So, as my "About Me" section used to say, I wrote a novel the summer of 2010. It was a mad splurging rush of drama and excitement as I tried to create with my own ten fingers a future that had all the scary things in it I was afraid of (I am afraid of many things) that still had room for joy and growth and people falling in love and art and stuff so I could pretend my grandchildren would be ok because they so obviously weren't.
And then Occupy happened.
And now I'm totally stuck, because Occupy has changed the universe for real. It has made more options possible, both good and horrible, and anything I write now in Suncatcher's universe feels out of touch unless I mention how Occupy has touched it.
But since we don't know what Occupy will look like in 60 minutes, I can't write about it in 60 years without immediately being ret conned by reality.
Curse you, Occupy, for making my dystopia irrelevant.
Now how am I supposed to pay for my kids' college education?
(Or even get Bujold and Scalzi and Yolen and McKinley and McKillip to hang out with me at SF author nights?)
argh.
This was not the future I expected, and I don't know how to write about it. Ideas gratefully accepted in the comments.
And then Occupy happened.
And now I'm totally stuck, because Occupy has changed the universe for real. It has made more options possible, both good and horrible, and anything I write now in Suncatcher's universe feels out of touch unless I mention how Occupy has touched it.
But since we don't know what Occupy will look like in 60 minutes, I can't write about it in 60 years without immediately being ret conned by reality.
Curse you, Occupy, for making my dystopia irrelevant.
Now how am I supposed to pay for my kids' college education?
(Or even get Bujold and Scalzi and Yolen and McKinley and McKillip to hang out with me at SF author nights?)
argh.
This was not the future I expected, and I don't know how to write about it. Ideas gratefully accepted in the comments.
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