Referring back to my answer in a previous question, I didn’t know whether they were going to become a couple. They’re of similar age, but that’s about the only thing they have in common. Their life experiences are radically different, and if it wasn’t for Down, they’d never have met. It was much more likely that they’d spend their time trying to get on, because that’s what circumstances demanded, while not really getting on, because each one thought the other was a bit of an idiot. That’s what you see to start off with. It’s only as they get to understand each other do they relax into each other’s company, and even then more things happen to make their trajectories diverge rather than converge.
And yes, I wanted a similar diverse cast of characters that I saw on the documentary—all I did was bring it up to date to reflect the recent demographic changes in London, even if that did leave me open to criticism from the Daily Mail for being ‘dutifully multicultural’. I’m not quite sure which London the reviewer thought I was writing about, but I’ve been subsequently assured that my fiction is more realistic than her reality.
So Dalip wasn’t a deliberate choice, in the sense that none of my choices are particularly deliberate. That he’s a young Sikh man, brought up in the faith, beginning to work out what it means for him, rather than simply following his parents’ expectations of Sikhism, is part of who he is, and not an overlay to make him more interesting, or provide narrative drive. I agree it’s not that common, but there was no good reason to exclude him. So I didn’t.
On to the whole ‘what do I write’ question, and cultural appropriation and the entirely inescapable fact that I’m a mostly-white, British, English-as-first-language, fifty-year-old heterosexual male, writing about things that are outside my immediate experience. I’d argue that part of the writers’ skill, and probably the most critical part for a writer of fiction to possess, is the ability provide vicarious experiences. Using words to describe a place you’ve never been to, to describe a scene you’ve never witnessed, to describe a character you’ve never met: it’s something that all fiction writers have to do in order to construct the story they’re telling. You have to bring these things to life, not metaphorically but literally. You have to breathe life into them.
If you don’t put the time and trouble into fashioning your creations as perfectly as you can, then when you try to bring them to life, it can go horribly wrong. Have I just made a Frankenstein analogy? I’m going to fall back on Tolkien now, who viewed his imagining of Middle Earth as an act of sub-creation: not sub as in substandard, but sub as in secondary. As a Catholic, he viewed his creative urge as part of what it meant to be made in God’s image. I want to make that theological and philosophical insight part of the scaffolding that supports my writing.
And with that underpinning the way I tell stories, I don’t think there should be any no-go areas for writers. None. We—whatever culture we come from, whatever our skin colour, our ethnic heritage, our class, our gender—have to have the freedom to write about whatever we feel drawn to. That doesn’t mean we can’t be held accountable for what we write: Rowling’s perfectly free to include a Sikh family in a book, and Sikh leaders are free to tell her she made a hash of it—with an acknowledgement that UK Sikhs then criticised the critics for trying to sweep the problems Rowling was highlighting under the carpet. The idea of a monolithic cultural identity is long past its sell-by date: we wouldn’t dream of doing it for ourselves, so why impose it on others?
Which is all a very long way around of saying that the only person Dalip represents is Dalip. Another Sikh would react differently in the same situation—much mention is made of Dalip’s grandfather, a World War Two veteran of the Far East campaign. Swap those two over, and you’d have a very different book indeed, and I try my absolute hardest not to write characters that are interchangeable. Whether I succeed is an exercise left to the reader. Gollancz expressed no misgivings whatsoever. They are, of course, brilliantly on-the-ball, and I’d have been told during the editing process if they thought I’d done something badly.
I do want to talk briefly about Arcanum, which involved exactly no white British people at all. It was set in Alpine Carinthia, and the entire cast was either Jewish, pagan Europeans, or dwarves. Expressions of medieval Judaism and Germanic paganism in a fantasy setting was part of the characters’ lives: why wouldn’t I write about them, involve them in the plot, have people discuss differences in practice and theology? If you’re a good writer, that’s what you do. You don’t ignore the religious beliefs of your characters.
Finally, if one of the questions you’re asking is, ‘Do you feel compelled to wedge evangelical Christianity into everything you write?’, the answer is emphatically no. Otherwise, it’s very difficult for me to say how my own faith affects my writing, because it’s an intrinsic part of me: I’d argue that it’s impossible for me to untangle everything. I’m sure there are themes I keep coming back to, character types I deal with in different ways, but again, that’s probably better discussed by people who aren’t me. How it affects me as a writer is more straight-forward: behave professionally, honour contracts and confidences, meet deadlines and fans, treat everyone with respect, listen to your editor, and don’t be a dick. Those attributes aren’t exclusive to Christianity, or any particular religion, but it keeps me on the straight and narrow.
GD: As well as The White City, you wrote a story which I commissioned for the anthology Improbable Botany, which all being well should be coming out towards the end of the year. I think ‘Shine’ is a really powerful story, with a striking ending. Did you find any particular challenges in crafting botanical SF? Are writers missing a trick not exploring botany more in fiction?
SM: I’m what you’d call a ‘hard’ scientist: a first degree in geology and a PhD in planetary geophysics, so there’s been a lot of inorganic chemistry and physics along the way. The only biology has really been taxonomy of fossils—and plants don’t have too many hard parts to preserve. It’s been a slow realisation—not just through gardening, but generally paying attention—that plant life dominates the biosphere to an incredible degree. If we find basic life somewhere, it’s going to be an algae analogue.
Writing an SF story where plants were a significant factor in the plot has been part of a natural progression, but it’s one which, yes, a lot of writers ignore, and I did it myself. But there’s no excuse: The Martian, with its potato-based heroics, John Wyndham’s Triffids (and Lichen), Christopher’s Death of Grass, and Wells’ red weed (from The War of the Worlds) are all examples of SF botany done well. Any terraforming attempt will have atmosphere modification by plants as virtually top priority. Plants supply building materials, medicines, food, clothing, air ... yes. More plants.
GD: Finally, what’s next? Presumably at least one more Down novel, but do you have any other works in progress that we’ll be reading in the next two or three years? Or is it too early to say yet where your imagination might take you?
SM: I’ve finished works aplenty looking for homes—Petrovitch 5 is waiting for contractual wranglings to be settled—and other novel-length works doing the usual rounds. After Down 3, I’ve several other things I’d like to write, but some of that’s dependent on what publishers want. I’m also doing on spec work—I’ve just sold a novella to Ian Whaite’s NewCon Press I’m very happy with, as it’s proper old school deep space SF, and I’m half-way through what will probably be a novel-length standalone work, about a little robot probe exploring a huge new planet: ours.
Noise and Sparks 2: You Have to Live
Ruth EJ Booth
“You have to live,” he’d said.
I recall this in the refuge of my study; but, out of the door behind me, waits chaos. Paper and stationery, plates and glass knick-knacks, laundry, books, electrical whoozits and whatsits, all gathered into higgledy heaps and ill-fitted boxstacks; as if freeze-framed in some strangely organized game of Katamari Damacy. I’m moving, and it could be the biggest mistake of my life.
The decision itself was startlingly easy, but recently, it’s gained a foreboding weight. This doesn’t feel right. It seems selfish to leave a life that’s supported me for half a decade for something that might make me happier, but is, unquestionably, much less secure. Even if this works out, it’ll mean less time for my writing—my passion; my cherished bolt-hole when the world gets too, too much. Half the reason I’m writing this column right now is so I don’t have to think about all the clearing and packing still left to do.
So much rests on what’s to come. Yet I’ve no compass for what I’m about to do; no plan should it all fall apart. Frankly, I’m terrified. It’s not a decision I’d have made six years ago. But then, writing SF wasn’t part of the plan either.
Fiction found me when I most needed it, bubbling up under the surface of a bunch of shitty, directionless years, and a chance taken on a local writing class. Its discovery was a revelation, a relief I could feel this exhilarated about something again; regret, for years spent without. So this was how it felt to be truly passionate about something … I threw myself into it, heart and soul. Those moments when you barely feel the keyboard or the pen on paper for what’s flowing through your fingertips, I lived for them like I’d nothing else. When people talk about what makes a writer, that feeling of flow is the closest I’ve found to an answer. And if there’s any great secret to writing, it can only be this—to find that feeling, and chase it for the rest of your days.
But what do you do when that isn’t enough anymore?
*
The realization can be a horrifically lonely one. Oftentimes, you only admit the truth to yourself when it starts affecting your writing, pushing at the edge of thought, intruder in your idyll. This hurts. You have reading, and you have movies, and games, but as a break turns into something longer, when it’s clear it’s not just a case of painting the house for a few weeks, the loss of flow—at best, the sense that writing is tainted—is hard to accept.
If admitting it to yourself is difficult, telling others is much harder, especially other writers. Creative people can be amongst the most supportive, welcoming souls you will ever meet. If you’re lucky, you’ll count some amongst your most treasured friends. To admit that what binds you together doesn’t make you happy anymore can feel tantamount to losing your tribe.
Worst of all is the sense of inadequacy you’re left with. Because … this should be enough, shouldn’t it? The defining feature of an artist is love for their art. And despite the difficulties of creative life, that love should anchor them against any storm. To keep creating in trying circumstances is ennobling—romantic even. A sign of dedication to your art. Right?
So you pretend everything is fine. Hide behind the door, while your problems pile up outside. Bury yourself in so-called dedication to the work. Drive yourself on, even as that dedication becomes a sacrifice, your health and well-being for your fears. It’s a dangerous, and ultimately self-destructive mindset—one that can be astonishingly difficult to get out of.
*
In her recent column on supporting a creative career1, Zen Cho suggests any job you do alongside writing should not only keep you fed, but also stimulated, in terms of your mind and your social life. This makes sense—you can’t write about people if you never spend time with them. Nor can you write if you’re too tired, or too bored to think. Cho admits it’s tricky to find all this in one job, but urges “if you’re serious about writing, it’s worth thinking about how you can arrange your life to support [that].”
But note these aren’t just things you need to write. They’re things you need to be fulfilled as a human being. And I don’t think that’s a coincidence.
Stories mean different things to different people, but at their core, they’re about exploring what it means to be human—how we interact with each other, with ourselves, and the world around us. If we never allow ourselves to be human, how can we write stories that truly resonate with people at this fundamental level?
You have to live.
By the time you read this, I’ll have started a Masters degree in Glasgow. It is, by all accounts, a supremely idiotic move on my part. I’m in my thirties. I don’t have much money. I’m starting a career dependent on international funding and cross-border research just as our government is dissolving its strongest overseas partnership. There’s probably not been a worse time to start an academic career since the advent of World War II.
And I can’t remember the last time I felt this happy about where my life is going.
The odd thing is, I have writing to thank for this decision. Not just for being a bellwether for the issues in my life. If fiction hadn’t come along, perhaps I never would’ve realized I could be happier. The loss that followed now seems like the next step in my relationship with the craft. If discovering your passion for writing is like the first flush of love, then this is the subsequent realization: that love isn’t the answer to your problems, just the start of a bunch of new and much more interesting ones.
It’ll be a challenge. I don’t expect the guilt to just vanish. But when I think about the reasons why I’m doing this—to exercise my brain, be with good people, and work in a vibrant, creative community—I’ll remember why making this decision was so easy. I won’t lose writing—it’ll just be another part of a well-rounded life.
Daniel José Older, in his seminal essay about the myth of writing every day2, states that shame is the biggest enemy of creativity. “Beginning with forgiveness,” he says, “revolutionizes the writing process, returns it being to a journey of creativity rather than an exercise in self-flagellation. I forgive myself for not sitting down to write sooner … for living my life … My body unclenches; a new lightness takes over once that burden has floated off. There is room, now, for story, idea, life.”
So, for now, I’ll start by forgiving myself. I’ll allow myself the need to be more than just a writer. After all, I have to live.
1. Zen Cho – ‘5 Things for Writers to Look for in a Day Job.’ http://www.writersdigest.com/editor-blogs/guide-to-literary-agents/5-things-for-writers-to-look-for-in-a-day-job
shortened address: http://tinyurl.com/soi5c
2. Daniel José Older ‘Writing Begins with Forgiveness: Why One of the Most Common Pieces of Writing Advice is Wrong.’ http://sevenscribes.com/writing-begins-with-forgiveness-why-one-of-the-most-common-pieces-of-writing-advice-is-wrong/
shortened address: http://tinyurl.com/soi5b
Ruth EJ Booth is a writer living in Glasgow. In 2015, she won the BSFA Award for Short Fiction. For more of her non-fiction, stories and poetry, head to www.ruthbooth.com
Reviews
The 1000 Year Reich
Ian Watson
NEWCON Press, 248 pages
Review: Ian Hunter
By my reckoning, Ian Watson has published over 30 novels since his first, The Embedding appeared way back in 1973. Now he has a baker’s dozen of short story collections. The 1000 Year Reich containing 18 stories (although one of them is co-written by Watson and Roberto Quaglia) and starts with an introduction by Justina Robson. She recounts being a judge for the Arthur C. Clarke award back in 2005 when she began reading Watson’s novel Mockymen and had to put it down and ask herself, “what is this?”
Actually, it was a novel about Nazi occult practises, nude photography and alien invasion, though even that description probably doesn’t do the novel justice. Likewise, The 1000 Year Reich is a cornucopia of delights ranging from stories about space marines (Watson has some “previous” with Warhammer and their own space marine titles back in the day) to weird science to alternative realities and even a story that was originally published in The Mammoth Book of Erotic Romance and Domination. Fifteen of the stories have appeared elsewhere in the last five years, but there are three new 2016 stories original to this collection including “In Golden Armour” and “The Wild Pig’s Collar.”
