Science Fiction: It’s Not About the Future (Part Two)
Now to continue from where I left off in the post you can find here (based on this post by Joseph Robert Lewis). II. Science Fiction and Its Reflection on the Present Since I have already established that science fiction isn’t actually about the future, it seems prudent to now consider how Lewis’ own logic on that particular point works against him (and, thus, how understanding science fiction as a generic practice is crucial to not only writing and reading it, but also to even talking about it). Lewis’ second point of contention with science fiction as a written practice is that SF is a killer of drama: Think about your modern life for a moment. Thanks to the phone in your pocket, you’re never lost, never out of touch, never without access to detailed information. And you can photograph or video anything that happens so you have records or evidence. So you’re not going to have a lot of drama related to being lost, confused, or miscommunicating anything. He claims that this logic is the foundation for why he perceives SF to be a genre that only functions in short form (he cites Asimov and Dick as examples, since namedropping is better than actually supporting one’s claim with facts) and that the genre’s focus on technology makes it prone to imaginary conflict (i.e. that it embellishes or fictionalizes its conflicts to make them more than they actually are, such as in imagining robot rebellions) and mundanity. He, thus, refutes all major conflicts that have appeared in science fiction since its inception as nothing but operatic fancy (space opera), since, in his reality, these things cannot have happened. It should seem ironic at this point that Lewis’ claims are based on his own inability to think about how the present actually operates and how it influences visions of the future. Cell phones don’t always work, miscommunication occurs all the time, your GPS is imperfect (and sometimes sends you on strange paths it shouldn’t), and the reality that everything can be recorded and distributed, generally speaking, presents new problems that didn’t exist thirty years ago. To think that the prevalence of technology in our daily lives means that our daily lives are without drama–that empires and nation states are not forced to change with the sudden infusion of transparency in state apparatuses built on controlling analogue- and proto-digital-based information systems, and so forth–is to say far more about one’s perception of life than about the present in general. The interesting truth of the matter is that the present is loaded with drama, whether of a personal or political nature. Technology simply changes the dynamic. What once was a system of information transfer based on “old” media like television news programs, newspapers, magazines, and books has simply been thinned out by new forms of technology that make access to information (which is not necessarily good, in contrast to what Lewis implies in his post) easier. But how amusing that we as a society still have many of the same problems we always had: we still have imperialist states, massive poverty, politics-as-usual, social and emotional strife, personal and public problems (from the relatively mundane to the catastrophic), and much more. Life hasn’t become boring; many of us have simply stopped looking around, secure in our little bubbles. SF is, perhaps, a response to that, since it is the only genre with a dedicated author-base that is fascinated with how the present will be influenced by futures (close and distant) in which the dynamics have changed (slightly or greatly). Galactic empires, for example, may experience similar problems that we do today, but on grander scales. And even in the distant future, there are individuals who, contrary to Lewis’ assumption, will be a part of remarkably dramatic events on remarkably different worlds. SF is all about drama; it is, to repeat in a different way, all about staging the drama of the present (and the past) in radically new ways. Lewis, of course, doesn’t want to think about this. He spends more time ejecting classic SF themes from his bizarre view of realism than he does in trying to understand where he has misstepped. At one point he suggests that when technology goes haywire, it won’t result in robot rebellions; this statement might be true, but only because science fiction has shown us in almost every way possible why we must be careful about creating intelligence from nothing–the future’s absence of robot rebellions effectively relies on an intimate understanding of SF’s look at the theme (one which, in many cases, is allegorical for humanity’s questions about itself). What this all boils down to is one writer’s failure to imagine. SF is an imaginative genre, much like fantasy. True, it is a conceptually limiting one in those terms, simply because the possibilities for true (and serious) science fiction are not endless, but finite and subject to the reality from which it draws its themes and the reality in which it is based. But Lewis’ inability to actually consider how the very conditions he presents might be problematic (such as when he argues that all information will be monitored in the future, making it nearly impossible for rebel groups to do much of anything)–and, thus, drama producing–suggests that his biggest problem is in putting the pieces of a speculative puzzle together in his mind–in engaging with SF on its own terms (see Moylan, Delany, et. al. on this). As a writer, Lewis doesn’t seem to be able to look past his own nose. Once you delve into the actual dramatic elements, he discounts them as impossible, failing to realize that what seems impossible is probably more likely than ever (intelligent robots are likely to be here by 2030, if not sooner). SF isn’t the genre Lewis thinks it is. It’s a genre of complex thematic elements and technological/social splendor. There’s a reason why it is often called the genre of ideas: because as much as contemporary critics have