When I was little I always used to write science fiction stories.
I read a lot of science fiction, of course. Fantasy too, but there was something deliciously plausible about science fiction. It wasn’t completely out of the question that some day we’d have robotic companions, or exciting laser gun fights, or walk on distant worlds. Science fiction was an exciting jaunt as a kid with few enough adventures of my own.
Now that I’m an adult—somewhat, anyway—I’m finding my stories are more focused on people. No—that’s not it. That might be true, but it’s more that I’m focused on now. I want to understand the present—especially the parts I’m not happy with. I…
There’s a saying in comedy that the best comedy isn’t funny because of its humor; it’s because it’s true. My fiction should reflect truth, somehow. People should identify with it—or rather, I hope people identify with it. Of course, I still add in things that are a little counterfactual, but that’s just fiction. Was Murakami a fantasy writer?
Emma looked up as the lights dimmed. 22:00 already? She glanced at her reading lamp, but set down the diary and climbed up to her bunk instead. Her hand found the light switch as she gazed out the window at the stars dotting the depths of space, the curve of the ship’s hull just visible towards the stern.
The hollowed-out asteroid continued on its trek through the void.