Posthuman Blues

I did a double-take in the science fiction section at Barnes & Noble this evening; Vintage has released a book by Philip K. Dick called "Lies, Inc." This grabbed my attention for two reasons: any PKD release is a celebration-worthy event and, moreover, I'd never heard of "Lies, Inc." I pride myself on my knowledge of Dick (no lame jokes, please), so the prospect of having entirely overlooked one of his novels was startling.





It turns out that "Lies, Inc." is the restored, renamed version of "The Unteleported Man," one of the few remaining PKD titles I haven't read. So I dutifully purchased it even though I'm up to my neck in unread books. (I'm still reading McAuley's fascinatingly textured "The Secret of Life" . . .)

I've begun "Patrick Moore on Mars," a good history of Mars observation and exploration by the author of "Can You Speak Venusian?" (Weird fact: A staunch UFO debunker, Patrick Moore penned a pseudonymous first-person flying saucer contactee account back in the '50s or '60s.) Barry Miles' "The Beat Hotel" has taken a momentary backseat, as has Van Flandern's voluminous "Dark Matter."





This glut of literature has forced me to make a decision: No more series or trilogies. If a fiction author can't say what he needs to in a single volume, I'm afraid he'll have to wait, possibly indefinitely. I recently exchanged the second book in an SF trilogy for Robert Silverberg's "The Alien Years." Silverberg has never let me down, and I doubt "The Alien Years" (apparently a tribute to H.G. Wells) will be an exception, despite the "Independence Day"-ish cover painting.

Looking back on my favorite novels, the slim books have typically packed the most punch (i.e., "The Man Who Fell to Earth," "Dying Inside"). I've read some superb epics, but the "ideal" science fiction novel seems to lie in the 200 to 300-page range, as exemplified by Dick, a master of storytelling economy and an under-rated stylist.

Last night I hit on a really good idea for a novel. I'm not going to tell you what it is; it's that good! So I pitched it to my editor for a second opinion. (No response yet -- maybe he's already busy negotiating film rights. Yeah, that would explain it . . .) In moments of unrestrained optimism, I like to think that my writing career will quickly develop into a reliable succession of book projects, each somewhat bigger than the last, but I'm afraid that's naive; I truthfully don't know a hell of a lot about the politics and demographics of the publishing industry. I only recently learned that nonfiction is much easier to sell than fiction. I don't know why this came as a surprise -- it certainly shouldn't have -- but for some reason it did.

I like "After the Martian Apocalypse" and I think there are others that will like it, too. But how many "others"? How will it do commercially? Personally, I'll be happy if it achieves something like cult status. But even that's being ludicrously optimistic . . .

Boy, I'm really rambling, aren't I?