I used to be the guy that was telling people how Doomsday was going down: "Russia, sooner or later, is just going to be too pissed about its post-Communist condition to not start a nuclear showdown;" "climate change is going to aggravate tensions among disparate groups that will end in disaster;" and et cetera. But as I've gotten older, I've realized that, 1) every generation has its doomsday scenario, and, 2) they basically don't happen.
|Conversely, I am not opposed to horses.|
This so so antithetical to the kind of fiction I write and the kind of desires I shamefully espouse that it's odd - hypocritical in its most hypo-critical fashion - that I can seem to hold these views in my head simultaneously. I have a sort of voyeuristic desire to be there at the end, and yet I am more and more confident every day that, despite the horrific environmental disasters that seem to follow one on another, Science - that religious establishment of Western Modernity - and Open Diplomacy - that... other thing - will manage to solve every single problem we come upon, at least for the foreseeable future (however long that may be).
But the point is, Happiness and Success don't make no good fiction. And for this reason alone, it can be said that I get so little joy out of Positive Futural Scenarios as to make, for myself, science fiction writing nearly impossible in its "classic" sense. I write about eco-terrorism and gritty space-industries, consumer whorery and hostile alien take-overs; but not glorious colonies and fabulous technologies that make life for the better.
And honestly, it's not even like I'd enjoy being bonded to alien overlords or incinerated in a nuclear blast. In other words, my fantasies are completely at odds with what is truly desirable in the world. What's up with that? It's the exact same situation as my jingoistic attitude toward the various battles being waged across the globe. It's really great to imagine terror and horror, but it's certainly not desirable in any empirical sense.
Oh, well. It's back to writing my gung-ho armageddons, where you can rule the land by the butt of your pistol and the lash of your whip/the warp drive of your spaceship. Woo!