Partula’s Aspiration

by Channie Greenberg

“I’m gonna be a model. If not, then a speculative fiction writer. Watch. Poof! You’re a toad.”

“Nope.”

“Okay, maybe you want to be a mollusk? You could be a bivalve or a cephalopod. Hold still while I adjust the bolts that hold your head and neck to your shell. Alternatively, you could become asymmetrical through torsion.”

“Not today, thanks. I’m not a fan of Prometheus or of Shelley. I’ve no wish to risk the disadvantages of salt.”

“Tamed, carnivorous hummingbirds might nibble you to death, otherwise.”

“I’m not afraid.”

“So, neither spells nor weird science or even horrific creatures make you tremble? Do you really think that your body would dissolve bit by bit if rained on with a tableside flavor enhancer?”

“If there’s no element of plausibility in fiction, it’s insufficient. Yes, if I were a snail, I would fear salt.”

“And the sentient Jupiter lobsters, which are hurling toward Earth because they were summoned by a patron of this restaurant, don’t make you want to hide behind the bar with that cute waitress?”

“Her? Hmm. Maybe. I might wait out an apocalypse with her. She doesn’t shed a lot, does she? One must be careful when anthropomorphizing beasts. I once had a gerbil that grew strong as a horse. It was one thing to feed it but another to change its pen’s aspen shavings. These days, even rabid sheep emboldened by neurological chips tend to be worrisome. Hounds, on the other hand —”

“You can pick up the tab.”

“It’s no longer International Women’s Day. I’m not treating.”

“Look at the shadows generated by my shining my cellphone’s light on my face! Spooky?”

“It seems that you need new siding and a roof plug or two.”

“Numpty! In any case, do you think that thunderstorms are superior mood enhancers? Readers’ states of mind appear to be everything to modern writers. Salt!? I can’t believe that reference.”

“No. You additionally need a thorough plot, adequate character development, realistic dialogue, passable descriptive language and all the cousins of those elements of literature. Pepper causes other problems. It’s toxic to cats and harmful to dogs. No seasoning is universally safe. As per mustard—”

“You talk like a language teacher. Next, you’ll be telling me that it’s better to tame literary basics than to domesticate a recently defrosted Majungasaurus crenatissimus. Dinosaurs don’t mind spices. I was anyway hoping to count on my bevy of evil geniuses to fly a saucer. Else, to romance you.”

“Hmm. A spacecraft’s ‘windshield wiper’ ought not to be broken. Don’t forget that disc-shaped transports need functional windshields. Space is dangerous where it’s congested. Per razzamatazz, it’s better to make readers wonder about the nocturnal habits of toddlers than to spiff up jinns in midriff-baring tops and matching, translucent bell-bottoms. What’s more, this meal was supposed to be a business lunch. No one truly knows what dinos experienced.”

“What if some of the jinns are male or are hermaphrodites? Some of the universe’s most interesting beings possess multiple types of genitalia. What if some of the jinns are robots?”

“Feature creep’s no more helpful in narrative than it is in software. Unnecessary convolutions, whether, for instance, in a setting or in a backstory, overcomplicate and confound at best, cause folks to stop scrolling or page-turning, at worst. I won’t ask you to pass the salt cellar. Relax.”

“Meaning, I can’t incorporate my tutu-wearing hippos? I thought this was a date. Believe me, I’d never touch a salt box. Cheapskate!”

“Fleshy twirling by ‘river horses’ won’t get your stranded astronaut off Mars or save you from being a Disney copycat. Tired devices make editors arc their eyes from one side to the other. Plagiarism makes lawyers arc their fees from one stratum to the next. I don’t love you, so why would you assume we’re courting?”

“Writing’s really more taxing than using a push lawnmower? I just want to have fun. And money. Lots of money. Fame, too. I thought we’d wind up at my place. Don’t need love for rubbing bits together.”

“Huh?”

“My Treasury of Martian Pond Scum got rejected. I believe that you can be the hero that rescues me. I’ll pay in nookie. Space opera much?”

“How much research did you invest in your story? Why debase yourself? Why are some folks so self-hating, so misogynous?”

“Fiction’s all about the frontal cortex even without augmentations sourced from worshippers of secret volcanoes.”

“Oceanic or land? Cinder cone? Composite? Lava dome?”

“No one cares. Besides, gatekeepers give the impression that they’re deaf to the tunes that my not-so-microscopic beasts sound on boomwhackers.”

“That’s great!”

“That editors are insensitive eyas? You sure you’re passing on our roll in the hay? Why limit ourselves to hay? We could use slime.”

“Focus! You’ve introduced a realistic concept. You’ll be able to invite your readers to engage in your tale if you expand upon it.”

“?”

“Boomwhackers. Brilliant! Usually, the notion of ‘lightweight, colorful tubes’ is associated with ‘flotation devices.’”

“That gets my tarn critters published, how? Seriously, you’re not paying for lunch? This meeting is becoming increasingly upsetting.”

“Boomwhackers are a hook. Think of Peter Pan, The Captive Princess, or Captain Jack Sparrow. No, I’m not paying. You’re one off, in general, per your expectations.”

“You mean, Pirates of the Caribbean? But what about my pond scum? My red planet? My domination of the entire galaxy? This lunch’s bill?”

“The scum will suffer collateral damage. You said you embrace violence. I think that your tutu-wearing, always-hungry hippos might just open wide and—”

“What a wasted afternoon! Salt, yes, but bonking, no. Such a loss!”

“You got a response from me. Moreover, I usually don’t make time for long meals. Rarely do I share them, except when I prepare escargot. Sorry, that’s in bad taste, even though it tastes good.”

“Well, this lunch hasn’t been what I anticipated but, at least through it, I’ve become a master fictioneer. Watch me wave my eyes over my laptop. I brought it along. Voilà !”

“Your screen’s filled with paragraphs brimming with atomic war planes, half-naked people, and fiery demons. Where’s the mastery?”

“They’re going to eat the people. I need to show vast amounts of Earthlings’ skin to get published. At least other editors understand that currency.”

“Not all evil enjoys chowing on humans. Not all editors encourage cheap thrills. Humans-as-dinner has been done too many times.”

“It’s the planes, not the demons, that are eating the mammalian viscera; that’s how they fuel. Soylent Green was never half as fascinating.”

“Why?”

“Wattaya mean ‘why’? ’Cause that gore was meant to underscore some ecological theme. My gore is gore for gore’s sake. Violence sells. Sex, too. Oops, you’re not into that. No congress with aliens, right? Anyway, maybe, some of the people in my story ought to be fully naked. Maybe they should be intimate with the demons.”

“That’s sick! Your writing would be improved if you fully dressed your characters and then sent them searching through the planes’ wreckage instead of making them participate in an orgy. Then, once a group of your people is close to a broken, horizontal stabilizer, you could introduce a mechanical appendage shooting out of an umbilicus.”

“Why not out of the vertical stabilizer or the fuselage? More to the point, if my players are digging around ruins, they won’t be able to occupy themselves with searching for an ancient civilization’s turquoise power stone. Wait, no love darts or any asexual reproduction?? Boring.”

“Mixed tropes? Crossing genre boundaries is not the same as the sloppy use of—”

“I yield. Do you even care that I can make an extreme pomegranate mojito mocktail? It’s no dirty cocktail. I stick to the recipe. I should have stuck to working at this place’s bar instead of taking my new job. This place serves detritivores!”

“On a plate or in a bowl? Sorry. So gullible. Regardless, speculative fiction, whether Hugo-Award winning, “mere” pulp, or both, has particular ingredients. Publishers demand them. Readers anticipate them. Flash fiction, for example, can start just before the climax, but longer forms need rising action. The nature of ‘good’ can be gently nuanced and it’s important to—”

“Rhetorical eroticism? You’d have me believe that aliens, or other types of tentacled threats are nothing relative to all manner of samples from the Kama Sutra? I am so confused by your intentions and predilections. Please sidle a bit more slowly.”

“And, you, please take the next exit off the adolescent freeway. Stick to local streets to arrive at publishable works. Good stories often have just a single element that seems astonishing. I challenge you to stop thinking, for an hour, about sexual entendres.”

“What?”

“Rewriting is key. Partula, you can be a good writer. You just need to work at it. Until then, as long as you stay my assistant, you’ll retain financial security. Establishing yourself as a writer could take years or decades. Receiving sufficient funding for your work to release all other employment, though, might never happen.”

“Accordingly, I ought to pay less for backdrops, forgo sequins, and fashion realistic conversations? What do you mean ‘assistant’? I thought, when I was hired five years ago, it was to run your office. I know I’m a slow learner, but I never considered myself your ‘assistant.’ In point of fact, I was hoping I had become your muse. I like my attributed qualities and thought you did, too.”

“That so? When writing, keep the tulle on your semiaquatic ungulates, the viciousness in your mechanical, man-eating wrecks, and the spelunking habits of your Jupiter lobsters.”

“What about my seafaring criminals?”

“Ever consider how gruesome it might be to have a large, dark bird fly into your workspace and accuse you of murder? Evermore?”

“I took my nepenthe today. Hence, I have no qualms about corvids.”

“About writing speculative fiction? About getting it published? About advancing in your career? About moving out of the ‘assistant’ role?”

“Nah. Shared copulation is overrated, I suppose. I do grasp, as well, that wishful thinking is toxic dandelion fluff and that it’s far worse than ethylene glycol or salt. Ugh, I can’t believe we’ve been talking salt. I grasp, as well, that to write successful speculative fiction I must remove myself from my cerebral, self-warming pod and then sprinkle liberal amounts of both fairy dust and greenbacks at editors. Trouble is, I’m currently out of pixie product, and I don’t have enough in my account even to pay for my half of lunch. Starter rents are crazy.”

“Pull that gastropod foot away from me. It’s slimy. I’ll pay. Just remember, on this planet romance is based on attraction, and writing must be remarkably good.”