On Speculative Fiction, Part 1: Schopenhauer’s Challenge

“Much so-called science fiction is not about human beings and their problems, consisting instead of a fictionalized framework, peopled by cardboard figures, on which is hung an essay about the Glorious Future of Technology.”

- Robert Heinlein

The essence of all speculative fiction is philosophy. In every case, an author creates something new to speak about the world as it is. The key is to make that new creation convincing.

I’ve chosen to focus on science fiction and fantasy in this series as they are the two core genres of speculative fiction; they are the two genres from which all the others derive. As a genre, fantasy shares many similarities with science-fiction, and vice-versa. Indeed, the term “speculative fiction” encompasses both, as well as the overwhelming majority of horror stories, all superhero stories, magical realism, and any kind of “alternate histories,” etc. Many thrillers also share the same characteristics.

Not long ago I edited a science fiction novella, which concerned a cafe that sold a special kind of coffee: one that cured heartbreak. When the story begins, the main character, a young associate professor of science at the local university named Maya, is in the midst of a breakup. Lovelorn, bereft, and categorically unwilling to change out of her sweatpants, she is dragged by friend of hers to the cafe. On the way Maya complains that they could just drink coffee at home. To which the friend, who had been cured of her own heartbreak by the treatment, replies, “You can't get this coffee there.” 

Indeed. 

In other words, the premise of the book was excellent. But, as an act of imagination, the novel was underdeveloped on the two essential elements required of speculative fiction. 

In other words, the premise of the book was excellent. But, as an act of imagination, the novel was underdeveloped on the two essential elements required of speculative fiction. 

First, the author failed to create a believable scenario in which this cafe could exist in our world, as well as a persuasive argument towards the efficacy of the coffee-cure. (I discuss how it fell short on this point in the second post in this series, “on mechanics.”) The other essential factor missing was that, in his eagerness to explore his ideas, the author left his characters behind; in other words, he failed to develop them. (I discuss how it feel short on this point in the third post in this series, “on revealing character.”)

The author’s real interest lay in conveying the spiritual necessity for such a treatment, or in other words, a kind of moral. And so he hurried the story along to get to the parts he wished to write about. (Perhaps, and in more plain language, the author was more interested excising his own emotions regarding his own breakup. But this is speculation.) And while this is certainly interesting, such a discussion is secondary in importance for writers of science fiction and fantasy.

To give a brief illustration of the problem, when Maya first enters the coffee shop, the narrator tells us that, “Except for the people in the queue, everyone seemed occupied in the cafe. People sat there unmoving, almost in a trance.” Even in the day of everyone looking at their phone all the time, this warrants a reaction, eh? It’s weird. However—and you’ll have to take my word on this—there is no description of Maya’s reaction. Indeed, I would think she would find this profoundly unnerving; I know I would.

Another example also points to the author's desire to hurry the story along. When she first speaks with the Barista, Maya, the scientist, thinks, “Under these circumstances, a barista was no less than a physician.” But then—and again, you’ll have to take my word on this—she proceeds to give him some of her blood, without so much as a second thought! In short, in light of the lack of qualifications, Maya puts a great deal of trust in this whole process; too much in fact, an almost unnatural amount. (In an oddity, only after she gives the blood does Maya become skeptical, but only in a quite limited way. I’ll discuss these in the later installments of this series.)

So why does Maya trust the Barista? Of course, it's plausible that she does so because her friend recommended the treatment; of course, people have done wilder things for less reason. But I found that explanation slightly unsatisfying, and in any event, I, the reader, do not know her friend. Nor, as it happens, did the author tell us that this was Maya’s reason for doing so. In short, the answer to that question was left unexplained. I believe the reason for this, again, was because the author wished to hurry the story along to what he perceived were, “the good bits.”

***

The good bits are in learning about the world, getting comfortable there. The author should have considered the words of Schopenhauer, “the world is my representation.” Indeed, before writers can speak of ethics or morals or lessons, or really anything they want their readers to “take away” from their books, they must first satisfy the requirements of epistemology (or, “How do we know what we know”?). 

The Author should have considered the words of Schopenhauer, “the world is my representation.” Indeed, before writers can speak of ethics or morals or lessons, or really anything they want their readers to “take away” from their books, they must first satisfy the requirements of epistemology (or, “how do we know what we know?”). 

This speaks to another topic that I’ve written about before, about how novelists must conjure a spell that places their readers in a kind of trace. In other words, the reader must believe that what is being described is really happening. Only after that can a moral have any kind of effect. This is the case for both of the essential factors that were missing in the coffee-treatment book.