Watching movies and reading books has always been a huge part of my life. Stories have this strange ability to pull me in completely. It’s easy for me to get lost in a world and attached to the characters that live inside it.
Lately, I’ve been thinking about what kind of fictional story I would want to create one day, maybe for my future children, or even for the world. A story that entertains, but also quietly teaches something about life. At this point, most of my writing has revolved around sports, lifestyle, self-help, and inspiration. Fiction is a completely different craft. Storytelling is something I would have to practice and develop over time, but the idea of building a world of my own sounds exciting.
Even though fiction isn’t real, stories can play a powerful role in our lives because they communicate truths about the world in ways that feel personal and emotional rather than instructional. One of my favorite movies growing up was The Lion King. The soundtrack alone is legendary, but the story is what really stays with you. I mean who doesn’t root for Simba and his crew? The film carries so many lessons: facing challenges instead of running from them, adapting to change, and understanding that our mistakes don’t have to define us. There’s also a deeper message that I’ve come to appreciate more as I’ve gotten older, that greatness exists inside all of us if we’re willing to confront our doubts and step into who we’re meant to be.
Avatar: The Last Airbender had a similar impact on me. It showed the importance of balance, compassion, and growth. Aang is probably one of the most interesting “heroes” because he holds the most power in his world, yet he never lets that power take away his humanity. He’s still playful. Still curious. Still a kid who wants to ride giant koi fish and laugh with his friends. The responsibility placed on his shoulders is enormous, but he never allows it to harden his spirit. Aang taught me that strength doesn’t have to come from anger or intensity alone. The most powerful thing someone can do is maintain their compassion and lightness in a world that constantly tries to take it away.
Aang (left) and Uncle Iroh (right) in Avatar: The Last Airbender
Then you have Uncle Iroh. If Aang represents youthful goodness, Iroh represents wisdom earned through suffering. On the surface, he’s calm, patient, and always ready with a cup of tea. But underneath that warmth is someone who understands pain, loss, and the cost of power. Iroh teaches us that true strength is having the ability to dominate a situation but choosing peace instead. His wisdom comes from mistakes. From grief. And from learning what actually matters in life.
And that theme shows up again in Star Wars. The Force itself is a perfect metaphor for power. It isn’t inherently good or evil, it’s the person wielding it that determines what it becomes. The same energy flows through Jedi and Sith, but their choices take them in completely different directions. Characters like Anakin show how easily power mixed with fear and attachment can lead someone down a dark path. Meanwhile, characters like Luke eventually learn that true mastery isn’t domination, it’s understanding, patience, and discipline.
Power exists in all of our lives in different forms. Talent, influence, physical ability, intelligence leadership. These things can elevate us or corrupt us. The real challenge isn’t gaining power. It’s learning how to wield it. Two people can have the same abilities, the same opportunities, even the same pain. But the decisions they make in moments of pressure determine who they become.
Darth Vader’s moment of redemption featuring his son, Luke Skywalker
I love a good villain.
The ones who are intelligent, strategic, charismatic, and sometimes even funny. Villains who believe, deep down, that what they are doing is necessary. Sometimes they are convinced they are acting for the greater good. Other times they are reacting to pain, betrayal, or injustice in ways that spiral into something darker. Take Thanos (Marvel Comics), for example. In his mind, he wasn’t the destroyer of worlds, he was their savior. His logic was terrifying, but internally consistent. That’s what made him compelling. He believed he was making the ultimate sacrifice for the survival of the universe.
In Red Rising, you see this same tension through perspective. Darrow is the hero of the story for the reader, but when you see him through the eyes of characters like Lysander, he becomes something else entirely. An unstoppable force of destruction. A legend. A nightmare. A symbol of chaos. When an author/director uniquely conveys that shift in perspective, it really intrigues me.
Darrow of Lykos
One thing I’ve always found fascinating is the idea of allowing readers/viewers to step directly into the mind of the villain. To understand how they see the world. To see how they view the heroes. To feel the logic behind their actions, even if you ultimately disagree with them. Then the reader also sees how the world perceives that same character. Two perspectives. Two truths. And somewhere in the middle, the audience forms their own understanding.
When I imagine creating my own story one day, that’s the kind of complexity I’d want to explore. Characters that feel human. Characters who are shaped by loss, failure, pride, love, and ambition. To create new worlds and allow people to explore the full range of human nature without having to live through every consequence themselves.
On that note, use your power wisely guys.
