Darth Vader, my agent, has often times in the past returned manuscripts to me adorned with reminders that, in plotting, I must stick to the realm of what is possible. ‘I can’t believe this character would say this,’ he might say. He might even object to entire scenes for the same reason.
I wonder how much that has changed, now that Mr. T has become acting president. I imagine myself emailing back to Vader, the next time he waves that ‘this is not believable’ flag. ‘Oh really?’ I can say. ‘Have you turned on your television lately?’
I can write about aliens now. As a matter of fact, I can see the market for stories about aliens growing exponentially, because a lot of the people I talk to seem to be getting really sick of the news, and not because it’s ‘fake,’ either. And I do understand. I find myself holding my tablet, wondering if I really want to turn it on. Do I really want to find out what new insanity has reared its ugly head while I’ve been otherwise engaged? Or maybe I’ll just use the thing for its original purpose, and read a book. About aliens, preferably, or hobbits.
And right about now, writers of dystopian futures must be feeling pretty low. How many manuscripts do you suppose got tossed in the trash in the last month or so? I can hear Vader now. ‘Not weird enough,’ he’ll say. ‘Too believable.’
(Photocredit: Media Cache)