Reader Question: English, the Ultimate Tongue
Bowie from Young Writers Online recently asked the following: Why do all aliens speak some form of English? Well, the truth is that aliens exist within a strange temporal distortion in which they are exposed to English before human beings even exist, so when they come knocking, they are not only fluent in the language, but technologically far more advanced than us apes. As strange as that sounds, that’s exactly what has happened. You see, scientists propose that Bubble Theory may be the next big thing in physics. It proposes that all sentient beings live in little temporal bubbles that are designed to make sure certain species are younger than others when such species figure out how to enter other bubbles. As you know, there’s a quasi temporal node that exists between the subspace platinum barrier of quantum erasure, and other confusing technojargon. But of course all of the above is a load of horse manure. The reason aliens almost always speak some form of English is due to a need by the writer to engage the reader or viewer. English has, for good and for bad, become the dominant language on this planet, and is the language of the more dominant pop-culture nations (U.S., U.K., and even India). Throw into the mix the fact that most of the world’s T.V. and book consumers (and the world’s largest markets for such products) happen to communicate almost exclusively in English and you really have no way around the reality that English is a human identifier. Writers know this, either on a simplistic or complex level, and often use this knowledge to create certain literary or film conditions–namely sympathy. Aliens who speak unknown or even harsh sounding languages have a tendency to be viewed as the enemy and unlikable by most viewing audiences. This stems from early science fiction movies and stories that dealt less with the complex inner workings of alien species and more with the monstrous and evil nature of the inhuman (see Patricia Kerslake’s Science Fiction and Empire for more information on that, if memory serves me correctly). Battlestar Galactica is a show that is fully aware of this, hence why it does not deal with aliens or creatures that are incapable of communicating with the humans in the show (and the audience). And there is even a dichotomy within BSG. Take, for example, the centurians, who are somewhat humanoid, but quite clearly not human, and also are incapable of speaking in human language. As such, they must relay all information through their humanoid “superiors” (the flesh-and-blood clones). The result? The centurians are not, until the very end of the movie, given any serious consideration beyond declaring them “the villains.” Viewers, however, do feel sympathy for the cloned models, because they are not only human-looking, but emotionally complex. Language plays a big role in that, because while it is true that they are, at times, seemingly monstrous, they still can relay to the characters and to us their deeper emotions. We can feel for them because they can express something to us that doesn’t immediately translate to “evil.” The same is true of other instances of English-injected alien encounters. Language plays a remarkable role in creating the conditions of sympathy/empathy/etc. But I could go on for much longer than I think is appropriate for one post on this subject. If you have a different opinion on this matter, feel free to let me know in the comments. This subject is really one that could do with some serious, critical attention, and I bet my readers could get a ————————————————- If you have a question about science fiction, fantasy, writing, or anything related you’d like answered here, whether silly or serious, feel free to send it via email to arconna[at]yahoo[dot]com, tweet it via Twitter to @shaunduke, or leave it in the comments here. Questions are always welcome! If you liked this post, consider stumbling, digging, or linking to it!
Reader Question: The Adams Contention
Library Dad asks: What is the funniest fantasy/sci-fi book you’ve ever read? The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams hands down. I technically didn’t read it, but listened to the audiobook. That still counts in my book. A question like this deserves a little more than just naming a book though. What is so great about Adams’ work is that it’s unique. As much as his comedy might fly over the heads of most Americans–he is remarkably British, after all–he still has a knack for building worlds that are culturally rich and yet completely ridiculous. That’s what is so funny about Adams. You root for his characters even though the world they live in only makes sense if you’re mentally unstable. Some of that feel was lost in the most recent film adaptation, but some of it they managed to keep intact. Unfortunately, American audiences are not exactly good receivers of British-style comedy. British comedians, or at least those I would consider to be “true” British comedians, require mental involvement by the receivers. Shows like Have I Got News For You and the original Whose Line Is It Anyway? were and have always been remarkably intelligent, despite outward appearances to the contrary–the new Whose Line is good, but it has become incredibly Americanized in its approach. What I am getting at here is that there is a certain kind of charm in British comedy, and even in serious British literary endeavors. It is unique in that one can, with experience, see British influences on style and narrative relatively easily. Adams, of course, is exceptionally unique, but other British writers are also readily identifiable if one is careful. This is a good thing, in my opinion. As much as some writers may want a certain level of “blending” to occur in reader habits (i.e. getting readers to broaden their horizons to other genres, etc.), the British writer will, assuming they cling to a British perspective or narrative vision, remain unique and identifiable. Adams stands out even among his British comrades. And those are my short, but sweet thoughts on Adams. There are, however, a few important notes:–By British I am referring to the nationality that contains all nations of the United Kingdom (England, Northern Ireland, Wales, and Scotland). British is not to be confused with English, as English refers only to those identified as native to England.–I chose to refer to “British” writing here because there is, despite arguments made out of prejudice or otherwise, a lot of blending and merging between the various nations. As much as these individual countries may wish to be distinct, but united (and there are certainly many arguments to be had on this issue), they have, through time, adopted elements of one another. This explains, to the misfortune of the English and perhaps to the Irish, Welsh, and Scottish, the propensity for misinterpretation of what it means to be English by Americans and others. The English should only be identified with those individuals who are native to England, and not to be confused with a grand overarching term to refer to all people of the United Kingdom. ————————————————- If you have a question about science fiction, fantasy, writing, or anything related you’d like answered here, whether silly or serious, feel free to send it via email to arconna[at]yahoo[dot]com, tweet it via Twitter to @shaunduke, or leave it in the comments here. Questions are always welcome! If you liked this post, consider stumbling, digging, or linking to it!
Reader Question: Adaptations and Respecting the Original
Dave B. recently asked this question: How separate should we consider an adaptation from its source material? Before broaching this topic, I think fronting this discussion with a brief sidestep into issues of purity is in order. What matters most in regards to adaptations? The quality of the film as a film, rather than as an adaptation? Or the accuracy of the adaptation itself? If what you care about most is whether the film itself is good, then separation of the source material is absolute, because it does not matter to you. But if you want accuracy in the adaptation, with reasonable exceptions, then the film and the original source are intimately connected, and any discussion otherwise is pointless. Personally, I sit in the middle. I think that one cannot be wholly accurate to the source, even with reasonable exceptions to plot devices, etc., and that one must maintain only what is necessary to keep the movie accurate to the source material without sacrificing the quality of the film itself. The Harry Potter films, for example, are a mixed bag. One and two are relatively accurate in their adaptations and, in my opinion, superior to anything that followed. Three was rushed, four was decent, five also was pretty good, and six missed important pieces of the story, leaving the movie itself a collection of great and horrible, particularly because the ending ceased to make any sense. But how do we treat the movies? Do we hold them in the same category as the original source material? Are the books and movies collective entities, or separate? Let’s toss aside medium, here, because obviously we cannot possibly say that a book and a movie are remotely the same without getting into ridiculous arguments over reader/viewer reception (the theory, perhaps), and all that jazz. We can also throw away instances in which the viewer or reader has only experience one medium, instead of both, because such an argument would seem rather unfair under these circumstances. While I do think that viewers who are familiar with the source material need to be open to change in film adaptations, I also recognize that there must necessarily be some separation. One cannot possibly see the movie and know what the book is about, in its entirety, without actually having read the book; the same is true, to a certain extent, when delving into the concerns of film adaptations, since we cannot possibly know what has been changed for continuity purposes without having actually seen the film. With that in mind, I would argue that both mediums (whatever the two may be) should have some degree of separation in order to maintain an illusory line that dictates how they are received: as source and as adaptation. That separation is important because it also establishes a protective shield around the adaptation from unfair criticism (the purist literary crowd who finds any deviation from the source to be on par with blasphemy). Films are, for obvious and less obvious reasons, entirely different mediums from comics, books, etc. Not only are the ways we receive films different from everything else, but the methods for creating films are also drastically different from other artistic mediums–again, for obvious and less obvious reasons. We cannot possibly expect a movie to maintain the same “feel” as the book, because what is conveyed on screen can only cover a small portion of what may be present within the written medium–and, of course, there are limits to what film is capable of doing, even today. Hence why a separation is needed. As with any adaptation, however, there are certain lines that you can’t cross. Bad adaptations are justly criticized for failing to maintain necessary features such as plot and character. You can’t have an adventure story and turn it into a romance if such a genre was never part of the original piece. I think what I’m saying is that you should always treat the film as a separate entity so long as it does not drastically deviate from the source material. If the novel is about a talking hamster named Charles who rescues a princess and the film folks change it to be a film about a young boy name Herb who collects stamps, then the separation ceases to exist, and one must make necessary comparisons. Hopefully all that made sense! What do you think about this topic? And if you’re Dave B., perhaps you had something else in mind when you asked the question? Feel free to leave a comment everyone! ————————————————- If you have a question about science fiction, fantasy, writing, or anything related you’d like answered here, whether silly or serious, feel free to send it via email to arconna[at]yahoo[dot]com, tweet it via Twitter to @shaunduke, or leave it in the comments here. Questions are always welcome! If you liked this post, consider stumbling, digging, or linking to it!
Reader Question: Unexpected Expansions and Expectations
My dear friend Carraka recently asked me the following question: Are fantasy series more likely to expand, unplanned, than science fiction? Actually, you’d be surprised to know that science fiction is the more likely genre to have unplanned expansions. Unlike fantasy, science fiction is not as readily susceptible to series-itis. This has quite a lot to do with the kinds of stories being told, the history of the genre, and loads of other factors which won’t be uttered here due to space constraints. But I’ll talk about some of the important bits here. There’s a fundamental difference between how fantasy and science fiction novels are sold. Due to an obsessive need for long, epic trilogies, stand alone fantasy novels are relatively rare in comparison to series–in the eyes of the public, at least. There are, of course, authors who thrive on stand alone books, but the series is the name of the game. Typically fantasy authors write a duology, trilogy, quintet, etc. and sell it to the publisher either one piece at a time (such as Patrick Rothfuss seems to have done) or in bulk. Some of them succeed and are published in full, and others do not. Science fiction, however, is a lonely road. Few science fiction authors get published based on the proposition of a series. But where did all those sequels and what not come from? Some are the result of the publisher’s request, some due to fans, and others due to perceived unfinished business by the author. Most sequels aren’t planned. They might be lingering in the back of the author’s mind, but it’s not often that a science fiction author actually sits down and plans out a series of science fiction books (a few have, of course, and there are several science fiction series out there, from David Weber to Isaac Asimov). The differences between the two is important to note, because while fantasy is intensely series-based, it is not expansionary in nature. Science fiction, however, is. It is rather uncommon to hear of a fantasy author deciding to expand a series that was planned to stop at three books. Christopher Paolini is perhaps the highest profile example of a fantasy series expansion, but science fiction is littered with examples of stand alone books expanded either by sequels or longer series–a good example would be the recent addition of C. J. Cherryh’s Regenesis, the long-awaited sequel to Cyteen. Fantasy will continue to be dominated by series, though, and people will typically recognize it for its long, drawn-out epics rather than for its stand alone gems. Science fiction, however, will be the exact opposite, and every so often we’ll get an outstanding series to drive a little of that epic feel into the science fiction landscape. But I’m just one person with one perspective. If you have something to add, or a different opinion, let me know in the comments! ————————————————- If you have a question about science fiction, fantasy, writing, or anything related you’d like answered here, whether silly or serious, feel free to send it via email to arconna[at]yahoo[dot]com, tweet it via Twitter to @shaunduke, or leave it in the comments here. Questions are always welcome! If you liked this post, consider stumbling, digging, or linking to it!
Reader Question: Vampires and Elves and Dwarves, Oh My!
(Yet again I have forgotten to write down who asked this question. If the person who asked sees this, let us know who you are in the comments.) Cliches in fantasy (and science fiction) seem to be a hot topic these days, what with urban fantasy paving the way towards over-saturation of the market, and science fiction apparently losing some of its appeal amongst certain groups of readers (though claims that science fiction is dying are premature at best). The question that has prompted this post asks a very important question: Should writers stay away from the cliches of fantasy? The kneejerk reaction should, for anyone, be “yes.” The problem with fantasy as a genre has always been its tendency to repeat itself to excess, with writers of talent essentially spouting rehashed Tolkien-esque stories and continuously mining Tolkien and the select few “original” authors that followed him for those staple creatures we have come to identity as clearly “fantasy”–elves, dwarves, dragons, etc. Urban fantasy has, unfortunately, been saturated with similar levels of repetition; vampires used to be fairly powerful creatures to insert into fantasy novels, but these days they are, for the most part, little more than furniture items without substance–if you want a better vampire, read the original Dracula. But kneejerk reactions are rarely efficient or proper. As in politics, immediately reacting to something without considering the larger picture is not only a bad idea, but dangerous. If you spend your days worrying yourself over whether or not you’re using a cliche, you’ll end up getting little done whatsoever. Writers should spend time writing, not considering the implications of using such-and-such creature or such-and-such trope. It’s quite impossible to avoid the cliches of the genre with any efficiency. Some may argue against this, but this is true of all fiction. No matter how hard you might try to write a truly original novel, you will most certainly fail. Cliches are a part of the human brain, and have been for a while. Certainly being aware of the cliches you’re using is important, but fretting over them is counterproductive. Instead, pay attention to how the cliches are used. Are you using elves in exactly the same way as Tolkien? Why? Injecting difference into the mix can help alleviate obvious repetition. Twist Tolkien’s elves on their head and see where it goes. Or, there’s always the more adequate method of dealing with cliches: write well. Nobody with any sense reads a well-written fantasy novel and says, “That is the most cliche thing I have ever read.” Good writing can, and does, completely change how a reader perceives a cliche. If you can tell a good story, then it is irrelevant how many cliches populate your fiction, because ultimately what the reader wants is a good reading experience–obviously. What do you think? Should writers avoid cliches? Why or why not? Feel free to leave a comment! ————————————————- If you have a question about science fiction, fantasy, writing, or anything related you’d like answered here, whether silly or serious, feel free to send it via email to arconna[at]yahoo[dot]com, tweet it via Twitter to @shaunduke, or leave it in the comments here. Questions are always welcome! If you liked this post, consider stumbling, digging, or linking to it!
Reader Question: Science Fiction Definition (and Other Rhyming Goodness)(Part Two)
(Read Part One) The more I study and understand science fiction, the more I realize that the genre is simultaneously limitless and limited. While most consumers of popular fiction and films are quick to say “science fiction is spaceships and aliens,” I find such gross determinations to be overly simplistic and impossible to equate with a standard definition of the genre. Anyone familiar with science fiction would understand that spaceships and aliens are not universals of the genre. True, much of early science fiction literature and the vast majority of science fiction film have dealt quite exclusively with what are considered to be the “tropes” (and cliches) of the genre, but science fiction is, undoubtedly, about so much more. In getting to the end of this post, I have to indicate that I probably have shifted my position from earlier discussions of what science fiction is. I still hold to certain idealistic perceptions of the genre, and while Darko Suvin, Samuel R. Delany, and even Istvan Csicsery-Ronay, Jr. have all used relatively isolated definitions of the genre, we must define science fiction by what it is universally; there cannot, in my opinion, be exceptions to the rule. What defines science fiction, to me, are these elements, placed together and never separate: The presence of the future, whether it be tomorrow or a thousand years distant, or, at least a progression into the future within the narrative itself. The future is absolutely essential to any proper definition of science fiction. Some have argued with me, in the past, that this would inevitably create a paradoxical relationship with narratives dealing with the past, but I would argue that only those narratives which contain primary characters from a future point can be up for true consideration in the genre. Alternate history, thus, is not science fiction, but The Time Machine and Back to the Future are, up to this point. A general reflection or speculation upon aspects of the technological or social, in their most broadest contexts. Science fiction contains the word “science” for a reason. It is not necessary, per se, for a science fiction narrative to get the science absolutely correct, but it is necessary for the narrative to speculate upon the possibilities of technologies, social structures, etc. Most any field of science is applicable to science fiction, and you could certainly write a science fiction narrative that questions issues of archaeology or paleontology, etc. It should be noted, too, that the science, whatever field it may be, does not necessarily have to be central to the story itself; hence why many science fiction stories may set themselves up in universes or worlds vastly different from our own, but yet are more concerned with issues of character or plot. Having said this, though, I want to be clear that a scientific approach (or cognitive estrangement, if you will) to envisioning science fiction is essential; you might not make a laser pistol a significant concern for the characters (such as by asking how the laser pistol has changed the face of the world), but it still must be there (and you can, of course, supplement the laser pistol for any scientific subject, so long as it is sufficiently estranged from the present to speak upon Suvin’s “cognitive estrangement” concept).Additional qualifiers for this subject include: The acknowledgement of temporal placement of the narrative from the author’s perspective (i.e. when it was written). While the science should, for all intensive purposes, be correct, even theoretically, some leeway must be given to texts which precede current science. Hence why The Time Machine is still considered a work of science fiction despite new scientific research which has largely proven the subject of time travel, at least via H. G. Wells’ vision. A general displacement of Clarke’s Third Law (i.e. that any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic). If it’s indistinguishable from magic, it is magic, and any discussion otherwise is fairly pointless. A discussion, whether directly or otherwise, of the human condition. This is not to say that every science fiction narrative must be aware or obsessed with humanity, but such narratives must be aware of a human, or even inhuman, concern with the wider world/universe/etc. Have laid out these complicated elements of true science fiction (presence of the future, speculations on science or technology, awareness or dealing with the human condition), it would seem that certain texts/films would have to be excluded from science fiction, including some of my personal favorites (Star Wars, for example, though Lucas certainly attempted to compensate for his fantastic approach to the genre by providing an ill-conceived scientific explanation for the Force). Exclusions are, perhaps, inevitable in any definition of science fiction. If we look at definitions of the genre by professionals within the literary field, we see that exclusion is impossible to avoid. I won’t remark on them here, because this post is long enough as it is, but you should certainly get to know the field as it is defined by professionals. But, since this is in response to a question give to me by a reader, I should indicate that my definition/conception of science fiction is by far not the most readily accepted one. Typically, one looks to the genre for its cliches, and those happen to be spaceships, lasers, and other flashy things. Even serious science fiction uses these things, from time to time. To close this discussion, I’ll leave you with a word of advice: don’t worry too much about what science fiction actually is. Because the genre is not so easily defined, by anyone, it doesn’t really matter whether you use elements that are not necessarily science fiction by my account or anyone else’s. Star Wars will probably always be known as science fiction, no matter how hard anyone tries to push it into the science fantasy category. What are you thoughts on defining science fiction? Let me know in the comments. ————————————————- If you have a question about science fiction, fantasy,