We get enough people at book fairs, sellers included, asking us what Speculative Fiction is that we thought an explanation was merited.
Note: I have no intention of arguing the case that science fiction and fantasy are as much skilled works of art as regular literature; that argument has been covered enough times and it bores me. Time determines what is art not genre.
As the term suggests speculative fiction is fiction that involves some element of speculation. Of course, one can argue that all fiction is speculative insofar as it speculates what could happen if various elements of a story were combined. Yet we feel that this term is descriptive enough to encompass the type of literature we want to categorise. First, a word about genre
Book genre is of limited use and is often more harmful than good. If you went into a bookshop and asked for literature, you’d be taken to the fiction section. If you said that you were looking for any Darwinian literature you’d be sent to the science section. At some point it was determined that literature suggested artistic merit. Yet we also use it to cover a particular grouping of written works. The point is that classifying the written word is a little futile as common usage will usually dictate what that classification envelops, and common usage is of course open to interpretation. Genre does however allow boundaries to be set for marketing purposes; if a reader enjoyed a number of books in a certain genre then there’s a reasonable chance they’d enjoy other books in the same genre. From a critical perspective, understanding genre helps align a work of literature with one’s expectations; certain tropes and mechanisms are, to some extent, more acceptable in one genre than another.
Now, this element of speculation. The speculation in speculative fiction isn’t concerned solely with speculation over how various story elements might interact, but speculation over the fabric of those elements. A work of speculative fiction takes one or more elements of an otherwise perfectly possible story and speculates as to what would happen if that element existed outside of current understanding or experience. Essentially, it’s writing about things that aren’t currently possible. The Road by Cormac McCarthy is a father-son story of survival, nearly everything is contemporaneously possible, except one thing the setting of the story is plausible future.
When you pick up an Agatha Christie, a Jane Austen or a Graham Greene, regardless of how the story unfurls, and how perhaps unlikely the story, it’s always within the realm of possibility (poor writing and deus ex machina aside). Yet a Philip K. Dick, a Tolkien or a Stephen King will always seem impossible, given current understanding.
The word current is key, to allow inclusion of scientific speculation. A seminal work like Kim Stanley Robinson’s Red Mars has a lot of the science in place to explain how the colonisation of Mars might / could take place (I assume the science is correct; it doesn’t matter to me personally but I know a lot of readers are particular in this area). The speculation is on how plausible, but currently theoretical, scientific and technological advances might solve a problem.
There is a slight grey area where such scientific knowledge and its technical implementation exists and is currently possible and a good story has been written about it. Imagine a book about travelling to the moon written in 1969. Imagine it’s not an adventure, it explores personal relationships between the characters and their heroic journey. For someone unfamiliar with planned space travel such a book would seem like science fiction, yet it was of course entirely possible in 1969. I personally wouldn’t classify such a work as speculative fiction as it doesn’t fit the definition, but I’d certainly class it as science fiction if I were to market it as it would fit the bill for many readers. Similarly a book like Psycho, it’s a work of horror but there’s no supernatural element and it’s plausible and possible given current understanding.
For books like The Hobbit orCarriethecurrent part of the definition becomes less important; Middle-Earth neither has nor probably will exist, neither will telekinesis. Of course, as science progresses some things that are currently implausible will be come plausible, if not possible. Space travel being a great example; progress is constantly being made.
Speculative fiction is also an umbrella term so includes the majority of works in the fantasy, science fiction and horror genres, also smaller genres such as magic realism, weird fiction and more classical genres such as mythology, fairy tales and folklore. Many people break speculative fiction into two categories though: fantasy and science fiction, the former being implausible the latter being plausible (in simplistic terms). This is helpful for those interested in having some sort of technical foundation upon which to build their speculation, and those who aren’t.
When one thinks of science fiction, one thinks back to the 1930’s and the Gernsback era, perhaps earlier to Wells and Verne. One might even cite Frankenstein. When one thinks of fantasy one thinks of Tolkien, perhaps Victorian / Edwardian ghost stories, Dracula, perhaps Frankenstein. It seems comfortable to think of these things as modern endeavours. Anything earlier often falls under the general category of literature (in the non-speculative fiction sense). Take More’s Utopia,you’d find that under literature or classics, not under fantasy. Similarly Gulliver’s Travels. Again, this is just marketing; there’s no reason why Gulliver’s Travels should not be shelved next to Lord of the Rings other than to meet a reader’s expectation.
At Hyraxia Books we like to think of certain classic works not simply as works that have contributed to the literary canon, but also as works that have contributed to the speculative fiction canon. For us, Aesop’s Fables,Paradise Lost, The Divine Comedy, Otranto, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, The Iliad, The Prose Edda, Beowulf and the Epic of Gilgamesh are not simply classics, but also speculative fiction classics. We don’t like to think of the genre starting in the last two hundred years, we like to think of literature (in the non-speculative fiction sense) having branched off from the speculative rather than the other way round. We like to see how that story has played out over the millennia.
That is how we define speculative fiction for the basis of our stock. Of course, we stock other items too, many of which we are very fond of.
Jane Austen really said ‘I respect the “I can fix him” movement but that’s just not me. He’ll fix himself if knows what’s good for him’ and that’s why her works are still calling the shots today.
Meanwhile Emily Brönte just said “We can make each otherworse.”
it’s almost midnight and I just finished reading “Frankenstein” by Mary Shelley. tomorrow I have a history test, but currently it’s much more important to try to understand if I feel more sorry for Victor or for his creature.
“But soon,” he cried with sad and solemn enthusiasm, “I shall die, and what I now feel be no longer felt. Soon these burning miseries will be extinct. I shall ascend my funeral pile triumphantly and exult in the agony of the torturing flames. The light of that conflagration will fade away; my ashes will be swept into the sea by the winds. My spirit will sleep in peace, or if it thinks, it will not surely think thus. Farewell.”
He sprang from the cabin window as he said this, upon the ice raft which lay close to the vessel. He was soon borne away by the waves and lost in darkness and distance.
Anne Kingsbury Wollstonecraft, sister-in-law of Mary Wollstoncraft and aunt of author Mary Shelly, was a US botanist, naturalist, botanical illustrator & women’s rights advocate. Her manuscript with artworks on plant specimens (1828) was rediscovered recently ♀️
Remember that I am thy creature; I ought to be thy Adam, but I am rather the fallen angel, whom thou drivest from joy for no misdeed. Everywhere I see bliss, from which I alone am irrevocably excluded. I was benevolent and good; misery made me a fiend. Make me happy, and I shall again be virtuous.
But soon,“ he cried, with sad and solemn enthusiasm, "I shall die, and what I now feel be no longer felt. Soon these burning miseries will be extinct. I shall ascend my funeral pyre triumphantly, and exult in the agony of the torturing flames. The light of that conflagration will fade away; my ashes will be swept into the sea by the winds. My spirit will sleep in peace, or if it thinks, it will not surely think thus. Farewell.
Harriet and David are a happy couple who want lots of children, and so they have them. The first four are perfectly ordinary. The fifth child is something else. It’s a simple premise for a horror novel–almost an obvious one–and accordingly, it needs less than 150 pages for the idea to express itself fully.
This is not a gory, blood-pumping horror novel; it’s a tale of suspense. We spend nearly…
This animation has been in the works for months and is about my little Frankenstein AU/retelling where Victor doesn’t abandon his creation and intends to use it to become a great scientist. Plus a bunch of OCs and references to other Frankenstein-related or gothic media.
Music is ‘Dead’ by Apashe (ft. Yizzy)
Exceedingly cool Frankenstein AU animation. Concept/trailer I believe for a potential webcomic by OP that I would adamantly read the hell out of. I have rewatched this a normal amount of times.
Sorry to Frankenpost twice in one night after being inactive for weeks but another thing that I find RIDICULOUSLY funny in visual adaptations of Frankenstein is that the Monster’s stitches are portrayed as so massive and ugly and uneven. Old movie directors read the book and said “Huh. Bold of Victor to assume he knows how to sew.”
What’s with the common image of Victor Frankenstein as some mad-scientist type old Doctor with Einstein-hair? Our homeboy wasn’t even done college. He was just a 22-year-old in a dorm who probably should have thought twice (or once) before taking his science fair project a little bit too far
The Monsters of Frankenstein (diary entry 2, Adam)
Romania, Autumn, 1824
My Creator and I are coming to the end of our game.
Weary as I am, instinct within the core of my being compels me to continue until exhaustion destroys us.
Victor has found himself a suitable hovel. A crumbling edifice concealed by a forest that the local people have tales of dark and twisted happenings going back through the generations of frightened imagination. A perfect nest for a gruesome doctor of the dead.
The man is driven by a desire grim and primal, fuelled by ego so great and consuming I am now sure he will not listen to reason.
He is not yet aware that I have discovered his hiding place. I have planned to reveal myself only at the precise time. If I spook him too soon he will slip from grasp and I will loose track of him. That cannot be.
The windows to his laboratory have been blackened, but my imagination supplies the horror for me.
I wish it could be so simply to simply wrap my hands around his throat and let it be. But I am unable. I could not destroy the one who have given me breath, as mankind could not destroy God. But, I can make myself a plague unto him if it will bring this madness to a conclusion.
I know not what new horrors would be birthed alongside this new other, but I will not let Victor complete his work and learn the truth of it. But I must hurry, I sense he in fact closer to finishing than I first believed.
Elizabeth and the lil lab of horrors (aka the Frankenstein’s Monsters)
You didn’t think I forgot about ole Elizabeth did you? Well.
She, like the rest of Victor’s relations, get very concerned when contact with him slowly turns to silence while he is supposedly studying in Germany. Henry volunteers to track him down and does so successfully after a while, but while his letter confirming Victor’s location is a relief he’s still annoyingly vague about what Victor has been up too.
Then Victor disappears. It’s sudden, traumatic, his father is beside himself with worry. Henry once again decides to play hero of the hour and go off into deepest darkest Europe on the trail of Victor; who may or may not be dead….
Henry confides only to Elizabeth the more troublesome details. Victor is chasing, or being chased by, a man who may in fact be some sort of demon… and the rumours circulating around Victor himself range from bizarre to horrifying.
Elizabeth grows tired of being idle. Despite her adoptive father’s pleas she (with Justine’s help of course) steals away into the night and gets on the first train headed East.
A few months behind, she manages to at last catch up with Henry in early winter. They reunite warmly but Henry begs her not to seek Victor out at his house, insisting it isn’t safe there and she’ll have to wait till Victor comes to them.
This will absolutely NOT stand. Elizabeth snoops around in Henry’s personal affects till she finds what she needs to locate Victor’s creepy hiding place.
The creatures’ experience with women vary from ‘never seen one ever’ to ‘ran away because she was screaming’ so they naturally freak OUT when a real lady is in their house. Adam, being the oldest, volounteers to try and shoo her off using his intimidation factor but he it just DOESNT WORK WOMAN WHAT ARE YOU.
Lucifer has a go next. Elizabeth swats him with her umbrella and calls him a brute. He retreats under a table hissing like a cat.
Victor finally wakes up from an impromptu scientific nap to discover Elizabeth sitting on his couch flicking through a novel with a cup of tea, with his creations sat around her; gazing up adoringly as if beholding a goddess in their midst.
He thinks he’s finally lost the plot until Elizabeth pipes up ‘oh there you are Victor how good of you to join us at last, do be a lamb and check on those biscuits in the oven won’t you?’
So I had to make a playlist for English class… and this is what happened
* make it mine - jason mraz * submarines - the lumineers * big eyed fish - dave matthews band * you don’t know what you’ve begun - the solids * grey room - damien rice * antisocial - ballyhoo * strange condition - pete yorn * walt grace’s submarine test - john mayer * dodo - dave matthews *
I sometimes really wish Mary Shelley wrote that Victor brought the bride to life rather than destroying her. It would have really made the Creature confront himself and his place in the world if he meet another creature like himself, but not exactly like him.
