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Science fiction. What does that term actually mean?
Let’s take the last part first. Fiction. That means it’s made up, a story that never happened (or hasn’t happened yet). In theory, no options are off the table. The writer has total freedom, can make up whatever they want.
But good fiction needs to feel real. The characters have to behave in ways that, even if not predictable, are human. When things happen, there has to be some kind of logical reason. When characters use objects, those objects have to behave in reasonable ways.
So what about the ‘science’ part of the name? Science fiction is (usually) centred on some kind of science or technology, or exists in a world where science and technology are important. And that science, no matter how outlandish, needs to make some kind of sense. If it doesn’t, we’re in the realm of magic.
There’s a thin line, though. Take the force in Star Wars. There might have been some attempts to explain this with science, but it acts very much like a magic system. Then consider one of Arthur C Clarke’s ‘laws’ — that any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic. Current Internet technology would seem like magic to someone from a few hundred years ago. So if I’m writing a space opera series set hundreds or thousands of years in the future, there will most likely be technologies that seem like magic, as well as technologies I can’t even begin to imagine.
But I’m writing fiction, and I want readers to enjoy and engage with it. So these technologies need to feel plausible. If the technologies don’t yet exist, I need to write about them in a way that makes them at least seem possible.
This limits that freedom I mentioned earlier. But when it comes to writing, limits can be (are?) important. Have too much freedom, and there are too many possibilities. Setting limits helps focus the mind.
One thing I need to consider in my new series is space travel. I have humanity spreading across the galaxy. That means people need to travel vast distances. Our current understanding says that nothing can travel faster than light, so travel to even the nearest stars would take years, even lifetimes.
There are various ways to deal with this. One is to have passengers on space-going vessels hibernation, with the ship waking them when they near their destination. Another alternative is to have some kind of way of ‘skipping’ through space — hyperspace travel, wormholes, and so on.
I’m going to use the second alternative. I don’t want hyper-drives that can throw craft around the galaxy as easily as they can travel from a moon to its parent planet. That almost feels like cheating. Instead, I’m going to have ‘gates’ in various locations, with the ability (the technology and the science) for anything entering one gate to emerge at another almost instantly, even though the gates are light years apart.
But how did these gates get there? If these gates are some kind of hyper-space doorways, who set the doors in place?
My solution is to have vast generation ships travelling to distant stars. These city-sized ships take lifetimes to make their journeys, and there’s no hibernation. Those who board the ship when it sets off will never see the destination, dying out long before the ship arrives.
As these generation ships cross the void between stars they create and drop off gates, enabling those in their wake to skip across the vast distances.
But what about those who live on these ships? For them, the journey is their life. For them, the ship isn’t a means to an end but a home.
The more I considered this, the more involved the whole thing grew.
If conditions on these generations ships were perfect, then the passengers (or those who call the ship home) wouldn’t want for anything. But is that a good thing? If the purpose of these ships is to seed distant planets, and these planets are going to need work (terraforming) before they can independently sustain human life, then those who colonise these new worlds will need to be tough. They’ll need to be adaptable and strong — physically, mentally and emotionally. People who have existed in an environment that provides all they need would most likely be weak. They’d expect things to work out. They wouldn’t be used to struggle.
So in my series, life on these generation ships will be tough. Some will have it easy, but others will struggle. While the ships won’t want to kill off their passengers (the ‘seeds’ for the new worlds), they won’t make things easy. There will be crime, and pain, and death. The ships will contain environments that force the occupants to push themselves, to adapt and grow.
Which leads to more thoughts. Imagine a generation ship travelling for thousands of years. Now think of how much has changed on Earth in the last millennia. There have been wars and unrest, along with periods of peace. There has been turmoil. How much of this would (could) these generation ships endure?
So it makes sense to have an overseer. But who? Is this a group of people — and if so, would they have the same problems the rest of the passengers have? Or is the controlling force some kind of machine sentience?
And what about the gates? Who controls them? If a gate fails, what happens? Every possible solution to these questions leads to more alternatives.
But I have to think about these things. If I have this gate technology in my series, and if I have these generation ships, then I have to make sure they seem real. I have to consider how their existence would effect people, as individuals and as societies.
And isn’t that one of the fascinating things about science fiction? It enables us to play with possibilities. It enables us to posit these questions, even if we can’t settle on any firm answers.
This is science fiction. It isn’t about fact, but about asking ‘what if…?’ It’s about extrapolating what we currently know and seeing where it might end up.
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Stephen King famously said that if you don’t have time to read, you don’t have the time (or the tools) to write. Especially in fiction, reading is a prerequisite to writing. How can you learn good writing and good story-telling if you don’t consume stories? How can you understand how words work if you don’t read?
There are different ways to read, and there are different genres. If I’m writing science fiction, specifically space opera, it helps to know what other writers are doing in this area. So I’ve built up a collection of space opera on my Kindle. Some are classics, like Asimov’s Foundation series. Some are more contemporary, such as James SA Corey’s Expanse series. I have older books I haven’t yet read (I’ve only got through a few of EE Doc Smith’s Lensmen books so far), and others I’ve read multiple times (including most of Iain M Banks’ Culture novels). I have long-running series and I have stand-alones.
Through reading these books, I’ve learnt not only what is considered standard for the genre but also what I enjoy — and what I don’t. Reading The Expanse showed me that while I like action, too much wears me down, and that I enjoy storylines with political intrigue. I’ve learnt that a big set-up needs a big pay-off, and that I can’t rush the ending. Where action is concerned, I prefer a few well-placed set pieces rather than a constant rush of adrenaline.
I’ve also come to realise that I like my sci-fi to have some kind of basis in real science, but not so much that I feel like I’m reading a text-book. It’s why I prefer space opera to hard sci-fi (although both subgenres have classics worth reading as well as books that, quite frankly, read more like first drafts).
But science fiction is predominantly a setting. I aim to write character-driven stories, and they exist in every genre. So I read widely. Thrillers are great for learning pacing, mysteries show me how to reveal facts and present clues. Dramas and romance stories focus on human interactions, and there is so much I can draw from them.
One of the story arcs in my new series will (hopefully) have a detective noir vibe, so I’ve been devouring books in this genre. I still have a few Raymond Chandler novels left to read, but those I’ve got through so far have been very instructive. I admire how the dialogue drives not only the plot but also the in-scene action. While the slang is dated, the way Chandler uses it is something I can adapt to my own writing.
The use of dialogue is an interesting point here. My main character in my story arc is introspective, something of a loner. But I didn’t want pages of internal thinking. My solution? The character now has an advanced (because this is far-future) AI assistant, in effect an internal character, and he talks through his problems with her.
My series deals with situations that affect many planets, so I have a kind of galaxy-wide government. Obviously, there’s going to be intrigue here, with different characters coming into conflict through differing objectives and motivations. I’m drawn to ideas of where power is held — not in the figurehead at the top, but in those below the surface, the schemers and the manipulators. Michael Dobbs’ House Of Cards books have been an inspiration here.
So far I’ve focused on story and plot, but what about the writing itself? I enjoy (some) literary fiction — although that’s a very broad label/genre, and there is excellent literary writing in every genre. When I read a well-written book now, I find myself picking up on things the author’s done with language, how they describe things, how they use words for different effects.
I also read books that are — how can I put this diplomatically? — in need of more work. These aren’t necessarily ‘bad’ books, because different readers seek different things from their stories. It’s possible to overlook clunky writing if the story or characters are engaging.
Books like these also serve as encouragement, especially when I’m struggling with my own writing. There always comes a point (sometimes multiple points) when I feel that my writing isn’t going anywhere. The story veers away from the plot. I don’t feel I have the characters right. It becomes a chore to get words on the page.
At times like this, I have to trust that things will improve — see my last post on ‘trusting the spiral’ for more on this. I have to remind myself that this is the vomit draft — get the words out, knowing that they’ll stink. It can all be improved in the edit.
And read books I don’t consider well-written. This helps give me a boost of confidence. Also, as I read, the writer part of my brain starts ‘solving’ the book’s problems. I might read a line of dialogue and imagine how I’d change it to be more forceful or to feel more realistic. If I read a bland description (rather than skimming over it — always a temptation when the book isn’t holding my attention) I’ll look for ways to make it relevant to the character or the situation, ways to engage all the senses, or ways to tighten the prose.
This feeds back into my own writing. It gives me confidence.
It can also remind me that good writing isn’t everything. As I said earlier, these books aren’t ‘bad’. Others enjoy them, despite the less-than-stellar writing. Books like these remind me that story and character are vital.
Writing involves so many strands, and so it’s important that I read widely, and with intention.
There’s another area of reading, one I haven’t mentioned yet. That’s reading for information — what’s often referred to as ‘research’. But that’s a topic for next time.
This is part of a series of posts documenting the writing of a new space opera series. They originally appear on my Substack, which is free to sign up to. So if you want to read each installment when it comes out (a few days earlier than they appear on this website), and delivered to your in-box, click here.
I used to think that the process of writing was easy, even if the writing itself was hard. Start with an idea. This becomes a plan. Then, write the story according to that plan. There might be some errors, so do a quick check (called ‘editing’). And that was it. A straight line, from idea to completed story.
Oh, how naive I was.
The basic premise — plan, write, edit — is sound, but the practice is far more complicated. I now see that the process of writing isn’t linear but is more of a spiral.
I like the idea of having a plan before I pull up a blank page and start writing. I need to know where I’m going. But with experience I’ve learnt that no plan remains intact once I start typing. Characters say and do things I didn’t expect. I spot things in my planning that make no sense. I’ll thrown in a bit of world-building, or a throwaway phrase, and it’ll spark ideas that could improve the story.
I usually push through with the first draft. If I back-tracked for every new idea I’d never reach the end. But when I have that first draft I do my first major edit, focusing on the story.
And this is where I pick up more problems. I work through them, improving the overall story. I take a step back and return to my planning, checking these alterations work, making sure character arcs are intact and so on. And then I return to writing.
Some scenes only need tweaking. Others have to be put aside (not deleted, because I might be able to use them later). Still more have to be written from scratch.
And after all that, with this new draft, it’s back into editing. And repeat, however many times is necessary. Not a circle, but a spiral, each time drawing closer to that elusive goal of a perfect story.
How many times do I need to repeat this process? That depends on the story. Shorter works usually require less work. Sometimes the original plan only needs tweaking. For other stories the final product is totally different to that plan.
Take ShadowSiege, the second book in my Shadows trilogy. I thought that book was coming along well, and I’d reached what I imagined would be my final edit. But in re-reading the story I felt uneasy. It wasn’t working. There were major problems with it.
To correct these problems I had to practically re-write the whole book. Frustrating, but if I hadn’t done the work the book would’ve been so much weaker, leaving me struggling even more when it acme to the final book in the trilogy.
But I’m supposed to be documenting my work on this new space opera series. Why am I mentioning editing when I’m only in the planning stage?
The answer? Because knowing the process is a spiral and not a straight line gives me freedom.
Planning can be tricky. There might be moments when ideas flow, but there’s a great deal of hard slog. I’ve realised that I eventually reach a point where I’m barely tweaking anything, where I seem to hit a wall. Usually, I have a lot of scenes planned in detail (the major ones), but I have a lot of scenes where I know what needs to happen but I don’t know how.
Once this happens, I remind myself of that spiral. The plan will change, so it doesn’t have to be ‘perfect’. As long as I have an outline, I’m good to go.
I’ve reached that point with the first book in this new series. So I’ve fired up Scrivener, opened my planning in one window and a blank page in the other, and started writing.
In an earlier post I mentioned the plotter/pantser dichotomy — writers either plan before writing, or write to discover the plan — and how most writers sit somewhere between these extremes. In my process I have some form of a plan when I start writing, and this helps me get going. But I don’t know everything. Especially when I’m working in a new story-universe, with new characters and cultures and technology, I can’t know everything ahead of time. I have to write to sink into this universe, to learn what makes my characters tic, how their societies function, how they interact with technology. And the plot (the story) can only develop once I have a better understanding of these things.
I have the formality and structure of a plan, but I also have the freedom to discover as I go. It’s a journey.
And already things are changing. I think one of my characters’ arcs is going to totally change. There are minor characters who, as I’ve been writing, seem to be taking on more importance.
I’m also uncovering themes. I’ll return to this in the future (theme is an important area, and it’s something that I’m constantly learning about).
And if the story becomes a mess? It doesn’t matter, because there’s always editing. Then amending planning, then re-writing. I could start worrying that everything’s going wrong, but I prefer to trust the spiral.
Writing and reading are about communication. The writer imagines a story. They transform their ideas into words. The reader takes in these words and reconstructs the events the writer imagined.
But it’s not an exact process. A reader will ‘see’ things very differently from the writer. Even if the writer includes detailed descriptions they can’t cover everything. And that’s before we get onto other senses — the sounds and smells of a scene, the sensations on the skin, the internal emotions, the taste of food and drink.
So much of both reading and writing relies on imagination. And everyone has their own way of imagining things.
I’m not particularly visual in my imagination. When I read, I have only a vague internal image of the characters. It’s the same when I write. I focus more on the characters’ internal lives. I might have a rough sketch of each character — sex, age, size, maybe one or two distinguishing features. But beyond that, nothing.
But if I want this new series to be character-driven, I need to know the characters in more detail. In order to bring them alive on the page I need to ‘see’ them.
Some writers use images of famous actors playing particular roles. I don’t watch much (anything?) now. But I like the idea of having some kind of visual representation.
So I’ve turned to AI.
I’ve been dabbling with NightCafe for AI image creation for a while now, so I started prompting it to give me potential images of my characters. It’s not an exact science, though. I’m sure the AI sometimes ignores words in the prompt. It seems to have a bias for males with facial hair, and even when I include phrases such as ‘clean shaven’ or ‘no beard’ or ‘smooth chin’ it still comes up with stubble and beards.
But I’ve persevered, altering settings and adjusting prompts. I’ve gone through all the images NightCafe provided, looking for those that I feel best fit the vague characters in my head.
Let’s have an example, a character called Norm. He’s a part of a small crew on a spacecraft. Norm’s the mechanic, happiest when he’s prodding around behind an open panel, screwdriver and spanner to hand. He’s also a fantastic cook. His crew-mates tell him he could easily become a top chef, but for him, cooking’s a hobby. And a way of interacting with the rest of the crew (he’s not the most gregarious of characters).
There’s a downtrodden edge to him. Older than the rest of the crew, he’s had a ‘normal’ life, but he’s ended up on his own, down on his luck. He’s let himself go physically.
But he’s happy on the craft. It feels like a home of sorts.
After a lot of trial and error, here’s the image I selected for Norm.
The look of this character seems to fit my idea of Norm. There are subtle things in the image that add to his character, like the straps over his shoulders. They’re grimy, through a combination of neglect and grease or oil. They suit his character.
Let’s have a look at another member of the crew. Chelle is young. She comes from a good background, but she’s rebelled, to the point where she’s turned her back on her family and ‘run away with a degenerate bunch of ruffians’. She has a sharp tongue, and isn’t afraid to say what she thinks. She’s also very intelligent.
Take a look at Chelle:
My understanding of this kind of AI is that it draws from a large pool of source material. The larger this pool, the greater the variety the AI can analyse. But if there are any biases within this source material the AI will, naturally, replicate it.
I assume that’s why the AIs used in NightCafe tend to default to white characters.
I rarely (if ever) ‘see’ my characters as being a particular colour or from a particular ethnicity. In this new series, humanity has spread to the stars. I can’t see that happening unless different countries work together, so I’m assuming a lot of integration. But as humanity settles on new planets, new moons, and in craft that are in effect drifting cities, the old prejudices and cliques will be replaced by new ones. As generations adapt to slightly different gravitational or atmospheric conditions evolution will push different groups into new areas. Add to this biological and genetic manipulation through technology, and our current ideas of ethnicity will become ancient history.
This is a long-winded way of saying that, in the galaxy of this new series, it doesn’t matter what colour someone is.
However, I still need diverse characters. And if the AI keeps giving me white characters, it isn’t helping. So, to force some variety, I’ve experimented by adding prompt terms related to colour and ethnicity. Not because I ‘see’ characters as coming from a particular country or group of people, but because I want variety. Seeing an image that is ‘different’ to my (biased) perceived ‘normal’ will be a reminder that my characters come from different planets, from different groups of people.
For Chelle, the images NightCafe gave me only started to feel right when I added ‘Asian’ to the prompt. After quite a few that didn’t hit the mark I settled on the one above. From this image I can imagine a younger Chelle, with ‘perfect’ hair (before she cut it and let it do whatever it wanted). I can imagine her using make-up as her culture deemed normal, before she let her internal character show in a more natural look.
There’s also a combination of toughness and vulnerability in this image. It reminds me that, for all her insults and tough attitude, Chelle is still discovering who she is. In many ways her attitude is a way of hiding, or a way of coping with a universe she isn’t quite ready for.
As with the uncertainty and the down-trodden look in Norm’s image, Chelle’s image opens up the possibility of changes throughout the series. Neither of these characters are one-dimensional. They’re going to grow. While I ‘know’ that from the way I’ve imagined these characters, seeing these images reinforces that for me. These images provide a reference, something I can look at as I write, reminders that these characters are ‘real’.
It doesn’t matter if readers ‘see’ Chelle and Norm in the same way I do, or if their internal images are nothing like these AI images. Readers need to engage with the characters, and that only truly happens when the characters feel ‘real’. To make this happen, I have to write about ‘real’ characters — not ideas of what a character might be, but characters who are flesh and blood, characters who exist. These images, and the images I’ve come up with for other characters, are going to help immensely in this.
Of course, there’s far more to writing than imagining realistic characters. But a story, let alone a series, isn’t created in a single step. Next time, I’ll talk about another aspect of this project, another step in the realisation of my ideas.
This is part of an on-going series of posts documenting my work on a new space-opera. If you’d like to get early access to these posts you can do so by subscribing to my Substack for free.
So, I know I want to focus on characters in this series. I have ideas for the main thrust of the story (the overarching plot), but before I start writing I want to plan. And for that, I want some kind of framework.
The vast majority of stories (especially successful, memorable ones) conform to a structure. There are many such structures, but one of the most popular is the hero’s journey. This originated from Joseph Campbell’s work on myths and folk-tales. He uncovered certain core similarities between most of these tales. He called this the ‘monomyth’, and it later became known as the hero’s journey.
George Lucas was heavily influenced by Campbell when he wrote Star Wars. Luke Skywalker’s arc in that film is one of the classic hero’s journey retellings.
But not every great story conforms to the hero’s journey. There are other structures.
Back at the start of 2021, one of the many podcasts I listen to, KM Weiland’s Helping Writers Become Authors, ran a whole series on character arcs. Weiland identified six core, sequential arcs, roughly mapping a life from ‘maiden’, then ‘hero’, and through to ‘mage’. Only when a character successfully negotiated one arc, she argued, could they progress to the next.
As I listened ideas started to develop.
Between each of these arcs are ‘resting’ arcs, where the character’s actions are more focused on helping others work through their own arcs. They became supporting characters in stories focused on others.
There are also negative arcs. These happen when a character becomes stuck at the low-point in a positive arc, unable to progress from this dark point. So a potential hero who backs out when the going gets too tough can fall into the negative arc of the cowards. Or if the potential hero doesn’t develop the necessary humility (if they believe too strongly in their own abilities) they can become a bully.
Not many stories focus on negative arcs (because we tend to prefer stories with happy, positive endings) but there are some classic negative arc stories. One that springs to mind is The Godfather, where Michael Corleone, despite never wanting to become like his father, eventually succumbs to a similar ruthlessness to keep his family safe. Or, turning back to Star Wars, consider Anakin Skywalker’s metamorphosis into Darth Vader.
And, in The Return Of The Jedi, Darth Vader gets a moment of redemption. His negative arc is reversed. There is always hope.
One thing that struck me was how a negative arc isn’t about a wilful desire to do bad things. It’s a downward spiral, or a weakness, or a misguided belief. It reminded me of something I’d heard many years ago — the villain is always the hero of their own story.
There are so many examples of this. Consider the minor conflicts between parents and teenagers, the desire to protect on one side and the yearning to experience on the other. Or go large (which I need to if I’m writing space opera). Think of political differences in so many countries. Think of conflicts between countries, between different groups within geographical areas. Each side believes itself to be in the right, their actions justified.
It’s not about simple right or wrong anymore, much as we’d like it to be.
Now consider a leader’s actions.’ Do they act to retain the status quo, or to usher in what they believe to be a much-needed change? Are they being poorly advised, either through malicious intent or through misinformation? Are they struggling with tensions between personal desires and the necessities of their office?
Let’s take a step back and return to my planning. I have a central story idea, a dilemma that has the potential to totally alter the course of humanity’s future. But, at least at the start, the exact nature is ambiguous. Different characters are going to have different views on it, and these views are going to influence their actions. These differences will lead to conflicts.
At the same time, my characters are all going through their individual arcs, battling situations that might only be tangentially related to the central thrust of the series. They’ll be pulled in different directions, forced to make hard decisions and accept compromise — or accept the consequences of rejecting compromise.
As I plan this series, I can use the character arcs Weiland identified. Some will keep to their positive arcs, others will fall into negative arcs (possibly to pull themselves back onto the positive path later on). There won’t be ‘good’ or ‘bad’ characters, only a cast of characters all trying to do the right thing, or at least doing the only thing they believe they can.
So I can construct a framework out of these arcs, giving the series (and individual book) structure. I can build the plot around that structure, confident that the heart of the overarching story will be the characters.
The next stage is getting to know those characters. More on that next time.
And if you’re interested in learning more about KM Weiland’s character arcs, click here.
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It’s often said that there are two types of writers. The plotter plans everything out in advance. They know exactly what’s going to happen before they begin to write their first draft. In contrast, the discovery writer (or pantser) gets an idea and starts to write, developing the story as they go.
In truth, most writers are somewhere between these extremes. I prefer planning first, but from experience I know that the story will change as I write it. I’ll see how my planning doesn’t quite work, or I’ll figure out an alternative path for the story. Sometimes I’ll write an off-the-cuff comment (maybe something a character says or a throw-away piece of world-building) and my mind will run with this, changing huge sections of the book.
With this new project, I want a large-scale story (a space-opera with multiple main characters and events happening across different planets and spacecraft). Before I start writing I want to have a coherent idea of where the story is going.
And to plan this I need to know what kind of story I want to tell.
Taking another step back, I need to understand what I enjoy in both reading and writing. What draws me to a book? And (more importantly) what keeps me reading?
Another way of approaching this — what makes me want to stop reading?
I almost always finish reading a book once I’ve started, even if I’m not enjoying it. Sometimes I’ll find something in the characters or the story that intrigues me enough to continue through poor writing. Sometimes I’ll tell myself the book will get better (note to self: it rarely does). At other times I’ll use it as training, examining why I’m no longer engaged with the book.
But there have been times I’ve given up on books part way through. On the few occasions this has happened, it’s always been because I no longer cared what happened to any of the characters.
This tells me something about my reading habits. I might be drawn to a book by an intriguing set-up or concept, but it’s the characters that keep me reading.
It’s similar in my writing. Some of my most memorable times writing have been when I’ve been putting characters through emotionally hard times.
I’ll give you an example. In my Dominions series, I knew I wanted to put the main character in a position where, whatever choice he made, someone important to him would die. He couldn’t save them both, no matter how much he wanted to. I wasn’t going to let him suddenly find a way to get around the problem — this decision would have a serious impact not only on the story but also on the character.
And it’s that impact that was important. My character’s decision influenced the plot in key ways, ultimately influencing the way the whole series concluded.
So this choice was a plot moment, but it was also a very important character moment.
I’ve thought on this a great deal, and I’ve come to view story as the interplay between plot and character. Plot is the stuff that happens. I can describe a plot by saying ‘this happens and then this happens and then this happens’. It’s a list of events. But they don’t become a story until I introduce characters. These characters have to interact with the plot, reacting to these events, making decisions that influence future events.
If plot is ‘stuff that happens’, then the characters are the ones that let the reader experience that stuff. The plot only has meaning when characters are added.
It’s worth saying that these characters have to resonate with the reader, too. They have to be real. They might not all be likeable, but as readers we have to be invested in their arcs, in their growth or their descent.
As I plan this new series, I need to focus on character. Yes, there will be galaxy-spanning events, with the whole of humanity in danger. But if I want to make readers care, I need to show these events through engaging characters. If I want readers to relate to what is happening, I need to use characters to bring these immense events down to a personal level. A huge space battle could be exciting in theory, but put a new recruit in the middle of the battle as they struggle with the loss of their best friend, and now it’s emotional. Now it’s real.
So I have a starting point — characters as the primary focus, reacting to and driving external events. But how do I actually plan anything?
More on that next time.
TW Iain 