A New Hope: Final Resolutions to the Power of Science Fiction
(…or why optimism in science fiction is not all that hard to find if you’re really looking) What is it about so much of science fiction that drives writers and film-makers to grasp the pessimistic (dystopias, end of the world schemes, et. al.)? I think I’ve finally figured it out. Whether or not this is a conscious element is irrelevant, because it is almost always there, and it is perhaps the most optimistic thought, idea, concept, whatever you want to call it that might ever exist in any form of fiction you can find (and I have no illusions that this thing exists in other genres too). It is so powerful that it overwhelms when you discover it, when you see it buried underneath all the flashy images and the downright terrifying futures imagined by writers of all stripes. And if you’re like me, one of those weird folks that actually cries in movies, then it is something that drives you to tears, because it is beautiful and uplifting and tremendous in ways that you might never expect. It is an amalgam of hope and perseverance, of spirit and resolve, of so many tiny things that exist in all of us, which we take for granted or ignore so often. It doesn’t really have a name, but you can see it come to life at the moment when all hope is lost, when you think that it might just be the end of a character, or our species in general, when humanity itself seems lost to its own devices (psychological that they are, they exhibit a kind of foreboding element that is both “proper to man,” as Derrida would say, and also terrifyingly destructive to the prospect of a salvagable humanity). It’s that flash that answers the question William Adama (of Battlestar Galactica) sadly recognizes: the question of whether we deserve to exist. In an attempt to display this, I have to show by example. Maybe you cried at these moments too, or maybe you think I am being absurd, but they are moments that show us just what it is that makes mankind worth saving. We can see, in these little moment of science fiction wonder, what makes fiction and movies so powerful in our lives, and what makes science fiction so perfect at displaying the human condition at its worst and at its best, and in that moment where we know, deep down, there we really are something more than what we see every day (more than all the othering, hatred, death, destruction, mutilation, mutation, and terror that is the human). Example One (from the end of Sunshine) – the SacrificeEverything has fallen apart. The attempt to resurrect the Icarus One so the mission to restart the Sun will have two shots has failed and a psychotic Icarus One captain has stolen aboard the Icarus Two after sabotaging the airlock. One by one everyone is dying and it seems like all hope is lost. Then Kappa vents the ship, stumbles to the payload for the Icarus Two after disconnecting it to start the launch sequence, and takes a crazy space walk (or jump, rather) to manually set off the fireworks, sacrificing himself and anyone else alive to make sure it gets done, while fighting off the crazed captain. That’s it. That whole moment, with the music accompanying it. Maybe it seems trite, or silly, but in that moment I get that feeling that so much of science fiction is trying to give me: that even in the worst of times there is something redeeming about us, that our sad, pathetic little species can accomplish something so beautiful in the face of destruction and despair that everything pales before it. All that our minds can create (all that art, philosophy, intelligence, and technology) can finally come together in the face of humanity’s absolute negation (a human self that is at once all that is humanity and all that is destructive of humanity) to spark the beautiful moment of birth (a rebirth, literally, of our greatest god–the sun). Example Two (from the end of Battlestar Galactica) – the Desperate Leap (or the Other Sacrifice)Cut out the last half hour of the final episodes and imagine only the lead-up to the final battle and the battle itself, right up until the random jump to Earth (New Earth, Other Earth, whatever you want to call it). That’s where I’m looking to. The Galactica is falling apart, literally, and yet there is something in the idea of Hera, of that little half-human/half-Cylon girl that Adama can’t let go. Whether she’s the future of humanity or Cylon isn’t relevant to Adama (not really), but it is what she stands for: she’s part of the crew, part of the ragtag gang of humans, and a piece of the very soul both human and Cylon, and a man like Adama cannot let a child, an innocent, be destroyed by the terror of the second-Cylon half (the Cavals, Simons, and Dorals). So, he sacrifices half of his own heart, the Galactica, and the other half, Roslin, and anyone else willing to take the risk, to get Hera back. The whole idea is suicide, but that doesn’t matter. It’s about the greater idea: what they are sacrificing themselves for. The whole scene is astonishingly littered with what I’m trying to talk about here, this intangible thing that is optimistic even in the face of impending doom (and the Galactica is, or should be, doomed). The end is the moment when the line doesn’t dissolve, but begins to break; humans and Cylons are still separate, but it is here that we see both groups (the “good” Cylons, anyway) beginning to eat away at the line. United not just in a common goal, but in a goal to revitalize one’s soul, the merger in the fight for Hera signals an answer: humanity is worth saving. And the final second when everything is falling apart again, just when it seems
Accusations Aside: I’m Still a Science Fiction Fan
In response to some comments made over at SF Signal and elsewhere, I’d like to take this opportunity to clarify that just because I (and others) believe Avatar to be a steaming pile of garbage does not mean that I am not a science fiction fan. Questioning my dedication to the genre based on my dislike for one film is like questioning a Star Wars fan’s love of the franchise simply because he or she didn’t like Episode II (a fact that is true of most Star Wars fans, by the way). On the other side of things, being a fan of science fiction does not mean that one can’t be critical of the players of the genre. Science fiction is not about accepting everything as quality; it’s not some bizarre ultra-socialist experiment to give everything the same value. Get over yourself. There are a heck of a lot of science fiction fans who hate Star Wars or Star Trek; such is part of the dynamics of the SF fan community. So, no, I am not an anti-SF fan based on my daring attempt to call Avatar out for its shoddy storytelling; I am an actual science fiction fan, but with different expectations of the genre. I want science fiction that is capable of giving me something more than flashy CG, recycled plots, wooden characters, and inconsistent universes. Maybe Avatar will prove me wrong and be none of those things, but right now all the reviews are confirming everything I’ve said thus far: it’s a story I’ve already seen twenty-five times before, in film, and it will be so overwhelmed with computer graphics that people who have never been on acid might think they’ve been duped into taking an illegal substance. That’s not the kind of SF I want. Filmmakers need to learn from George Lucas: computer graphics do not make a film, and if you’re going to spend so much money making a movie pretty, you should spend an equal amount in dollars and hours on actors, directors, and writers to make sure that what you have is a good product, not just another flashy action movie. But, again, everyone is going to see Avatar anyway. It doesn’t matter what I think. It’s going to make millions, but in ten years it probably won’t be remembered as anything but a vague footnote. That is all.
A Few More Lies For the Ignorant (Part One)
So, having already spoken on the Harlequin mess, wasn’t I surprised to find this article over at Self-Publishing Review with a whole lot of nonsense for the price of zero (the post is a guest post, so I don’t know how well it reflects what the owners of the site wish to portray, since I am not a regular reader). I’m not going to do much to touch the author’s discussion of science publishing. Not only do we not know who the author is (it just says “guest post” and unless I missed something there is no author named), but he contradicts himself (or herself) in the post by pointing to links where people have done exactly what he/she has said isn’t happening (after all, Michio Kaku, one of the leading scientists in the world right now, has publicly denounced self-published science authors for producing nonsense). Where the author really falls off his or her rocker, is in regards to the backlash from Harlequin’s decision to create a vanity press. S/he goes through the four main complaints against Harlequin and says a lot of things that would sound like nonsense to anyone with a brain (or at least a brain that is flipped to the “on” position). First point: They are cashing in on their slush pile. The questions implicit in this is that the slush pile is of inherently less value than the accepted pile. There are plenty of reasons to believe this isn’t the case. Most novels have been in dozens of slush piles before they’ve been accepted. Does being in a slush pile mean a novel is inherently bad? Then nothing but Sarah Palin’s book would exist – hardly a ringing endorsement of editorial quality control over cynical marketing exploitation. First off, there are loads of reasons why book queries get rejected (too many for me to list them here, but you can look that up on your own). Some big reasons are: the book wasn’t right for the publisher (try someone else), the query was crap (get better at it), or the book was crap (write another one and try again). These aren’t universal, but they are common reasons, and you can’t assume that a publisher is wrong. Maybe your book really does suck, or maybe it just isn’t a good fit. Second, the fundamental problem with this point is that the slush pile isn’t the rejected pile. It’s the “to be read” pile. It is made up of manuscripts that haven’t yet been picked up by the editor and viewed. Being in the slush pile means you are just one of many trying to get published by a particular publisher. That’s it. Third, this is exactly what Harlequin is doing: cashing in on their slush pile. Instead of publishing that book legitimately, they want to recommend to authors they reject from their slush piles to head on over to their vanity press and pay Harlequin for the privilege of publication. They aren’t recommending the authors go to Lulu, which doesn’t require you to pay anything up front for a basic package. They are recommending authors that aren’t “good enough” for Harlequin’s traditional line spend thousands to get published by their vanity press line, with the fake hope that they might get snatched up by regular-Harlequin in the future if it turns out alright. If you don’t see something wrong with this, then maybe there’s something wrong with you. Second point: They’re exploiting naïve authors. Um, pardon me, but book publishers are expert at exploiting naïve authors. That’s why royalties tilt so harshly to publishers, why rights are exploited, why contracts are mind-numbing. Do you really think most publishers sit down with an author and works out a custom deal while patiently explaining the ins and outs, creating author-friendly options to ensure goodwill, and conceding contractual advantages willingly? How naïve do they think we are? Actually, royalties tilt heavily towards the publisher because the publisher puts a shitload of money into publishing an author’s book. See here for the breakdown for hardcover books. Royalty rates aren’t ideal, but books also are no longer the dominant mode of consumption these days, and publishers are forced by consumers to produce a lot of books in order to satiate the wandering tastes of consumers. But trying to say that authors get shafted by book publishers is hardly true of all publishers. If anything, booksellers are the ones getting shafted, since they often have to offer massive discounts just to sell the books at all, cutting into the large chunk they generally would keep at the end of the day. On the other side of things: this is why most authors recommend you get an agent. Agents are in the business to make you (the author) more money, because the more money you make, the more money they make. This is called mutual interest. Now, getting to the part about taking advantage of naive authors: publishers are hardly taking advantage. They don’t lie about anything (well, some of them have, but this is hardly normal of the business). They tell you straight up that you will be paid for your book (they don’t promise a particular rate at all) and that your book will be in bookstores. They hand you a contract that states exactly what you’re getting and some of them even recommend getting an agent. Vanity presses and a lot of self-publishing houses do the exact opposite. They paint a pretty picture of their print-model business so that unsuspecting authors will flock in and fork out their hard-earned dollars to print a book that a) will not be distributed in bookstores (though many of them say it will); and b) will likely not sell many copies or make you famous (another thing that many of them say is a good possibility). Lulu is one of the few honest self-publishing firms; they have gone on record to say that they want to sell few copies of millions of
Why Avatar Will Suck, and Everyone Will See It Anyway
It’s coming, and everyone has been waiting for it. The big secret is out. We have a good idea what Avatar is all about, we’ve got a glimpse of the amazing CGI, and a little taste of all the actors of this soon-to-be blockbuster. Everyone will probably see Avatar, and though it probably won’t beat out the big boys in sales, it will still do damn well. But it’s going to suck something awful. Why? Point One — Lots of Pretty, But No SubstanceNobody will deny that Avatar takes the cake for pulling out all the stops for its CGI. From the world to the characters, Avatar is showing us everything that CGI has to offer. But there’s the problem. Like many other action flicks that do damn well in the box office, but still suck, Avatar is destined to failure. It will be a CGI-laden suckfest that will make Transformers 2 look like the greatest film in the world. Everything is going to be overly saturated with computer-animated characters and landscapes and whatever story is supposed to be there will get lost under the endless waves of action and flashy bits. Look at Transformers 2 and tell me that movie had a consistent and coherent plot; it was one CGI orgy after another, and no matter how amazing it looked, it couldn’t make up for what was missing: the substance (characters, story, etc.). Avatar has already fallen into this modern film-making trap by having one of the biggest budgets for a mainstream film in history. Point Two — There’s Nothing Let to See, and We’ve Seen It BeforeHave you seen the trailer? If you have, then tell me what is the point in seeing the movie? The trailer has pretty much told us everything we need to know: mankind has figured out how to go to this other planet (where is irrelevant, so whether it’s in another star system or in an alternate universe doesn’t need to be said) and they’re selling off land like hotcakes. The only problem is that the weird-looking natives are messing with the evil corporation’s plans. In comes muscular, wood-faced man who is magically turned into one of the alien critters and sent out to get info and make sure the evil corporation can get what it wants. But, oh no, he realizes he’s not supposed to do that and must help the natives instead, because they’re all nice and he has a human heart, and other things we’ve seen a dozen times before in films that didn’t need such high budgets to get the job done (Christ, Disney has done at least four or five of these). That’s all in the trailer. And because we know the good guy is going to win, there’s no point seeing the movie. We’ve seen the good bits, we know what’s going to happen, and whatever surprises were left are, more or less, meaningless (likely because there won’t be any).Point Three — Wood PeopleIf you’ve seen the trailer, then you have a good idea how one-dimensional the characters already are and the level of wooden acting we’re expected to see. It all feels like a really contrived, cardboard-flavored action movie that will have little to say about its genre or its plot. The dialogue is stiff, the facial expresses look too obviously acted out, and the only thing covering up what will doom this movie to being remembered only for how much money it pulls in are the pretty bits that flutter about in the trailer. Blue people and pretty landscapes! Yippee! You have to hand it to the marketing people for making sure this one doesn’t easily expose itself to the public for what it most likely is: crap. But, despite all that, I’ll probably see it anyway. Why? Because Hollywood is an infectious virus that slowly consumes your soul. You can fight it and be that weird guy who never goes to the movies, or be eaten alive while being injected with dizzy, drug-like contentment. It’s inevitable: see it or explode. What do you think? Will Avatar be good or bad?
Nothing Belongs To Us: the Anti-property Universe
Human beings are funny creatures. I should know; I’m one of them. We have, with rare exception, an unhealthy obsession with ownership. The T.V. in my house? Mine. The books and shelves? Mine. The nine leopard geckos? Mine. It’s not unusual for us to claim ownership, to want to have control, psychological or otherwise, of objects and other living creatures (and if slavery isn’t a prime example of our own obsession in owning other people, then I don’t know what is). But isn’t it going to be a shock for all of us when/if we one day reach the stars and realize that, crap, all this stuff out there isn’t ours? We can’t even agree about who owns the Moon, so why any of us are under the illusion that somehow we own the Sun, Jupiter, Saturn, all the asteroids and other planets/planetoids, the Kuiper Belt, or even the Milky Way Galaxy and all of its freedom-fighting black holes roaming around eating up planets and other stellar bodies without thinking twice (it’s a black hole, after all) is beyond me. And what if there are aliens out there, all with similar obsessions, or the lack of them, for that matter? Can you imagine us saying “well, actually, Earth is ours, and you can’t have it” to an alien species that a) has more firepower than us; and b) has no idea what the hell we’re talking about anyway? They’ll probably laugh at us, too, when we try to explain to them why the Sun is ours, why we have every right to take that uninhabited planet in Alpha Centauri, and that giant, resource-rich super-Earth in such-and-such star system. The reality is, the universe isn’t owned by anyone. Our claims to ownership over the Earth are the strongest ones we can make, and even those are flimsy at best; there are other beasts on this planet besides us, who share this world, who breathe the same air and eat the same food (technically speaking). The Earth is a place of many creatures and we’ve already seen what our silly ideas about ownership have done to our particular brand of creature: slavery, violent capitalism, religious wars (physical and psychological), etc. And the purely selfish notion of ownership will produce numerous problems for us in the future. We’ll meet aliens who may think like us, or may think differently. Science fiction says we’ll have wars, some of them we’ll win, and others we’ll lose. Will they be worth it? Maybe we should get over ourselves and think about the bigger picture. Even if we can claim ownership over the Earth, the universe won’t care. It’s all a pointless gesture, because all it takes is a flick of the metaphorical universal wrist and everything we know to exist will cease to be. Let’s do a little growing up. There’s nothing wrong with saying that car is yours, but in the grand scheme of things, we have control over very little.
Why is font size so important to a good book?
Something I am starting to get really irritated about these days are books with ridiculously small font. I can understand the need to use small font for particularly large books, but I cannot for the life of me get through books with fonts so small I have to wear my glasses in order to see the words (I’m near sighted, so this is particularly bad). Yet, publishers keep doing it, and I’m finding myself more and more incapable of even bothering to pick up books with tiny fonts. There’s another reason too, and that has to do with my interest levels in books. When I read, I like to feel like I’ve accomplished something in a half hour of reading. I’m not a fast reader, so when I spend time reading, it’s nice to know that I’ve gone farther than five pages in a ten minute span of time. If it takes me an hour to get through a relatively small chapter, then I start losing interest in the reading. There is a book I currently have on my review shelf that suffers from this, and the result is that I’m no longer reading it. I might try again in the future, but for now, I can’t be bothered with it. It’s a 6×9 trade paperback with font this size. Or maybe smaller. I don’t now. How big does that little bit look on the screen? On the other side of things, though, there are books with font size that is too big. For children’s books, this is perfectly acceptable, since kids really can’t be bothered to read normal-people font anyway. For adult books, however, large font is kind of cumbersome. I don’t think I’ve ever dropped a book that had large font, but it can still make you a little irritated when you bought a 300-page novel only to find out that it’s actually 150 in more traditional font sizes. So, to anyone publishing books out there, please use a reasonable font size. I know you want to save paper and all, but what is more important: a book that becomes a nice door stop, or a book that gets read all the way through and enjoyed for what it is, rather than hated for how it was put together? What other pet peeves do you all have about the design of books? Let me know in the comments!