On Speculative Fiction, Part 2: The Potential in Mechanics

One of the great pleasures of editing manuscripts is that every new work that comes across my desk is simultaneously a new mind to explore. In the course of my work, I’m often astonished by mankind's capacity for imagination. 

Imagination comes in all genres. The unexpected gesture or outburst in a novel of gritty realism derives from the same source as the visions of the greatest speculative novels. (In other words, Revolutionary Road is no less imaginative than The Three-Body Problem, even though one takes place in a familiar suburb, while the other occurs in a world where Einstein’s general theory of relativity has ceased to exist.) The difference is that one category of imagination need not be explained; we are all inherently aware of the complexities of the human character. The other category—science-fiction—has stricter requirements.

This follows the thought of Robert Heinlein, who wrote, “No established fact shall be violated, and, furthermore, when the story requires that a theory contrary to present accepted theory be used, the new theory should be rendered reasonably plausible and it must include and explain established facts as satisfactorily as the one the author saw fit to junk.” (The entire article where he goes on about this is well worth reading. I find his “business habits” to be especially insightful.)

Getting the mechanics correct is essential for anyone writing fantasy or science fiction. Authors in these genres must be as clear and as plausible as possible when describing the technical, or mechanical, aspects of the phenomena they describe, which do not exist in our world. They must answer these questions: how are they built (if the phenomena are built), how they work, what they do, and how they interact with reality (or Schopenhauer’s “active world”), etc. 

Authors must make the phenomena they create fit the world as we know it. The point is to persuade the reader that the phenomena they describe can exist, at least in theory. In this way, the spell of fiction is maintained, and any imagining is possible. 

Authors must make the phenomena they create fit the world as we know it. The point is to persuade the reader that the phenomena they describe can exist, at least in theory. In this way, the spell of fiction is maintained, and any imagining is possible. 

As I discussed in the previous post in this series, not long ago I worked on a novella, which concerned a cafe that sold a blend of coffee that cured heartbreak. As the coffee was a kind of medical treatment, the novella reminded me of the Michel Gondry film, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. (I mentioned the similarity in my editorial letter to the author; she had never heard of it.) 

We meet the main character Maya in the midst of a breakup, when a friend, who had been cured of her own heartbreak there, drags her to the cafe for a rejuvenating cup. Once there, Maya is, like the reader, understandably skeptical; no such treatment currently exists in our world. When she asks for the ingredients of the special coffee, she receives the following response, “A shot of espresso, one ounce of Chai (concentrate), nine ounces of soy milk, turmeric powder and 10 ppm of a special herbal extract.” 

Of course, there is no problem or confusion regarding the first few ingredients. But what of that “special herbal extract”? What the heck is in that extract, such that it causes the person who ingests it to forget heartbreak? 

I’m certainly not up to date on this, but I imagine that the technology used by the cafe does not currently exist. But remember what Heinlein said, that it must be possible, at least theoretically. So, if the herbal extract is what causes the healing, then the author must answer these questions: what is in the herbal extract, precisely, and how does it achieve the desired effect?

In short, the author must tie the coffee to some type of actual, or potential, scientific treatment. (In this specific case, I suggested some form of hallucinogenic drugs like psilocybin,  since they are increasingly used medicinally, and since they also tie in well with the effects of the coffee.) Like how Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind briskly explains the mechanics of its treatment, so too must the author of this novella.

In short, the author must tie the coffee to some type of actual, or potential, scientific treatment. (In this specific case, I suggested some form of hallucinogenic drugs like psilocybin,  since they are increasingly used medicinally, and since they also tie in well with the effects of the coffee.) Like how Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind briskly explains the mechanics of its treatment, so too must the author of this novella.

The actual treatment reminded me of a twist on Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol. After drinking the coffee, and going into their “coffee-bubble,” the “patient,” like Scrooge, travels through a series of revelatory memories. These memories exist in “white circles [that] are a combination of life excerpts, unmet expectations, hopeless encounters, joyous events, love, longing, and torture.” The patient travels to these circles through areas of “blackness [which have] the supernatural powers to suck up all the negative and haunting thoughts stuck obstinately in your head.” 

While this is all strange enough, it could be explained away as a hallucination (perhaps brought on by a psychotropic drug). Indeed, Maya’s friend explains this to her legibly enough, when they first walk in to the cafe (of course, sans the psilocybin theory). Thus, it could be, potentially, a fairly easy fix; the author could just add magic mushrooms to the herbal extract.

However, then the novella gets weirder, and trickier. Each of the patient's white circles are literally “projected” on the walls of the cafe, visible to anyone who had taken the cure. More than this, patients at the cafe can travel into the circles of other patient’s coffee-bubbles, or in other words, into the hallucinations of other patient's deepest, most revealing memories. Moreover, anyone could do this whenever they’d like (though, in the cafe, this practice is frowned upon).

Now, as a point of narration, I found that aspect to be incredibly fascinating… the possibilities within it were fecund. In fact, almost all the elements of description were there, except for the how, or a rigorous explanation of the mechanics of the treatment. It is in details like these that the “believability” of the book fell apart. Since the idea was so incredibly off-the-wall, it needed a better explanation to make it more real, and therefore, more enjoyable.

Now, these explanations need not be slow, extended, and dense. We’re not reading a science text-book. Rather, strive to make the explanations light and short. In other words, like Dickens’ ghosts and spirits—a concept we understand at a glance—you should offer a brisk and compelling explanation for how this phenomena occurs.