My Blog

A pal of mine, Jose Bogran recently discussed tech in scifi, or, more accurately, writing low tech in scifi.  What was cutting edge in 1950’s Asimov is now quaint and laughable, and the scifi written today becomes outdated almost the moment it’s published, so maybe best keep the tech low, even non-existent.

I get the point: no one wants instant irrelevance, or downright implausibility because of tech advances, and I think JB proposed some excellent ways around it. But it’s like avoiding a murderer in your murder mystery.

I think most readers are very forgiving of classics like 2001 and Starship Troopers, even though current tech makes a lot of that stuff (HAL going crazy? Please) silly now. I’m not so sure how forgiving they are of current stuff, though, so invoking a few of JB’s suggestions should keep your scifi fresh.

But you could also go all mundane on their asses.

Mundane scifi, that is, which I think is a more accurate scifi than hard core megatech far future space operas could ever be. Although I am a big fan of Alastair Reynolds and Neal Stephenson (okay, so he’s more mundane than hard scifi, but, c’mon, Anathem?), I think things like Kim Stanley Robinson’s Mars series  is a more realistic scifi, if those two words can actually go together. It’s more within our possibilities.

So when I do scifi, that’s pretty much where I stay, near earth and near time. Most of the stories in (WARNING! Shameless plug follows!) The Last Man in the World Explains All are mundane, although there’s a couple of far space ones in there, too.

Now don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I’m opposed to hard scifi space operas.

I’m just not smart enough to write them.

Get your minds out of the gutter; I’m talking about stories.

I’ve got one that took hold of me a couple of years ago, a historical fiction about the disastrous Narvaez expedition, and it ended up about 8000 words long. That puts it in the loosely defined novella category, which is fine; you can call it a ham sandwich for all I care. Most readers I know are not so worried about a story’s length as they are about its plot, direction, and ability to hold their interest. Take a look at Neal Stephenson’s massive Baroque Cycle, if you want an excellent example of a billion-word story that keeps readers enthralled all the way to the end.

So, I’ve always been puzzled by word limits. You know, the ones imposed by editors and magazines and agents on your particular opus. I don’t think a lot of authors write something with an eye on the Word Count ticker. I think they write something, then start squashing it down to meet the publishing definition of what they are trying to write. And I think that is a criminal act worthy of an old fashioned cat-o’-nine-tails scouring. Of the editor and agent.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I am a firm believer in the killing of your children. The Narvaez story, on first draft, was about 16,000 words, and I murdered a lot of unnecessary orphans to get it into current shape. There should not be one thing in a story that doesn’t belong there. And all writing is story, whether it’s novel or screenplay or even a term paper explaining the adiabatic lapse rate . But forcing the story into an artificially imposed word limit often kills children unworthy of slaughter, and alters the story from what was intended. How many unpublished versions of what you’ve published do you have in a desk drawer, and how different are they then what was submitted? And I don’t mean godawful first drafts, but ones you, sorrowing, put away because of venue?

This is reading, not TV. If you’re going to read, read. And if you’re going to write so others may read, write all the words you can.