195 pages Edited by Susan Kaye Quinn (2024)

Read this if you like: Solarpunk, short speculative fiction, inventive worldbuilding

tl;dr summary: Collection of shorts that each imagine a hopeful future in a different way

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I recently started watching the new Star Trek series, Starfleet Academy, which I'm so far finding to be a very fun and unique addition to the ever-growing Trek universe. For those unfamiliar with it, it's set in the 32nd century, directly after the final season of Discovery, and it reprises some of that series' characters. I was excited to see snarky engineer Jett Reno (Tig Notaro) among the academy's faculty, and Admiral Vance (Oded Fehr) is back as Starfleet's commander-in-chief. They've also dipped back into the past and brought back The Doctor, who has added an aging subroutine to his program but is otherwise much the same wisecracking, opera-loving hologram I came to know and love on Voyager.

Starfleet Academy is a departure from past Star Trek series in a number of ways. The name is a clue to a big one: its primary focus isn't the crew of a ship or station, but cadets in the newly reopened academy. While there was some space galavanting in the first episode (and may be more in the future, since the USS Athena is on-hand as a “mobile classroom”) the second and third are set entirely on the Starfleet Academy grounds in San Francisco, making it the first Star Trek series to use Earth as its primary setting. The overall tone of the show is different from other series, too. It still has that trademark Star Trek utopian optimism, though that takes on a unique flavor in the post-burn world of the 32nd century. At this point in the timeline, the Federation is rebuiding after having been nearly destroyed during the Burn, a catastrophic event that made warp travel impossible for roughly 120 years. In Discovery and Starfleet Academy, we're seeing a humbled Federation, one that's rediscovering its purpose after a long disruption, which honestly feels like the kind of message the world needs right now: that a hopeful future is possible, even after everything seemed like it was ruined irreparably.

I recently finished watching the second season of Andor. If you don't know it, it's a TV show prequel to the Star Wars movie Rogue One, which takes place right before the events of A New Hope and focuses on the less-heralded members of the rebellion who put the pieces in place for Luke, Leia, Han, and crew to have their big victory. One of those characters is Cassian Andor, whose complete backstory is revealed over the two seasons of the show.

It took me a little bit to get into Andor, but once I did it's shot up my list of favorite Star Wars stories. I highly recommend it to anyone who hasn't watched it—but this post isn't about Andor as a show. I'm about to get way more pedantic and nerdy, because the first thing I thought of when I heard the name Cassian Andor was a different series I've loved since childhood: the Wheel of Time. In that world, Andor is a country, in fact the largest nation in the Wetlands and where most of the series' main characters were raised.

Lately I've been reading Liza Dalby's The Tale of Murasaki, which is a bit of an outlier read for me. I don't often read historical fiction (though there are exceptions), and usually I like a bit more action in my plots—and I'll admit, there have been parts reading this book that I've itched for something to, you know, happen. But I find the content and context fascinating enough that it's kept me reading, albeit a bit slowly.

One of the reasons I picked up The Tale of Murasaki was to get some context for The Tale of Genji, which I made an aborted attempt to read a few months back. A bit of a mental shift is always necessary when reading something from so long ago, but I found Genji particularly opaque because much of the plot hinges on the rhythms and expectations of Japanese imperial court, a world foreign to me in just about every respect.

And I'm happy to report that The Tale of Murasaki makes an excellent bridge in that regard, bringing just enough of a western, modern sensibility to ground me in this world. In many respects, this kind of far-in-the-past setting requires the same attention to worldbuilding as a secondary world. Honestly, it's easier for me to picture how the world works in a future Earth setting like Star Trek than in 11th-century Japan, probably because a speculative future world is inevitably laced with the perspectives of the time it's written in. It can't fully spring from the substrate of the future because that culture doesn't yet exist, and we don't really know what will happen between now and the 24th century that will shape how people then think. With things that happened in the distant past, there is an established cultural context separate from our own, even if we no longer know or understand the full details of it.

I’ve had some somewhat contradictory reading experiences of late. On the one hand, I’ve read several wonderful short stories in a fairy tale or folklore tone that inhabit a vague and floaty world in a beautiful way. On the other, I’ve written a few different feedbacks for After Happy Hour submissions where one of my major issues was a lack of grounding—that the world felt too floaty, to the point I couldn’t picture the world the characters were inhabiting.

The right level of worldbuilding and description is a tricky balance to strike for writers in any genre, and I think particularly so for those in speculative worlds. Not every type of story lends itself to lush, lengthy descriptions, either. In some modes, sparse details are a defining characteristic of the genre. Stories that stem from an oral storytelling tradition tend to fall into this category, which includes genres like folklore and fairy tales. Mythic voices give more flexibility for detailed descriptions, but even so it can break the effect to spend too many words grounding the reader. There are other genres that need this kind of deft hand, as well. Magical realism is one example—the rules of the world need to be established enough that the reader isn’t confused, but if you explain too much then it can lose the “magic” part of the name, or start to read like a different type of fantasy.

What's especially challenging about fairy tale writing is that a vaguely defined setting is a common genre trope. Fairy tales often take place somewhere “far away” and “once upon a time”, intentionally placed outside of a historical context. There are exceptions to this rule, of course, but the more solidly a story is tethered to reality, the less like a fairy tale it seems.

Adrian Tchaikovsky 388 pages Orbit (2024)

Read this if you like: unique alien ecosystems, Rick Claypool, Vernor Vinge

tl;dr summary: Political prisoners in an Orwellian dystopia are sent to a labor camp on Kiln, a planet where the life is aggressively symbiotic and potentially sentient.

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I've been watching two ghost-centered TV shows of late. Ironically, the one with the punnier name (School Spirits) is a kind of mystery/thriller drama, while the more straightforward-titled Ghost is the sitcom. There are other differences between the shows, too. The characters in School Spirits are mostly teens (or were teens when they died, in the ghosts' case) which adds a coming-of-age, YA kind of feel to the show. In Ghosts, the central characters are living married couple Sam and Jay, whose ages aren't specifically stated that I recall but who are generally in that “early adulthood” range, and have more adult-ey kinds of problems. The ghosts are broadly adult, too, and while some of them were on the “young and stupid” side when they died, none are portrayed as having been kids. 

[Note: This post contains minor spoilers for School Spirits for those who aren't caught up through season 2 and care about such things (and I suppose for Ghosts, too, inasmuch as a sitcom can have spoilers).]

Leech Girl Lives Rick Claypool 307 pages Space Boy Books (2017)

Read this if you like: Philip K. Dick, high-tech dystopias, creature horror

tl;dr summary: Woman on far-future fungus-infested Earth gets leeches for arms, uses them to save humanity.

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I’m currently reading Muraski Shikibu’s The Tale of Genji—or the first volume of it, at least, which I think is probably where I’ll stop for the time being, considering the burgeoning height of my TBR stack.

For those unfamiliar with it, The Tale of Genji is often cited as the world’s first novel, written in the 11th century by a Japanese noblewoman. Its main value for modern historians is its depiction of court life during the Heian period of Japan, as the events in the book are thought to have been based very closely on Murasaki’s real-life experiences as a lady-in-waiting.

While it’s called the first novel, The Tale of Genji doesn’t completely hold to what modern readers would expect from the form. It does have characters who recur throughout, and the primary protagonist (Hikaru Genji, son of Emperor Kiritsubo) does age, grow, and change over the course of the plot. I’m using the term “plot” loosely here, though, because the book doesn’t have the tight cause-and-effect type of forward momentum we expect from novels today. Instead, it has more the feel of an episodic TV show—there are threads that run across multiple chapters, but the arc is more a series of humps than an overarching narrative. Other essential features of storytelling today are used, but in a way that modern novelists (and readers) would look askance at, like its cast of roughly 400 characters. Comparing it to modern novels is an intriguing study in how the form has developed over the centuries.

A lot of the mythological and fantasy creatures that have endured in cultural awareness are European in origin—things like fairies, elves, dwarfs, mermaids, or ancient Greek mythological creatures like gorgons, sirens, harpies, or cyclopes.

Using these familiar creatures in your fiction has advantages. Your readers have likely already heard of them, in some form, so they come into the story with some background and details already in mind and you don’t have to provide as much description or explanation in the text.

That pre-knowledge can also be a kind of baggage, though, and could limit your creative freedom to use the beings the way that best suits the story. They can also run the danger of reading as cliché or referential.

And the truth is—these European-derived critters are just the tip of the iceberg. There are tons of other mythical and supernatural beings from all corners of the world and all eras of history.