Dreaming of Science Fiction Landscapes
The universe is a strange and wondrous place. We know this because NASA has shown it to us, in surprising detail with such modern scientific marvels as the Hubble Space Telescope and CERN. What once was thought of as nothing more than a vast, sparkling nothing is now a wonderfully complicated and expansive space of black holes, colorful nebulae, and exoplanets. Who would have thought we’d be here today thinking about all these amazing things? And with these great discoveries looming above us comes an astonishing flood of fictional and non-fictional imagery through which the characters of science fiction can interact. Our minds are rendered full with details once only imagined—the illusory perceptions of the universe humans have designed are made real. Now the question must be raised: what happens to the imaginative nature of science fiction if our imaginations can no longer function in that state? Here we see the death argument in place; science fiction must surely die when we can no longer imagine its existence as a fictional entity. The world is science fiction; science fiction is the world. Never mind that the galactic and interstellar empires that make up so much of science fiction’s landscape have yet to be made true, because, in the grand scheme of things, none of that matters. The science fiction fan knows better, but they have yet to gain the authority necessary to mount a proper assault against the pessimistic literary purists, whoever they may be, and so the proclaimed death of science fiction continues to loom like a smoky specter. Can science fiction die, or is its death an impossibility so long as the future is imminent? Can it die if we still have hope for a place in the landscape of the future? The day science fiction dies is the day we can no longer imagine the future; death reigns when our minds collapse and deny us the right to envision our place in the world of tomorrow. Has such a travesty occurred? Not yet, and perhaps it would take the darkest of dystopias to finally collapse the human mind, to remove our ability to hope for a better, different, or more sparkly tomorrow. We’d need 1984 to become more than just a book. And there are places where this has already happened, where to dream is to invite hardship—some parts of Africa and the Middle East, and even places in countries you’d never expect to have created the conditions for the loss of hope. But these places have occupied themselves with other subjects, with literatures that readily commit to a more personal or local condition, and to great effect, for what dominates their landscapes must be written about, in some form or another, in order to create some piece of mind, to forget the past and acknowledge that the present is still flawed. And from the ashes of despair can spring hope once more—a phoenix from the ashes, destined, as it were, to flood new minds with the great will to believe that there is something beyond, something too important about where we might end up to allow to go unsaid. If only they could see it, this always present, persistent hopeful future. But they cannot imagine it, because they have reached the low, the Big Brother moment that took the future in its hands and ripped the life out of it. To them, science fiction is dead, or never began. Science fiction, however, cannot die. It can only be made dormant. We are always imagining it, even if some of us think otherwise. The future may be bleak or wondrous, depending on the individual, but it is always there, and so long as it exists, so too does science fiction. The genre may waver, but it will always burst forth and shine again, perhaps not here in the “civilized” countries, but somewhere else, where science fiction has been nothing more than a vague thought, a marker of someone else’s imaginative thinking. Proclaiming the death of science fiction, the nations that have already been there seem to forget where the genre has found its new roots: India, China, and even South Africa. And there are many new places where the future is no more than an afterthought or dormant. They too will join the ranks, and here, where we have pioneered the genre, in the United States, England, Russia, Canada, and a handful of other places, it will live on, always welcome in the human soul, and ever-changing. Science fiction is eternal; it is the demigod cousin of literature itself, a cat with an infinite amount of extra lives. Long live science fiction.
The Five Phases of Science Fiction
The other day I mentioned that I thought science fiction went through several phases in every industrialized or industrializing nation. I thought I would further explicate my theories on this subject here. The only problem with these phases is that they are not absolute temporally. They do not happen at exactly the same time, nor do they last for the same duration as another nation. Likewise, these phases overlap and most of them never end, but instead become less prominent. As you’ll see below, most of these phases are still in existence today, in some form or another, but the older the phase, the less common it has become. And, as always, I would like input from my readers. I don’t claim that these are necessarily true, as there are plenty of sub-phases and unknown factors that may or may not change the way these phases operate. If you have differing opinions, let me know in the comments. The following are the five primary phases of science fiction: The Pulp PhaseAnything comprising the Pulp Era and early Golden Age SF, this phase is home of a plethora of vaguely remembered and long forgotten pulp writers, such as A. E. Van Vogt, the folks who created Perry Rhodan, etc. Many of the authors of this phase are present in the phase that follows, either continuing the tradition of adventurous, pulpy fiction, or adjusting their fiction styles to suit the evolution of SF. The Classic Phase (Golden Age)Think Asimov, Heinlein, early (and even late) Clarke, and many others who took the genre to places that pulp fiction could not. Early high concept SF arises here, but the genre still hasn’t filled its shoes yet. The “sense of wonder” feel is a primary concern–one which we’ve now concluded has begun to die out as the genre ages. The Sociology PhaseWith an influx of female and non-white SF writers, social issues begin to take precedence. Technology is here used to highlight social or cultural issues, usually through a critical approach, rather than as a shiny tool. Fine writers like Octavia Butler, Samuel R. Delany, mid-Clarke and Niven, and others are present during this phase. The Near Future PhaseDuring the 80s there was a boom of literature interested in a future not all the distant from our present. We called it Cyberpunk, but there were other subgenres being made prominent during that phase (post-apocalyptic, ecotastrophe, etc.). It would be fair to say that William Gibson was and still is the pioneer of this phase, but he was, by no means, the only one. Pat Cadigan, Bruce Sterling, and many others were doing a lot of relatively near future stories back then. The Rebirth PhaseI’d argue that we are currently in this phase, or at least on our way to it. The Rebirth Phase places significant focus on re-imaginings of old concepts. New Space Opera and the frequently proclaimed Heinlein homage are prominent features here. Authors like Tobias S. Buckell, John Scalzi, and many others are big faces in the rebirth of classic science fiction. Here you would also find high concept military SF and high concept near future SF. Notes: There are some logical exceptions to all this. First off, as I mentioned, none of these phases are absolutes. They overlap and some re-emerge in pulses from time to time, but each phase does eventually die down or become absorbed by a succeeding phase. A prime example of such an absorbing can be seen in the end of Cyberpunk; the subgenre did not technically die, because the elements that made it such a distinct subgenre were simply adopted by other subgenres. Most of the authors mentioned are also not absolutes. While many of them were prominent figures in the phases I mentioned them in, quite a few of them moved on to other phases. The most prolific of authors were capable of adjusting with the times, whether intentionally or otherwise. There are likely authors I have missed in this post, particularly female authors. In my defense, I have not read enough SF from female authors to feel comfortable forcing them into different categories; I am far more familiar with female authors in fantasy (such as Karen Miller, Kage Baker, etc.). I personally do not pick books by gender or name, though I’m sure some would argue that I do so subconsciously (which I think is an impossible argument to make if you don’t know me). Everything I’ve said here is applicable to literature only. SF film has a similar, but unique evolution.
Pay the Frakking Writer
I’m one to agree with Harlan Ellison when he angrily complains about the state of professional writing. While I myself am not technically a professional writer, I do loathe the level of whoring oneself out present within the freelance and general writing communities. An entire generation of people have come to believe that they don’t deserve to get paid at a reasonable rate for the writing and editing work they do, a fact that continues to baffle me. Perhaps this has a lot to do with how the Internet functions, and how desperate amateur writers are to get a leg up in a fairly brutal industry. Whatever the reason, Harlan Ellison is right: pay the frakking writer. And not just that, but pay the frakking writer well. Professional quality deserves professional rates. There aren’t that many instances in which it is okay to not be paid for writing or editing work:–You’re doing it for charity. I can’t argue against writing a story to help raise money for cancer research.–You have a personal blog or website. Hard to hire yourself to write for your own blog.–Aliens have invaded your brain and forced you to write for free. Certainly a bad thing, and a good excuse, I think. There are probably other good instances, but, let’s face it, writers deserve to be paid, and well. The amount of money authors make for what amounts to a hell of a lot of work has been declining for decades. It used to be that one short story sale could pay your rent. Now? You’d be lucky if it paid your grocery bill. Novel sales aren’t any better, with an average advance making up a fourth of the income you’d need to be right on the poverty line. That’s not a lot of money at all, and I don’t fully understand why. Aren’t writers important members of society? Don’t they provide a valuable service? Or maybe I’m just an angry, bitter curmudgeon like Ellison, looking back to the glory days with longing. Maybe I want to see a world where writers demand and earn what they’re worth. But I doubt that will happen; not now, and not in the future. There are too many people willing to work for almost nothing thinking they’ll be like Stephen King if they just trudge at the bottom for a while, getting paid fifty cents for a 500-word article, or some other ridiculously low paying avenue. And now, with these folks, some not worth even the paltry sum they currently earn, flooding the market and selling themselves short, those who think writers should get more are put in a horrible position. We can join the ranks, or take fewer jobs. But, maybe the glory days never happened and any desire for a writer’s utopia is nothing short of a delusional fantasy. Give it a few years and we might be proclaiming the slow and agonizing death of the professional writer. And the world will suffer for it.
Electronic Submissions: The New Blogosphere Rant Topic
The blogosphere is ripe with rants about electronic submissions and the credibility of short fiction publications that don’t use them. Scalzi has talked about it and so has Jonathan Strahan. With such big names (in the SF/F world, at least) speaking on this issue, it seems rather pointless for me to remark here. But, this is my blog, so I am going to do just that. I stopped submitting my fiction to the big three and any other publication that refuses (or refused, for a time) to take electronic submissions about a year and a half ago. I think that was around the time when Tobias S. Buckell remarked in an audio interview that he refuses to submit by mail now for various reasons (some of which have been spoken to by Scalzi and Strahan). I’m not sure if Buckell still feels that way, or if I’m taking it out of context, but it truly made me reconsider my priorities in getting published. The result of that reconsideration, obviously, was my complete seizure of mail submissions, with exception to the Writers of the Future Contest–an exception I won’t bother explaining. Print submissions make little sense in the 21st century. Some of the valid reasons why are: Electronic submissions are easier to track. As mentioned elsewhere, it’s difficult to lose an electronic submission if you’re not a moron. Move them to a magic email folder than everyone can access and you’re set. Electronic submissions are easier to submit, which means more writers who do write good stories will likely submit to you. Yeah, some crappy writers will submit too, but so what? It should be pretty damn obvious from the first paragraph that a story isn’t worth reading. Electronic submissions are easier to reject and deal with. Editors only have to click reply, past in a form rejection, and be done with it. No postage, no mail men, no nothing. There’s almost no difference between reading a print submission and an electronic submission. Obviously a printed manuscript is easier to read, but, to be fair, if a story is good enough to get published, that fact will make itself clear just as readily in an electronic submission. There are plenty of magazines (online and otherwise) that not only accept electronic submissions, but also pay at or above the rates of those publications that don’t take electronic submissions. Even the freaking New Yorker takes e-subs. Get with the program. If a magazine that has been around for over 80 years can figure it out, well, there’s really no excuse, right? Writers make next to nothing as it is, especially in the short fiction world (and especially in the SF/F world). Print submissions cost a pretty penny for postage. The cost might seem nominal in the short run, but imagine the cost when you have twenty or thirty stories out there. There’s never a valid reason for a writer to have to pay to submit something. You pay the writer, not take money away from them. I’m sure there are plenty of other reasons. Personally, I refuse to pay to submit anything (WOTF being the exception, obviously), and I won’t submit print submissions to any of the big three again. The same is true of any magazine. Unless I know that I’m going to be paid for a print story, I’m not submitting it. Maybe that sounds stupid to some of you, but I simply don’t see the sense in it. And, like Scalzi, I question the credibility of any magazine that refuses to accept e-subs. Seriously, the excuses are just that: excuses. I get it. I understand the reasons for not taking e-subs, but they’re really ridiculous. We live in the 21st century, not 1925. It’s about time the publishing world caught on.
Will Literacy Die and Will the Post-Literature World Arrive?
The future of literacy has certainly been on rocky ground in recent years. With the advent of radio, then television, followed by the Internet and cellphones, it would seem that much of the “civilized” world is heading towards a future in which the literate are not necessarily required in order to keep the gears rolling. Of course, this is probably pretty true of most any time following proto-industrialization processes, but it is curious how we have gone from technologies that almost literally (no pun intended) negate the necessity for literate labor, to technologies that actually benefit from laborers having some sort of literacy-related degree or education. But are we headed to a post-literate world, one in which the dominant mode of communication does not necessitate the use of reading or writing? I don’t think we’re at a point in our technological society to make such a determination. We’re always headed to some sort of proposed future. At some point the Sun will die and take us with it; at some point we will be at war with somebody, or someone else will be at war, or someone will kill someone, etc. Yes, we will likely reach a point in the future where literacy will not be required, but I don’t see that as something around the corner. I don’t think we’re “headed” there so much as “ending up” there. Right now, literacy is more necessary than it ever was, post-industrialism, even if the forms of literacy are not “official” or “desirable.” Textspeak/chatspeak are sort of an alternative, albeit degenerate dialect that has and probably will continue to be a dominant method of communication for young and and adult alike for decades to come. But it is not an indicator of a loss of literacy so much as a loss of connection with a societal language–i.e. English, etc. And you cannot forget about how the Internet, Twitter, Amazon, iPhones, etc. have all drastically changed how we deal with the written language. How can we possibly say we’re at a point now where we can see a logical futural point in which the ability to read and write will die away? I’d argue that more people today are using the skills they learned in school than kids (now adults) from earlier generations predating the Internet. These technologies will continue to exist and dominate the social landscape in the foreseeable future. The modes of transfer may be different (we might, for example, figure out a way to connect the brain to Twitter), but some level of literacy will still be necessary in order for such services to work (you might not write your tweets anymore, but you’ll still have to read them unless text-to-speech becomes popular and powerful enough to actually be useful to most people). A post-literate society would require a drastic shift from technologies dependent upon literate users to technologies that demand visual and/or audio competence. We’re not there yet; in fact, we’re a long ways away. True, things are changing, but the push by electronic users for electronic means of accessing subjects of literary form has shifted cultural interests in said forms. More people are reading books in 2009 than were in 2008, and 2007, etc. I suspect that reading numbers will continue to increase as the ebook market takes firmer hold, something that I thought might never happen on the same scale we are seeing (even I can be far off the mark). The real question is whether our schools can adequately prepare the next generation for the kind of world they will deal with culturally, socially, technologically, and politically. I don’t think so, but I also have ridiculous requests for the education systems in the U.S. and elsewhere. What about you? Do you think we’re heading towards a post-literate world? Why or why not? Let me know in the comments or fire off an email to arconna[at]yahoo[dot]com.
Reality Check: The Average Consumer and Books
Reality: The average consumer spends roughly 8 seconds looking at the cover of a book before deciding to pick it up and 15 seconds reading the back cover (or inside cover) before making the decision to buy it. Some of you might wonder who this average consumer is. Most of you reading this blog are likely not part of that category. Average consumers are predominately those who engage in impulse buying, who generally browse quite literally by gut and “random” instinct. They are not likely to spend hours deciding if they want a book, because they either don’t have the time or the patience to do so. As such, the average consumer does not read loads of reviews, nor do they read excerpts–they may look at reviews briefly to see the star rating, but beyond that, anything considered “extra work” by said consumers is firmly in the realm of the less-than-average. Knowing this, it’s not hard to understand why it is that so many books that become “bestsellers” tend to be of the mainstream vein, and thus, more simplistic in their prose stylings. The fact is that average consumers are not interested in reading as a product of effort; they want to be entertained. These people are the same folks who have, for so long, found television and films to be exceptional objects to spend time on, and also who the majority of the less “serious” film productions are geared towards. But you shouldn’t be put off by this. Average consumers are what keeps the book, radio, TV, film, and music industries alive. Without them there would be no Elvis, no Stephen King, no Howard Stern, and no Star Wars or Star Trek. These individuals, while perhaps now considered in a more critical light, have always been firmly in the realm of the average consumer precisely because they are entertaining. And entertainment isn’t a bad thing. Those who think that literature should be only about art are also those who are upset that what has made literature so much more acceptable and popular today and in the past are those genres and prose stylings that are more easily received by average consumers. The fact is that most book consumers are not those who are likely to read Salman Rushdie or Ernest Hemingway; while some certainly do, perhaps by a stroke of luck in seeing more “literary” works on the bargain shelves or in a pretty new cover, these instances are, more or less, flukes. Salman Rushdie may actually be a poor example here, too, since much of his popularity occurred after writing The Satanic Verses, which earned him the rank of most-hated-man-by-extremist-Muslims for a while, giving him plenty of free press. But why is any of this important? Because if you expect to do anything within the book industry, such as selling short stories or your first novel, you need to understand how the market works. You can be the best thing since sliced bread, but that means nothing to the average consumer, because ultimately what catches their interest is what will entertain them. This does not mean that you should write to the market; anybody who says to write to the market is essentially mentally defective. What this does mean is that you should be well aware of how the market functions before you become published. Write what you love, but don’t pretend that you know who the consumer is, and that you have the right to make demands upon them, or get mad at them when they don’t buy your novel in droves. The average consumer doesn’t care about you. They control the market. They will not do extra work for your incredibly complex, amazing novel; that work belongs to a different demographic of more astute, cautious readers. Ultimately, it comes down to this: the consumer is not your bitch, no matter what kind of novel you write. They are not obligated to read excerpts or to go out of their way to do what you want them to do, and most of them won’t, ever. The average consumer is far more likely to pick up the next Stephen King novel, knowing that it will suit their needs, than spend twenty minutes or an hour reading up on your fantastic new novel. But, who knows, you might get lucky and become the next Stephen King or Tom Clancy or Dan Brown (or *insert your favorite bestselling author here*). It happens, but only to a handful of authors in a bloated industry of debuts. (A lot of this is directed to self-publishers, who need to understand the market and why they must always fight tooth and nail to get even a little leeway–and also why it’s pretty much impossible for self-publishing to effectively change the course of the industry without essentially altering bookstores; that probably won’t happen until there is a way to determine quality and if self-publishers can offer the same guarantees to bookstores as traditional publishers. A lot of folks I talked with before seemed to have a perception of average consumers that is inconsistent with reality. While it’s nice to delude oneself with imaginative constructs of consumer culture, such delusions are not reality. This doesn’t mean you can’t do well self-published or published by a small press, or published with a particularly niche book; it just means that most of the market won’t know who you are or care. Trying to change that is probably a losing battle.)