The Fire in Fiction
Page 23
Old Man's War would be a retread of prior SF novels, but Scalzi is not content merely to raise familiar issues. In a deft turn of the plot, Scalzi has John Perry meet his dead wife Jane, now in a young female soldier's body. John Perry now must struggle not to remain human but to escape his humanity and the emotional agony that entails. It is not war that is inhumane in Old Man's War, it is instead being human itself that causes suffering. By the end of the novel John Perry has let his wife go and embraced his identity:
Eventually I asked to go back into combat. It's not that I like combat, although I'm strangely good at it. It's just
that in this life, I am a soldier. It was what I agreed to be and to do. I intended to give it up one day, but until then, I wanted to be on the line. I was given a company and assigned to the Taos. It's where I am now. It's a good ship. I command good soldiers. In this life, you can't ask for much more than that.
That would be a fine and challenging enough conclusion to Old Man's War, but Scalzi then twists the story again in a mental exchange (a ping) between John and his wife that closes the novel:
You once asked me where Special Forces go when we retire, and I told you that I didn't know—she sent. But I do know. We have a place where we can go, if we like, and learn how to be human for the first time. When it's time, I think I'm going to go. I think I want you to join me. You don't have to come. But if you want to, you can. You're one of us, you know.
I paused the message for a minute, and started it up again, when I was ready.
Part of me was once someone you loved—she sent. I think that part of me wants to be loved by you again, and wants me to love you as well. I can't be her. I can just be me. But I think you could love me if you wanted to. I want you to. Come to me when you can. I'll be here.
That was it.
I think back to the day when I stood before my wife's grave for the final time, and turned away from it without regret, because I knew that what she was was not contained in that hole in the ground. I entered a new life and found her again, in a woman who was entirely her own person. When this life is done, I'll turn away from it without regret as well, because I know she waits for me, in another, different life.
I haven't seen her again, but I know I will. Soon. Soon enough.
Old Man's War, then, is not about what it means to be human; it is about what it means to be a soldier. Being human can be set aside; it can also be taken up again. Scalzi's message differs from war is hell. It is also different from the many novels about the silent suffering of veterans after the battle, like Sloan Wilson's The Man in the Gray Flannel Suit (1955). Scalzi is saying that it is important to be a soldier but it is equally important to leave soldiering behind. War doesn't erase humanity, in Scalzi's story; it simply is part of it.
How do the events of your story make your point? Do you even have a point? I believe that you do. How do I know? Because I know that you are not a person lacking principles and void of passion. That isn't possible. You are, after all, writing fiction. That is not an activity taken up by those without a heart. If you know love, if you have lived life, then you have stories in you: stories that are completely yours. For those stories to resonate it is important not to tell them in the same old way that others have.
Think about it. Hackneyed plots and stereotypical characters don't work. We brush them off. Stories that stretch our minds and characters who challenge our view of ourselves ... ah, those are the ones we remember. They are the stuff of which classics are made. So start by making sure that you put yourself into your novel: your views, your hurts, your questions, your convictions, your crazy-weird take on it all. Give all that to your characters or simply give it to yourself when you write. You've kept it inside for too long. It is time to let it out and to let it make a noise.
If you are worried that your plot will feel calculated or contrived to your readers, don't. Actually, the more you let your passionate self inform your novel, the more it will strike your readers with a moral force.
THE FIRE IN FICTION
What is the truth that you most wish the rest of us would see? That is the purpose of your novel. That is your message. I wish more manuscripts had them. A great many do not.
Some bemoan the decline of reading and lament the sad state of contemporary fiction. Are they right? Sometimes I wonder.
Many contemporary novels focus on daughters, journeys home, and the aftermath of significant events. Another trend is to make characters of Jane Austen, Edgar Allan Poe, and Arthur Conan Doyle or to borrow their creations. What has happened to us? Have we lost confidence in our own imaginations? Are we afraid of portraying grand characters and big events? Do we identify only with victims? Is the story of our age no more than a tale of survival?
Perhaps. Contemporary fiction reflects who we are. And who are you? How do you see our human condition? Where have you been that the rest of us should go? What have you experienced that your neighbors must understand? What have I missed? What makes you angry? What wisdom have you gleaned? Are there questions we're not asking? Do the answers of the past no longer serve, or are they more apt than ever?
Simply put, what the hell do you want to say to me? If I remember nothing else, what would you have me recall when I close your novel's covers?
Having something to say, or something you wish us to experience, is what gives your novel its power. Identify it. Make it loud. Do not be afraid of what's burning in your heart. When it comes through on the page, you will be a true storyteller.
1 From "Quotations from Chairman Maozedong," originally from "The Situation and Our
Policy After the Victory in the War of Resistance Against Japan," August 13, 1945.