Star Wars on Trial (30 page)

INCE THIS BOOK is titled Star Wars on Trial, and I am testifying for the Defense, let me proceed as if I were sitting in the witness chair. No, you don't have to swear me in. I'll raise my right hand if someone wishes, but let me simply say that when it comes to the future of science fiction-one of my passions-I feel as if I'm always under oath.

First, my credentials. I am a Hugo Award-winning science fiction writer who has, joyfully and without remorse, written nearly thirty tie-in novels. Since someone writing for the Prosecution will probably mention the words "art" and "literature," let me add that for more than a decade, I edited the two most literary publications in the SF field-Pulphouse: The Hardback Magazine and The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, for which I and my authors were nominated for dozens of awards. We even won a few. I have received awards in a number of genres, not just SF. Of my mystery series, written under the name Kris Nelscott, Salon.com said, "Somebody needs to say that Kris Nelscott is engaged in an ongoing fictional study of a thorny era in American political and racial history. If that's not enough to get `serious' critics and readers to pay attention to her, it's their loss."

"Serious" critics and readers have paid attention: I have received several literary awards-given by people who only think of writ ing as "literature" and "art"-and I have become a darling of book clubs. Meanwhile, I glam around in my secret identity as a romance writer (Kristine Grayson, for those of you who don't know), and I skulk through life as the SF/fantasy/horror writer Kristine Kathryn Rusch.

All three of us (as well as several of my other pen names which shall go unnamed) read everything we can get our hands on. From classics to mystery novels, from literary short stories to the latest Nora Roberts, from science fiction novels to tie-ins, I read. And read. And read.

My catholic reading tastes (small "c"-look it up) and my catholic writing tastes match my entertainment tastes. I record fifteen hours of television per week (although I only have time to watch six hours per week; I catch up during those endless months of reruns). I watch two to three movies per week, sometimes more during peak seasons like Christmas and summer. Last week alone, I saw Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire and Good Night, and Good Luck-one at an art house (guess which) and the other at the cineplex down the street.

I am one of the heretics who believes that art must be enjoyed first and analyzed later.

I am also a member of the Star Wars generation. Sixteen years old when the movie came out, at a first-night screening with a dozen of my high school buddies, I watched the world change right in front of me. Did I know that E. E. "Doc" Smith had done something similar thirty years before? Of course not. My small-town library never had that kind of trash (their words, not mine). Had I memorized the science fiction canon? Hell, I didn't even know there was such a thing as science fiction. Or fantasy. Or genre, for that matter.

And I didn't care.

All I wanted that night was a bit of entertainment. What I got was an addiction that has lasted through my adulthood.

I often say that I came to science fiction because, at thirteen, I fell in love with a classic Star Trek episode called "City on the Edge of Forever," written by someone named Harlan Ellison. My best friend, Mindy Wallgren (one year older, two decades smarter), told me that Ellison wrote short stories, and if I liked the episode, I'd love the short fiction. She gave me a Hugo Award collection edited by Isaac Asimov, and I read every story in it. Then books by every author. And then more books, and more books, and more books.

But you must remember: I had no idea what genre was, so I didn't know where else to find wonderful stories like the ones I had just read.

Now fast-forward three years. I'm sitting in that theater and absorbing Star Wars like there's no tomorrow. And I buy not my first but probably my fifteenth tie-in novel (yes, we have to count those Partridge Family books (yes, there were Partridge Family books)). Next to that Star Wars novelization (which I should have kept, dammit!, considering how much the thing's worth now), I find a bunch more of those books like the ones I read in my Star Trek/Harlan Ellison phase. So I buy those too.

One of them is Dune, which had a very Star Wars-like cover. I fell in love all over again.

When Glenn Yeffeth asked me to contribute an essay to this volume, he sent me a list of topics, asking me to choose one and take the Defense or Prosecution position. There was no contest; I had to take Defense. I love Star Wars, especially Episodes IV, V and VI. Especially Episode V, known to you non-Star Wars buffs as The Empire Strikes Back, screenplay written, by the way, by a classic science fiction writer, a woman named Leigh Brackett.

I'm here to discuss the charge "Star Wars novels are poor substitutes for real science fiction and are driving real SF off the shelves." I will show, among other things, that Star Wars is exactly what science fiction needs right now. One of the questions Glenn posed is this: to what extent is current SF writing influenced by Star Wars? The answer is simple: not enough.

I'll start by looking at the definition of science fiction, otherwise known by the various abbreviations SF, SFF and SF/E Those abbreviations, used in the SF field only, mean the same thing in his questions. Science fiction-as a marketing category-is called SE Science Fiction The Marketing Category includes fantasy novels. Later reviewers and critics sometimes called the category SF/F to acknowledge the two different genres labeled as one. Because of that confusion, the Science Fiction Writers of America wanted to acknowledge their fantasy base, so they started calling themselves SFFWA, which led to SF being labeled, in the SF field, SFE

Why is all this important to my essay? Because, in the dark days before literary tropes hit sf (which in my essay, lowercased, stands for science fiction only), the sf and fantasy genre had the same goals. Large-scope stories, in which worlds or universes were at stake, created new but oddly familiar settings that were far enough removed from real life so that readers could escape their mundane existences. The lead character was not the protagonist; he (and it was usually a he) was the hero. He often followed the Hero's Journey (see Joseph Campbell, whom Lucas says he gleefully plundered). No matter how dark the journey, the reader will follow the hero because, the reader knows (and is reassured on a deep level) that the hero will triumph at the end.

When literary tropes hit sf in the 1960s, solid characterization, good sentence-by-sentence writing and dystopian endings became commonplace. "Realism" both in character actions and in scientific approach became more important than good storytelling.

Fantasy continued its heroic ways, promising-and usually delivering-those uplifting endings, those fascinating worlds and those excellent (heroic) characters. But science fiction started resembling the literary mainstream. The novels became angst-filled. The protagonists, demoted from their heroic pedestals, lost more than they won. The worlds became as ugly or uglier than our own.

Suddenly, sf became unreliable. Readers had no idea if they would find uplifting stories or dystopian universes. They didn't know whether, if they plunged through 600 pages of nasty, ugly worldbuilding, they would ever emerge into any sort of light. Sometimes, the sf devolved into one long scientific exposition. Or into jargonfilled, hard-to-follow stories that realistically explored situations set up in the bad old days of preliterary science fiction.

Science fiction editors and critics declared that something which had been done before-such as time travel to Hitler's Germany or space opera like E. E. "Doc" Smith's Lensman series-was unacceptable for the new generation of readers. The assumption was and still is that if someone in science fiction literature-anywhere or at any time in science fiction literature-has written a known work on a topic, that topic is off-limits to future generations of sf writers.

That assumption arose when publishing was small, when sf was a community of readers who numbered in the hundreds. Walter Jon Williams calls this community "the science fiction village." In a marvelous essay published in Asimov's, he writes:

Along with the fiction, the [sf] culture grew more sophisticated along the way, but it retained a proudly self-made quality, standards that it considered unique to itself, and a specialized vocabulary to describe both the texts, the contents of the texts, and the special view of life that was considered particularly scientifictional. Fandom may not necessarily be a way of life, but it's definitely a point of view.1

A problem arose for sf fandom, which controlled sf publishing, when people like me entered the mix. We received our introduction to sf through the media. Williams explains the dilemma:

... electronic media brings science fiction to its audience free of Science Fiction Culture, the history and view of science fiction laboriously hammered out over the last sixty or seventy years.... Science Fiction Culture places the work in its context, relates it to other work, to traditional themes in science fiction, to contributions of individual editors and magazines. All of this is necessarily absent from visual SF, which-also necessarily looks at SF as a grab-bag full of ideas useful to put Scott Bakula in jeopardy again this week.'

But the only way the Science Fiction Village can protect itself against Media Barbarians pounding at the gates is to keep the village small. Such a task was easy in the early years of sf fandom. It's not so easy now.

The world has changed since the Science Fiction Village was created. After World War II, countless people went to college on the G.I. Bill. Those people became readers who bought books and read to their children at night. Readership grew across the board. So did
the book-buying public. Book sales expand every year from one to 5%, a phenomenal and consistent rate of growth not seen in most other industries.3

Fiction markets have expanded. In 2004 alone, 2,550 books "of interest to the SF field" were published as originals or reprints. This total number of books does not include gaming novels, movie novelizations or original novels written in a media universe (like the Star Wars novels).4
The days of being able to read everything published in SF in one given year are long gone.

So the new reader coming in, the one with a voracious appetite for SF, has a wide range of choices. The problem is that most of those choices respond to or build on ideas found in novels so long out of print that libraries and specialty used bookstores no longer carry them. Many of the sf editors still working today live in the Science Fiction Village. They are buying novels that appeal to a few thousand people, forgetting about (or ignoring) the barbarians at the gates.

It is impossible-physically impossible-to catch up on the language of Science Fiction Culture. I have immersed myself in it for thirty years now, ever since I discovered it, and I'm still reading the classics. What I didn't understand in the early sf novels and short stories that I read I researched. I forced myself to pass as a Science Fiction Villager, and lo and behold, they actually took me in.

But I'm a barbarian. Of the 1,417 original SF books published last year,'
I read ten of them. Six of those books were short story collections. Two of them I wrote. The other two were novels by people whose sf I'd read before and liked. Of the remaining 1,407 books, I probably handled 750 of them and replaced them on the shelf. Honestly, most of the 750 novels I put back looked like work.

I read fiction for entertainment, relaxation and enjoyment. If I want to work, I read the history, literary essays, biography, science and legal books that grace my shelves.

Last week, for the first time in more than a decade, I saw an sf novel on the bookstore shelves that made my barbarian self reach for the book with joy. The cover had a picture of a derelict spaceship. The back cover blurb talked about far futures and finding artifacts in outer space. The cover quote said, "In the old tradition of Astounding."

Because I had been burned before, I read the opening few pages, and a section out of the middle. And then I bought the book. I haven't read it yet, so I won't say the title here.6
But I will say that haven't been this eager to read an sf novel in almost twenty years.

Why am I eager to read it? Because the novel promises the very things that Star Wars gives: an escape, a journey into a new yet familiar world, entertainment. A good read.

The things you still find in fantasy fiction (there, charge #6: slain like the dragon it is). The things that sf jettisoned in the erroneous cold equations practiced by the New Wave.

The things that bring barbarians into the Science Fiction Village.

Why do I want barbarians in the Science Fiction Village? Forget that they're my kith and kin. Think for a moment about the shelf space argument (good old charge #3). Large genres do not care about how much shelf space goes to tie-in novels. The mystery genre has a plethora of tie-ins, from Murder She Wrote to CSI. The romance genre has fewer, but almost every single romance movie that comes out has a novelization attached to it. In those genres, no one talks about the tie-ins "stealing" shelf space, even though, logically, there should be less shelf space because of the very size of those genres. In 2004, romance novels accounted for 39.3% of all adult fiction sold. Mystery and thrillers came in second with 29.6%. General fiction, which is what most of us would call the "literary mainstream," was 12.9% of all adult fiction sold, followed by "other fiction," a category that includes such things as western and men's adventure, at 11.8%. SF came in dead last at 6.4%.