Five Pillars

Chapter One

“Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say,” she read.

I nodded and returned to the essay that needed marks for a concise conclusion. She shifted her weight in her chair.

“You don’t seem too impressed,” she remarked.

I paused and placed my red felt-tip down.

“This is a sci-fi story, right Anna?” I asked.

She nodded vehemently.

“Does the beginning line tie into the rest of the story—is there a situation where you can prove that screams can indeed be heard in space, or something that challenges that statement?”

She wrinkled her nose.

“I think so, but at the same time I wouldn’t ask my mom for help if I didn’t need it,” she grumbled.

Precocious thing.

At just eleven years old, already, she wanted to dive into the world of editing and proof-reading fiction. Though I can’t say eleven is particularly early since I started to write at the age of eight; I didn’t have any guidance.

She could blossom sooner and more brightly under nurturing tutelage, especially with the help of a secondary school English teacher. But as a parent on top of it, it's hard not to cross the line of superseding a child’s freedom of expression. You could vicariously line them up and toss them at a goal, and hurt them immensely in the process.

It is better to tell, not show, I think. That way they can pick it up and run with it.

With her short braid resting at the nape of her neck, gangly legs and inquisitive expression, the world of writing didn’t need to be a place of criticism and hurt feelings. It could be a beautiful place of imagination and exploration—a place of healing and liberation. All she needed was the right tools.

I wanted her to know early on that there is no right or wrong way to write, and that my support is eternal.

She blinked at me.

“Well, how would you write a story that pulls in that first line?” She asked.

I smirked.

“I won’t do the legwork for you, but I can tell you,” I said.

She shrugged, her ruse falling flat. She picked up her notebook and scrutinized it, her eyes probing, staring, searching for an idea between the blue lines. Until finally, she relented and looked at me.

“There are five pillars I consider when writing a sci-fi story,” I began.

She decompressed and rested her chin on her palm, elbow on the table.

“There are many others, but for you, I think five will do. The first is that world building does not need to take up a large monologue at the start of the story, it can be woven throughout. If your protagonist never visits a colony that has a class system you’ve spent hours developing, it is a waste of your resources."

"The beautiful thing about science-fiction is that the genre is more straight forward than fantasy. That means your readers already have an idea of what to expect," I said.

I folded my hands and she nodded, avoiding eye contact still.

“The second is that very often, those that read science-fiction are not fools. They are keen on learning and keen on jumping into a world based in science, but not into a world that explains every invention.”

“Unless your story is following a time traveller who is new to everything around them, let your readers wonder. Let them design their own conclusion for laser rays and flying cars, unless it's pertinent. Not only will that give them space to imagine, it will acknowledge that you, the writer, think of them as just as bright as you are,” I carried on.

Her eyes brightened for a moment as she nodded, but narrowed again to the ground. I smiled, perceiving the twitch in her fingers, as if itching to pick up her pen again.

“The third is that ingenuity and innovation can be keys to science-fiction. If everyone copied Ridley Scott, we would have a lot of recycled stories.”

“But if you look at what Ridley Scott did, you’ll realize that his process was unique, new, and successful because it broke ground. He even went on a tangent and hired a Swiss designer for the monster that later won an Academy Award. Remember that stories are only worth telling if they’re extraordinary and don’t dwell too long on staying in the parameters set by the genre," I resumed.

She livened, grabbing her pen and turning back to me glowing with ideas, I could tell.

“I love the Alien series,” she said eagerly.

“So do I,” I replied. “The fourth is that timing is important. If your protagonist is shooting phaser beams and battling an armada of alien drones, it might not be the best time to describe the economies that exist on Venus. Keep in mind that taking breaks from excitement can help the story, but pulling away from a necessary high can be frustrating for the reader,” I continued, tucking hair behind my ear.

I could feel tears beginning to form as she grinned. I needed to wrap up the lesson before my voice cracked.

“That leads us into the fifth which is to always put your feet into the shoes of your reader. Their experience is just as important as yours. Their feedback can also be very valuable, but beware of sharing early drafts. You can seek out trusted sources that will be honest, but respectful, until you are ready to fully share,” I finished.

She stood up, notebook and pen in hand, and hugged me at the waist. I hugged her back, happily letting tears fall. Whatever writer's block she had, vanished.

“Thanks mom,” she said, quickly turning on her heel to run outside.

Her favourite place to write was the same place I would grade papers—the back porch swing.

As she bounded through the back door, John, my husband, came inside from the front with take out. The smell of spaghetti sauce filled the room, preluding his entrance, and I decided I would postpone dinner to give her some time to write. I gave him a small wave and wiped my eyes.

He sat the food on the table, gave an inquisitive look, and followed my gaze.

“She does look just like you, Anna,” he said, looking at her through the back door.

“She’ll be an excellent writer,” I said, not caring to stifle the pride that gathered in my chest nor silence the sniffle. “She’ll be a better me than I ever could be.”

He turned to me, pulling me into his chest. He smelled of wood smoke and earth. His jacket was the dull corduroy that gathered together from too much chaffing, and I made the mental note to order a new one, maybe plaid wool next. He kissed my forehead.

“Genome enhancements and cloning technology are remarkable.”