Is All Sci-Fi Unbelievable?

Recently, a LinkedIn sci-fi writing group to which I belong posed an important question to its group members. That question was, What comprises believable science fiction writing? I contributed to the discussion (of course!), but I also took a moment to scribble out a longer response to a broader form of the question:

“I think that the problem with the question, ‘What comprises believable writing?’ lies in word choice. ‘Believable’ is perhaps not as accurate as ‘logical.’ We, as readers, should never believe everything we read or hear – not even non-fiction. We should constantly be dissecting and digging into the plot, even of a newspaper article or a historical biography because every author has a bias that is already trapped inside the pages of their works.

The questions in this context really are, Is this author’s train of thought logical according to what I know about the book/genre/style/plot? Are this author’s characters behaving logically according to what I know about them as people, creatures, aliens, etc.? Does the situation logically develop from the premise? ‘According to what I know’ is another important phrase here. Sometimes the plot/character/situation is logical… just not based on the information that the author has provided for us up to this point in the story. Other times, the plot/character/situation is not logical in the real world, but it is perfectly logical within the world that the author is presenting.  

Another very important question also rises in this context: if the plot/character/situation is not developing in a logical manner currently, we must ask ourselves as readers if we are willing to wait until the author provides us with a sufficient motivation within the story for the illogical plot/character/situation.

This question is the critical point where we all differ as readers; we all have a different definition of what “sufficient motivation” really is. We all disagree on the point at which the author ‘proves’ the plot/character/situation is actually logical/worth reading. That is the reason why some readers can be content with never finishing a story and other readers didn't even stop to eat or drink while reading the same story.

However, I think that if we apply these kinds of reader questions (good readers should constantly be asking questions of themselves and of the story) to our personal writing and editing, we can use the answers and the knowledge gained in the creation of all genres. Ultimately, we want readers to become involved in our writing and be able to follow it, not come to an unhelpful jolt in the middle of our stories. We never want to discourage someone from continuing to read our writings from start to finish.”

What are some other factors which make writing believable or logical? 

Throwing Stones

  

            A few years ago, I was a summer nanny to a talented Vietnamese-American girl. When I say talented, I don’t mean that I just adored her. No. She was talent. Her name was Monica. She spoke Vietnamese and English fluently, and she was taking French in a club. She achieved a red belt in karate, snatched the main role in her dance school’s ballet production, and sat first-chair violinist in her school orchestra. All while earning A’s in school. She was ten.

            “She has study two hours in day.” Monica’s mother explained to me, gathering up her purse and car keys. She closed the door hard behind her.

            “Where does your mother work?” I asked Monica.

            “At a hotel.” She replied, distractedly, flying through division problems. “I’m Monica.”

When I watched Monica pouring over a summer 6^th and 7^th grade math book to prepare for her next two years of math classes in school, I was amazed by her intelligence.

We got along well from the very start. Monica was quiet and studious, and she liked me. She also taught me how to play my first X-Box games, cook Vietnamese food, and draw manga-style. To be honest, she killed me in Black Ops one afternoon as my Vietnamese dumplings over-boiled to an undesirable toughness and my stick-figure drawing littered the floor. I was not talent, but I could recognize it in Monica. I loved being with someone who loved me, taught me patiently, and laughed with me, not at me.

            Her name wasn't really Monica, but a couple weeks passed before I discovered her real name. It was an accident.

One day, when I walked in the door, I heard;

            “N’goc! You get ‘B’ on this computer test! What you do?” And then a long string of Vietnamese that I didn't understand.

            N’goc didn't say anything.

            To me, the name sounded like Njing-up … with a pause and a “ nj” sound that I couldn't quite articulate.

            N’goc didn't talk to me that day. She just practiced her dancing and violin. She had a barre in her room. She put everything on her bed or under her bed, including her music stand and violin, so she could spin around on the hard wood floor. 

Little Monica had many great ambitions … unnaturally great ambitions for someone who was ten. I asked her one day what she wanted to become, expecting a musician, a teacher or a dance instructor based on the things that she so obviously loved.

            Monica put down her sandwich, and said clearly;

            “I want to study medicine and be a heart surgeon.”

            I could barely keep from choking on my pickle. “Uh, wwwhy?”

            She shrugged. “It pays good. I mean, well. It pays well.”

            I started to wonder how many people liked to make money off of the heart problems of others. 

            One day, Monica announced to me that she was taking piano lessons. I guess she was pleased because she spent the whole afternoon listening to classical piano CDs.

            Only a week later, a piano arrived at the house.

            “You dad work hard to buy this.” N’goc’s mother warned.

            N’goc just nodded.

            The car keys banged each other and the door slammed.

            “N’goc, what a gorgeous piano!” I exclaimed.

            “Please don’t call me that.”

            “Ooo…kay.”

            But the piano wasn't such a positive addition to our summer.

            A stormy Monday made me rush out of my house earlier than normal. I always walked to Monica’s home, so this morning, I was forced to watch for a break in the rain and run.

            When I slogged in the door and wrung my hair out on the hard wood floor, N’goc’s mother was yelling at her daughter in Vietnamese. N’goc was attempting to play a song I didn't know … I heard skin on skin – a slap.

 Ignoring my dripping face, I charged into the living room. I saw N’goc’s mother pull her hand back from N’goc’s face and snatch her purse. She left, slamming the door behind her.

            “Are you…”  

            “I’m fine.” N’goc never let me finish.

            “But the piano…”

            N’goc sucked in a breath. “I’m just stupid. That’s all.” She said. “I need to practice more.” She launched into a clumsy series of scales.

            I went into the hallway, dropped my purse, and kicked the door. The child had been playing piano for two weeks!

            As the summer passed, I tried to think of more fun things that N’goc and I could do together. I realized that she didn’t go outside often. In a rush of inspiration, I bought us day passes to the zoo which was just down the street.

            “We’re going to go to the zoo today.” I announced to N’goc’s mother.

            She frowned. “She behind on homework.”

            Behind on advanced extra-curricular homework. In the summer.

            “Well, I already bought day passes. I worked hard to buy them.” I explained.

            N’goc’s mother kept frowning and left. The closed door shook the house.

Monica started jumping up and down.

            I laughed.

            At the zoo, we dashed around, taking pictures and using binoculars to see the animals up close. Monica insisted on reading all the animal descriptions and commenting on them. I couldn't remember being that eager to read about the life span and environment of a hippopotamus when I’d visited the zoo as a child … but then, I hadn't grasped the full concepts of reading until I was almost nine so my tenth year didn't see me thrilled to pick up biology books. I was a stupid child…   

            Later, I bought her a hot dog slathered with chili and a cup of iced lemonade. We sat in the shade and ate and talked.

            Suddenly, Monica stood up and jammed the rest of her hot dog in her mouth. She picked up a stone and threw it. Hard.

            “Monica, what…?” I began. My eyes, following the rock, saw it strike a peacock in his indigo breast. “Monica! Don’t do that!”

            The peacock wobbled a little and minced a few steps away, looking about quickly with his bright eyes.

            To my horror, Monica launched back and flung a second stone. This time, I grabbed her arm;

            “Monica, stop, okay?”

            Monica pulled away from me. “Come on, who comes to the zoo without a picture of the peacock’s feathers? It needs to be a perfect day.” She aimed another stone. I grabbed for her arm again, but she was too quick. The stone hit its mark and the peacock fluttered, running.

            “Monica, if you do that again, we’re going to leave!” I said. The situation was escaping my control.

            “But he needs to show me his feathers!” Monica insisted. Her fingers scrabbled for another stone. “He runs a little, but all he does is drag his gorgeous tail in the dirt. I want to see it!”

            I inhaled sharply and took N’goc’s hand gently, uncurling her tight fingers. She fought against me. I took the rock out of her palm. I looked her in the eye, and I said;

            “N’goc, we never throw stones to get what we want.”  

             N’goc’s eyes narrowed angrily. “It’s not fair! Everyone else has pictures of peacock’s feathers!” She crossed her arms and pulled her knees into her chest. One tear ran down her face.

            I reached out to wipe it away. N’goc turned and shrugged her body away from me. The tear fell, beyond my reach.