heroes, even though I — like the writers, apparently — long ago gave up trying to keep the storylines straight).

I was eleven years old when the original Star Trek premiered. I loved the idea of being in outer space, of all those alien cultures, of all the adventures to be had “out there.” I had a silly crush on Mr. Spock. Even then, I wove romances in my mind, and I lulled myself to sleep at night with stories of Mr. Spock finding a way to reunite with Mariette Hartley from the episode “All Our Yesterdays” (this was long before I’d ever heard the term “fan fic”).

The new film looks like it has potential to be a lot of fun. I don’t much care about canon or continuity — there have been inconsistencies throughout the franchise. One of the most glaring that pops up to me is Kirk’s brother, Sam, who died in the original series. Later, in Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan, Kirk says he never had a brother, but Spock was like a brother to him. That bugged me a little — but big deal. It’s fiction. None of these people ever really existed. If the new film rewrites their history a bit — fine. Just do it well. Tell me a good story. Make it fun (quick — what were Captain Kirk’s last words in Star Trek Generations?)

It wasn’t the first television show that captured my imagination and made me want to tell stories about those characters. The earliest I remember was “The Rifleman.”  And I had a serious “thing” for Johnny Madrid of “Lancer.” And Bobby Sherman and David Cassidy and The Monkees and …

Am I confessing these things just to humiliate myself? I don’t think so. I’m just illustrating the evolution of a writer. I honestly do not remember not wanting to write. To tell stories. By the time I was in high school and college, I’d outgrown the “fan fic” stage and wanted to create my own characters with their own histories and quirks and challenges. I trained as a journalist, worked in advertising and employee training, but my heart was in writing. Receiving my first rejection letter after finally getting up the nerve to submit was devastating, and the second rejection even more ego-crushing, but I couldn’t seem to stop. I needed to write, and I needed to be published to validate that life-long urge. In 1986, my career dream came true.

Ninety-three books later, I still have the need to tell stories. I have new goals — I’m trying a different type of book now that I’ll tell you more about in the future. There are days when I don’t want to work, when I’d rather go shop or play or read someone else’s books or watch a movie, but I have to meet a deadline so I’m forced to write. On those days, I remind myself of how much I wanted this, how hard I worked to get here. And I think of all the fun I had enjoying the product of other writers’ imaginings — from TV to movies to the books that were always in my hand.  Yes, there is fiction — literature, serious films, etc. — that is meant to make us think, to make us grow, to make us better human beings, but that doesn’t mean there’s no room for escapist fare that’s simply meant to provide a few hours of pleasure.

So, tell me a good story, J.J. Abrams. Make me laugh, make my pulse race, make me care about those fictional people on the screen. I’ll try to do the same for my readers.

So, I had a mammogram today. And, as always, I left wondering why I tend to procrastinate about that particular test. Though I’ve been having mammograms since I was forty, I haven’t gone faithfully every year. I was six months overdue this time. And there’s no excuse for it. True, it’s not my idea of a fun Friday morning. It’s awkward and uncomfortable, but there is no pain. I was in and out of the clinic in less than half an hour. And my insurance pays for one mammogram a year for me. So why do I put it off?

My mother was first diagnosed with breast cancer in 1983, at the age of 51. Her own mother had died of a brain tumor at 54. I watched my mom go through a mastectomy and chemotherapy and it was grueling, though she rarely complained. She continued with the job she loved — secretary/bookkeeper for a family she’d worked for since she was 18 — missing only a few days with each treatment. For the next 20 years she had regular mammograms, often making it an outing with her three sisters. They’d all get their scans, then go out to lunch or shopping. Mother could even make mammograms fun.

In 2003, Mother found a lump in her other breast. It, too, was malignant. Once again, she endured surgery and chemo, with the same courage, grace and even humor that she had shown 20 years earlier. And again, she continued to work. The two-time breast cancer survivor was unable to defeat the pancreatic cancer that took her in August of 2007. She worked through April of that year, wanting to make sure her employer’s tax reports were completed before she left.

Just off-hand, I can think of four celebrities who are recent breast cancer survivors (I know there are many more, but these popped into my head): Robin Roberts, Melissa Etheridge, Sheryl Crow and Christina Applegate. All young, healthy women who were saved by early detection and treatment. According to the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation, over 182,000 new incidences of breast cancer were predicted to be diagnosed in the U.S. this year. Of those, over 40,000 will die. Because of advances in early detection and treatment, more women are surviving breast cancer. But every woman has to be responsible for her own health.

Mammograms are covered by many insurance policies, but for those who aren’t covered, there are many avenues for receiving reduced-cost or even free mammograms. If you have a family history of breast cancer, if you’re forty or over, or if you meet any of the risk factors outlined so well at the Susan G. Komen Foundation website, take the advice of this habitual procrastinator. Make the appointment.

It takes more than pink ribbons to fight this terrible disease.

Today is Veteran’s Day in the U.S., a day to honor those who have served our country in the military. I’ve mentioned that I live near an Air Force base, so the sight of men and women in fatigues and blue uniforms is common around here. That doesn’t mean we take these American heroes and heroines for granted. We are aware that even as we go about our usual routines here, our military are putting their lives in danger on a daily basis overseas. I have a young cousin serving in the Middle East now; I pray that Dan returns home safely to his parents, Mark and Susan.

Among my mother’s cherished belongings were several letters written by her uncle during World War II. The letters were written to his mother and his sister (Mom’s mother). Some of them were heavily censored with black bars. All expressed his love for his family and his longing for home. I now treasure those pages of history written by my great uncle Henry.

My husband’s father was a veteran of two wars, World War II and Korea. He served as an Army tank commander in World War II, surviving the Battle of the Bulge — one of 6 out of 125 in his unit to do so. He saw and heard horrific things. He was an Air Force cook in Korea, and would later retire from the Air Force.

He rarely spoke of the wars. Even when my husband asked as a curious teenager, Waymon chose to keep his experiences buried inside him. He did admit not long before he died in 1994 that after almost fifty years, he still had nightmares about the things he had seen in battle.

He earned two Purple Hearts — one of which was stolen from him years later. He paid for his service with the shrapnel scars he carried on his body until the day he died, and with a battle against alcohol he waged his entire adult life. Like many young soldiers, he had turned to that escape and it refused to release him when he returned home. He retired from the Air Force, but he was always an “old soldier.” His service defined him.

Waymon loved his family — his parents, his sisters, his much younger brother, his wife, daughter and son — though he was of the generation that found it difficult to express that love. He loved his five grandchildren and enjoyed spoiling them. And he loved the country he served for so long. We honor his memory today, and I know my husband still misses his dad very much.

I hope everyone who reads this takes the time to thank a veteran today.

I was recently struck by an article I read in the Arkansas state newspaper about a 91 year old woman who ran into her first grade teacher at a doctor’s visit. Yes, 91 — the teacher is now 102. She was only 17 when she taught this student. The student still remembered her teacher so clearly as a major influence in her life and a true role model. The teacher remembered the student as a “sweet little girl.”

Good teachers can have a life-long influence on their students — often, perhaps, without ever knowing how important they were. I had several teachers in grade school and high school who influenced my love of reading and writing; I was particularly swayed by my journalism teacher, Mr. Paulus, in high school. He named me editor of the school paper, which was a huge honor for me, and taught me the importance of clarity and ethics. My freshman English professor in college was one of the first people who ever told me that I could make a living with my writing. Her praise and encouragement meant a great deal to me.

But it was after I became a mother and had three children of my own in schools that I truly learned the value of a dedicated, passionate teacher. I saw the enthusiasm my children had for learning and achievement when they had teachers who challenged them and supported them and encouraged them. I saw, also, the waning of enthusiasm when their teachers were burned-out or not completely committed to their important, but admittedly difficult careers. We were fortunate to have many good teachers during our years in central Arkansas public schools, but there was one in particular whose influence will be visible in my family for the rest of our lives.

Bob Koorstad is an AP Biology teacher at Jacksonville High School. His dedication to his career is the first thing anyone learns about him upon meeting him. Though he has struggled with a visual impairment, he has never let that hold him back, and has never uttered a word of complaint that I’ve heard in the almost fifteen years that I’ve known him. He’s made himself available to my kids and his other students at seven in the morning, or after school in the afternoons. He loves his job, and his students.

He’s not an “easy” teacher. Some students don’t want to take his class because he makes them work and expects them to learn. But he is always there if they struggle, always available to help those who want the help and are willing to take the extra step to excel in his class. When my oldest daughter was critically injured in a college lab accident two years after she graduated from high school, Mr. Koorstad called every day to check on her.  When she obtained her PhD in microbiology/immunology last May, eight years after that accident, he was at her defense, beaming like the proudest of parents. She will always be one of “his” kids.

Because of Mr. Koorstad, Courtney is pursuing a career in virology research and has excelled in her studies. Because of Mr. Koorstad, Kerry attended medical school, and will graduate with her MD in May ’09. Because of Mr. Koorstad, David is a biology major in college with the goal of attending medical school and becoming an opthamologist. Because of Mr. Koorstad, my nephew is finishing his residency in medicine/pediatrics. Because of Mr. Koorstad, quite a few other students have gone on to pursue degrees in science and medicine; while still others went into different careers but were at an advantage in college because they learned how to study in his class.

I thought of Mr. Koorstad today because this morning my husband and I attended “family day” at my son’s Honors College. I met several of his professors, and saw the enthusiasm and commitment on their faces as they mingled with their students and families. I know he’s fortunate enough to have more good teachers in his college classes. Our children need more Mr. Koorstads. More teachers like the one who lingered in a student’s mind for 85 years. And as parents, we need to express our gratitude whenever our children are lucky enough to encounter these very special professionals.

During my daily phone call with my oldest daughter yesterday, she told me she was sad because Michael Crichton had died of cancer. That was the first I’d heard of it, and it made me sad, too.

Michael Crichton was a storyteller. Critics would not call his books “liter-a-chure,” perhaps — but they were great stories. Rampant viruses. Dinosaurs on the loose. Time travel. Nanotechnology gone awry. A long-running television medical show that launched several stellar acting careers. What an imagination he had. And how much entertainment he provided for so many. His death came only days after the loss of Tony Hillerman, another writer who entranced millions.

When popular writers pass away, we’re sad, not because we knew the authors personally, in most cases, but because those authors touched our lives and sparked our imaginations. We mourn the creativity silenced and the stories that will never be told, because we’re sure there were so many more to share. The storytellers made us smile, sometimes laugh out loud. They made us think. They made us sure we heard a velociraptor lurking in the shadows of our kitchen at midnight. They made our lives a little more fun.

I never met Michael Crichton, but I’ll miss the stories he never had the chance to tell.