Existential or Speculative? Make up Your Mind!

I first lost interest in mainstream fiction after I finished my last Dean Koontz novel. I don’t mean to knock him, really I don’t. He’s doing fine without my approval or my money. But his successes (and similar authors) perpetuate what generally passes today as contemporary fiction --a genre I charge as watered down and without wonder.

Speculative Fiction is a vague term more often used to describe “far-fetched fiction” or what for years has been called science fiction and fantasy. There is much debate as to exactly the genre, but I think this is healthy. In fact, because there are so many authors out there who use elements of speculative fiction, the category is constantly in flux. Only the extreme examples get attention and therefore (and unfortunately) characterize the genre.

Dean Koontz is not the only one responsible for the lackluster, speculative performance of fiction. What sells in the mainstream is safe and usually easy to understand. But that is exactly what ails the genre.

For instance, in Koontz’s novels, he very often explains away the monsters with logic or a series of misunderstood events. You know, something goes bump in the night, protagonist is haunted, chased, brought to the verge of insanity and then . . . well, then, a foil –say a coroner or a bright scientist type-person from the local university discovers that the “phantom” is really a demented human suffering from some genetic abnormality that causes its victim to crave human flesh. You can almost hear the authors saying, See, I told you not to be a scaredy cat! In Koontz’s defence, he’s not the only one, however I can only think of a few writers who allow the “monster” to exist in a realm just beyond our perception of reality. I’m always disappointed when the bump is explained away with reason and I leave the novel feeling like I just drank a light beer.

As a matter of fact, I tend to lean more towards “magic” then monsters. I don’t mean to piss off my fantasy and science fiction brothers and sisters (I happen to own a Jedi costume, and I once convinced my wife to dress up as Princess Leah. Also, what a great start to a story: “A long time ago, in a galaxy far away"). But, these genres can also leave me thirsty.

To most of us, speculative fiction means science fiction, which leads to images of futuristic robots, flying saucers and people with foil hats or aliens. But throughout the literary canon, there are excellent examples of speculative fiction that deal with subtle monsters, metaphorical or otherwise. Though sometimes the monster doesn’t have to be subtle, does it? What’s important in these cases is the tone. Here is an excerpt from The Odyssey.

And he burst on them like as a wave swift-rushing beneath black clouds,
Heaved huge by the winds, bursts down on a ship, and the wild foam shrouds
From the stem to the stern her hull, and the storm-blast's terrible breath
Roars in the sail, and the heart of the shipmen shuddereth
In fear, for that scantly upborne are they now from the clutches of death.

(Iliad 15. 624-628, at Perseus).

Do you follow me? As Longinus points out in his Treaty on the Sublime, even though Homer escapes with his life, he’s up against a force that cannot be simply put in a tea pot. The monster is larger than him and his crew, and instead of focusing on the protagonist, the storm becomes much scarier as a swirl of atoms, agitated by chaos. What could be more unfeeling and cold blooded than that?

Of course, there is Moby Dick: a murderous, 80 ton embodiment of God’s wrath.
No wonder Ahab spent the prime of his life chasing it down. And all the while, his hate and venom, wasted on a mere animal. But wasn’t Ahab fighting his own supernatural ability to create a monster in his mind? And if this is true, aren’t we the monster? Additionally, if we are all monsters, isn’t it also true that we will never run out of monsters?

All men live enveloped in whale-lines. All are born with halters round their necks; but it is only when caught in the swift, sudden turn of death, that mortals realize the silent, subtle, ever present perils of life.

(Melville, page 281)

Seriously, doesn’t that give you chills? Notice how surreal Melville is, even existential. Does he hammer us down with a bunch of psycho-babble? Does he try to make our hero’s plight understandable through ordinary assessments? No. There is a hate and self loathing so intense that we can only speculate to understand it. The hypothesis is: What if it were me? What is my white whale? Or what situation would drive me to such measures? Anyone who takes this book seriously knows that to understand it, you must paste in you own reality. What could be more speculative than that?

And do I need to go into detail about Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s “Kubla Khan”?


In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man

Down to a sunless sea.

So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round :
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree ;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
But oh ! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover !
A savage place ! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover !
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced :
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail :
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean :
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war !


The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves ;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.

It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice !
A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw :
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight 'twould win me,

That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome ! those caves of ice !
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware ! Beware !
His flashing eyes, his floating hair !
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.

Enough said.

Another example comes to mind. I happen to be a big Steinbeck fan. I did not understand it the first time I read it, but Cannery Row (NOT THE MOVIE, please!) has within it brilliant examples of speculative fiction. Just think of the mysterious presence of the old Chinaman who exits the sea every morning to disappear amongst the corrugated steel and boilers of the row. And what happens when local children attempt to harass him? One of them looks into his eyes, which becomes one giant brown eye and then engulfs the lad in a glow and transports him to a distant, lonely, windswept isle. There he is left all alone. When he returns, he never throws rocks at the Chinaman again. Moreover, the main character Doc smacks of Nietzsche's Superman. Mack and the Boys are a metaphor to the Lotophagi (Lotus eaters) of Greek mythology. And the very last line of the novel is speculative and surreal, wherein Doc is reading the poem Black Marigolds to his rattlesnakes while they “lay still and stared into space with their dusty, frowning eyes.”


Listen, I’m not saying that books like Kite Runner aren’t worthy of my time, but I ask you, is there really a difference between inspirational, feel good contemporary fiction and the farce, “A Million Little Pieces?” Fiction and reality should not be blurred in this manner. Why not push it over the edge? Stir in something unusual; mystify us and leave us wondering. If you can, refrain from answering the question you pose but still satisfy us. Speculative Fiction, done well, never leaves us thirsty. Done well, it lingers on out pallet, invades our dreams and our work-a-day lives.

You can keep your Non fiction/fiction-fiction. I want to be left mystified. In my own writing, I’ve always stirred in a little something unusual. Whether it be a spring –time blessing that kills and loves equally, a mystical motorcycle goddess, Han’s Christian Andersen’s four winds of the world trying to kill a little girl from Nebraska, a false prophet, or an immigrant landscaper who can see galaxies inside of every dandelion. I try to write stories that will be appreciated by those of us who need that little push over reality’s edge, but resent being shoved in with logic or silly, tired, one-dimensional, cliché, monsters. My hope in writing this blog is to post examples of writings, situations, events and artist who tempt us to look over the side without being pushy. Perhaps a better way to describe the speculative fiction genre is “existential fiction”. That way, we stop thinking of foil hats.


If you’d like to follow me on this journey, I’d love to guide you through some examples that I believe are speculative in nature, stylish and surreal. And, if you’re with me so far, check back from time to time and I’ll post what I’ve found. Or, better still, sign up to be automatically updated whenever I post.