The Muse and the Narrative Springboard

John Cheever often starts his stories with an object: the radio in “The enormous Radio”, the play-script in “O City of Broken Dreams”. These provide him with a springboard from which to kick-start his creativity. Would he have been able to examine the backside of the American dream without the voyeuristic power of the radio? Or the “fantastic” play-script that no-one has read?

Chris Powling once wrote that authors don’t wait around for inspiration to strike. Instead, they look for things that they can hang a story on.

Writers often talk about the importance of originality. The truth, however, is that original thought is not something that springs out of the mind. It occurs when an artist looks at something with new eyes, finds a new way of constructing a story.



You've got to admit that my Muse is a real looker.

Budding writers frequently imitate published authors that they admire; I myself remember making maps in the image of Middle Earth. The key word here, though, is “budding”. I might have well have used “inexperienced”. Imagine a writer who can only imitate The Lord of the Rings or Star Wars. Not pretty, is it?



The trick to original thought comes in two parts. First, a writer must evolve beyond the need to copy those he admires. And second, he must find his own springboard.

The springboard is something that a writer must choose for himself. It has to be something he finds interesting. I chose science as my springboard, though you might as well use the term “muse”. Science changes and evolves over time, so there is always something new to play with. And that something that every writer needs; new toys to kick start his creativity.

The Papers

The desk was littered with papers and books, each possessing such esoteric titles as “On the Electrodynamics of Moving Bodies” and “The Warp Drive: Hyper-Fast Travel within General Relativity”. An empty mug rested on one of the books: a rather drab wad that seemed more coffee stain than paper.

 

The walls of the office were metal, uniformly flat and grey, whilst the floor held a slight curvature. The only background sounds were the whir of the vent, located near the roof, and the footsteps of the neighboring occupants.

The sole occupant of the room was a man sitting upon a swivel chair bolted to the floor. His fingers lazily twitched in the air, as if tapping away on an invisible keyboard, whilst his eyes stared emptily at nothing.

The door swung inward and a head appeared through the crack.

“John, can I talk to you for a sec?”

John nodded, but did not look up.

“Nice VL.”

“It’s on the way out,” John said, noncommittally.

“You should get a Sandbenders.”

John shrugged.

“Look, about… these papers.” 

“I know what you’re going to say. They all say it.”

“You know it can’t be done.”

“Gödel.”

He sighed and pinched the bridle of his nose. “For the last time, the Universe isn’t rotating.”

 

Truth ≡ Provable Scientific Fact: Fiction ≡ Speculation

All writers take something of their lives into their work. I use my fascination with science as my starting point. Others I have known use their own experiences as the basis. Cheever’s stories definitely draw on this method; whilst Dickenson’s poems often mention an individual she calls the “master”, whom she may have been infatuated with.

When writers deal with their own experiences, the “unreliable narrator” becomes an issue. How much is truth and how much is fiction? Is there room for truth in writing?

This leads me to an argument I once had with a friend. How important is the science in sci-fi? 

There is an instinct among inexperienced (≡ crap) sci-fi writers to oversimplify the details of space travel. Star Trek was particularly guilty of this. It was about life in space, but didn’t once deal with the difficulties involved.

To explain why realism is more entertaining, I will tell you a story of the Apollo missions. It involves toilets.

You're lucky if you get one of these!

Urination was easy to deal with. All they needed was a tube, fitted with a condom. It wasn’t too bad, either—unless the astronaut opened the valve too early and unwittingly vacuum-sealed his penis to the tube.

Solid waste was a different matter. Before the space toilet, they were forced to use bags: special bags, with adhesive rim and a finger-shaped pocket. The astronaut had to stick them to their buttocks, and since nothing falls in microgravity… that was what the finger-pocket was for.

The next task facing the astronaut was to open a capsule of germicide, seal it into the bag, and knead the contents to make sure they were fully mixed.

 

The command module was a confined space. So when someone needed to use the “Waste Management System," the others had to avert their gaze, and try to ignore the smell.

You can’t make this stuff up.

On another note, there was a small debate about “gun ≡ metaphorical representation of Dickenson”. I have this final point to make:

“It's bad to kill. Guns kill. And you don't have to be a gun. You are what you choose to be. You choose. Choose.”

                                       —The Iron Giant (1999)

One Poem in the Style of Another

I believe I was asked for a poem in the style of Emily Dickenson. I comply. I did not say, however, that I would not be irreverant.

1

What – is – that – thing?

Why – is it so – odd?

A Wookiee on the landing –

For – the love of – God –

Close – the – door –

Why not buy – pyjamas –

That is what – they’re for –

Please – do not be as – obtuse – as –

Bits of wood – a flat-pack shed –

No – the hyperdrive – does not

Go there – the instructions said –

Oh for God’s – sake – go to – bed –

I Am Writer, I Am Scientist

            Writing is sourced from a variety of places, each unique to the writer in question. For me, I think research is the starting point.

            I write because I love telling stories. But that, in and of itself, is not enough. No good story is founded upon writing for its own sake. That is where my other great love comes in—my love of science. I am happiest, I think, when discovering new things about the universe we live in.

 

            It is only natural that I should tell stories about it, too.

            All good writing has some basis in research; it’s about realism. Not the “literary” kind. It is about creating something that is believable. It is about applicability.



A collection of science books I am reading for research purposes.

            When Mary Shelly wrote Frankenstein in 1818, it was in part inspired by experiments in galvanism and the idea that life could be bestowed by electricity. This made the novel highly relevant at the time of publication, and it has not lost any since. In the field of cloning, a small electric current is used to combine new DNA with an empty cell body. Indeed, the first synthetic life form was created as recently as 2010.

            Having a basis in science gives a text relevance to our understanding of the universe. If an idea is important to our understanding today then it will be in the future, even hundreds of years from now.

            If I have become a writer, then it is through contemplating scientific issues within a creative framework. And if a writer can become important, it is by being applicable, both now and in the future.

            And now I leave you with a proof of the fundamental speed limit. Bonus points shall be awarded to anyone who spots the assumption and creates a story around it.