I suppose that’s a bit hyperbolic, so let me calm you down right away. I’ve stopped only a certain kind of reading–in my case, reading of science-fiction. I read lots of nonfiction (Rachel Maddow’s Bag Man is one of my current books) and of course I read quite a lot in my profession as teacher (pedagogy, policy updates, student work, etc.).
But I find that I’m not reading science fiction anymore. The very thing I write. Why is that?
On the surface, I know why. I’m terrified of two things happening. First, I don’t want to read something that has existed for years (or worse, decades) that I am right now writing. That is, I don’t want confirmation that an idea I had–which I thought was unique to me–has been done before. This has already happened twice: My novel Beltrunner (the sequel to which I am editing now with the help of the kind and professional folks at EDGE Publishing) was, to me, something I’d not seen before. I know asteroid mining was and is a science fiction mini-trope, but that’s not the part I thought was different. I took as inspiration the excellent work Don Quixote as a model and worked from a similar premise. I had a stubbornly romantic hero, who had an enabling sidekick. He was chasing something that he himself could not really identify–an “impossible dream,” if you will. My difference was that I had him catch it. But the fingerprints of Quixote are all over my book–the main character’s companion is called Sancho, his ship is called the Dulcinea, and a small scouter vessel on that ship is called Rocinante (if you’re not familiar, those are the same names as Quixote’s partner, lover, and horse respectively).
So there I was, feeling all smug and self-satisfied, that I’d managed to do something new.
Then I ran across the science fiction book and television series The Expanse.
The first book in the series, Leviathan Wakes, was published in 2011, five years before I published Beltrunner. I’d never heard of the book, nor the series, when I finished Beltrunner. But when I did, I looked it up.
The main character is an ice miner in the asteroid belt. His ship is called the Rocinante. He discovers something he was not meant to find.
I was mortified. My first thought was that anyone who bothered to read Beltrunner would assume that I was writing a cheap knock-off of a very popular book series. Sure, there were some important distinctions: the Expanse series does not confine itself to a single protagonist but instead uses an ensemble approach. Also, they are slightly less interested in “hard” sci-fi than I am (there are a few inventions, such as speedy space flight, that I do not have). But the parallels that are there are numerous. I have assiduously avoided watching the television show (which I gather is extremely popular and has had a six-season run before ending recently) and will not be reading the novels anytime soon. Yes, I know I could read it to find the differences and soothe my aching soul that there is enough to discriminate one from the other, but I don’t feel like doing that just now.
I also had this happen on a trilogy I wrote about a small private college being whisked to an alternate earth unpopulated by human beings but where all those so transported develop strange new powers. Again, I felt this was a new idea until I heard of a series that did something very similar. I won’t go into the detail on that, but the feeling was the same. Twice now I wrote something that had already been done.
I know what you’re thinking: you’re going to quote Ecclesiastes 1:9 at me: “there is nothing new under the sun.” Or you’ll bring up the idea of character archetypes, or even Joseph Campbell’s monomyth idea. In short, you’ll try to remind me that there will always be some degree of shared worldbuilding or similarity of idea in fiction. “Just do what you do–don’t worry about what everyone else is doing.”
Fine advice. That brings me to why I’ve stopped reading. See, the best way I can think of to “not worry about what everyone else is doing” is to not know what everyone else is doing. Is that childish and small? Sure it is. I freely admit immaturity here.
My second reason for putting down the science fiction is sort of the inverse of the first reason. I’ve become concerned–perhaps obsessed is more accurate–about being derivative in my writing. For those of you who don’t speak Late American Arrogant Pedantic, “derivative” means “taking what someone else has already done and kind of redoing it in a new skin.” It’s not quite “copying” but it is invited to that word’s family reunion cookouts. I dread reading something excellent and then letting that color my own writing.
Again, this flies in the face of all the expert advice I’ve read by many, many writers. “Good writers borrow. Great writers steal,” to quote T.S. Eliot. I’m sorry, Tommy, but I can’t go along with that. Maybe if I were much more talented I would dare to eat a peach, but as I am now, I don’t trust myself to read a greater work and not let it dominate me.
I mentioned earlier that Beltrunner gets some of its inspiration from Don Quixote, so I can understand your confusion, Dear Reader. How can I simultaneously say that I have loosely based that book on the other but then say I don’t want to be influenced?
Let’s go to Uncle Walt for this: “Do I contradict myself? Very well then I contradict myself. (I am large, I contain multitudes.)”
Which reminds me…I need to lose weight.
Be seeing you!
But I find that I’m not reading science fiction anymore. The very thing I write. Why is that?
On the surface, I know why. I’m terrified of two things happening. First, I don’t want to read something that has existed for years (or worse, decades) that I am right now writing. That is, I don’t want confirmation that an idea I had–which I thought was unique to me–has been done before. This has already happened twice: My novel Beltrunner (the sequel to which I am editing now with the help of the kind and professional folks at EDGE Publishing) was, to me, something I’d not seen before. I know asteroid mining was and is a science fiction mini-trope, but that’s not the part I thought was different. I took as inspiration the excellent work Don Quixote as a model and worked from a similar premise. I had a stubbornly romantic hero, who had an enabling sidekick. He was chasing something that he himself could not really identify–an “impossible dream,” if you will. My difference was that I had him catch it. But the fingerprints of Quixote are all over my book–the main character’s companion is called Sancho, his ship is called the Dulcinea, and a small scouter vessel on that ship is called Rocinante (if you’re not familiar, those are the same names as Quixote’s partner, lover, and horse respectively).
So there I was, feeling all smug and self-satisfied, that I’d managed to do something new.
Then I ran across the science fiction book and television series The Expanse.
The first book in the series, Leviathan Wakes, was published in 2011, five years before I published Beltrunner. I’d never heard of the book, nor the series, when I finished Beltrunner. But when I did, I looked it up.
The main character is an ice miner in the asteroid belt. His ship is called the Rocinante. He discovers something he was not meant to find.
I was mortified. My first thought was that anyone who bothered to read Beltrunner would assume that I was writing a cheap knock-off of a very popular book series. Sure, there were some important distinctions: the Expanse series does not confine itself to a single protagonist but instead uses an ensemble approach. Also, they are slightly less interested in “hard” sci-fi than I am (there are a few inventions, such as speedy space flight, that I do not have). But the parallels that are there are numerous. I have assiduously avoided watching the television show (which I gather is extremely popular and has had a six-season run before ending recently) and will not be reading the novels anytime soon. Yes, I know I could read it to find the differences and soothe my aching soul that there is enough to discriminate one from the other, but I don’t feel like doing that just now.
I also had this happen on a trilogy I wrote about a small private college being whisked to an alternate earth unpopulated by human beings but where all those so transported develop strange new powers. Again, I felt this was a new idea until I heard of a series that did something very similar. I won’t go into the detail on that, but the feeling was the same. Twice now I wrote something that had already been done.
I know what you’re thinking: you’re going to quote Ecclesiastes 1:9 at me: “there is nothing new under the sun.” Or you’ll bring up the idea of character archetypes, or even Joseph Campbell’s monomyth idea. In short, you’ll try to remind me that there will always be some degree of shared worldbuilding or similarity of idea in fiction. “Just do what you do–don’t worry about what everyone else is doing.”
Fine advice. That brings me to why I’ve stopped reading. See, the best way I can think of to “not worry about what everyone else is doing” is to not know what everyone else is doing. Is that childish and small? Sure it is. I freely admit immaturity here.
My second reason for putting down the science fiction is sort of the inverse of the first reason. I’ve become concerned–perhaps obsessed is more accurate–about being derivative in my writing. For those of you who don’t speak Late American Arrogant Pedantic, “derivative” means “taking what someone else has already done and kind of redoing it in a new skin.” It’s not quite “copying” but it is invited to that word’s family reunion cookouts. I dread reading something excellent and then letting that color my own writing.
Again, this flies in the face of all the expert advice I’ve read by many, many writers. “Good writers borrow. Great writers steal,” to quote T.S. Eliot. I’m sorry, Tommy, but I can’t go along with that. Maybe if I were much more talented I would dare to eat a peach, but as I am now, I don’t trust myself to read a greater work and not let it dominate me.
I mentioned earlier that Beltrunner gets some of its inspiration from Don Quixote, so I can understand your confusion, Dear Reader. How can I simultaneously say that I have loosely based that book on the other but then say I don’t want to be influenced?
Let’s go to Uncle Walt for this: “Do I contradict myself? Very well then I contradict myself. (I am large, I contain multitudes.)”
Which reminds me…I need to lose weight.
Be seeing you!
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