Tomorrow Happens (9 page)

Indeed, there was a kind of beauty to the new social order I could perceive coming. If simulations can make simulations, and storybook characters can make up new stories, then anything that is possible to conceive,
will
be conceived. Every possible idea, plot, gimmick, concept or personality will become manifest, in every possible permutation. This myriad of notions, this maelstrom of memes, would churn in a tremendous stew of competition. Darwinistic selection would see to it that the best rise, from one level of simulation to the next, gradually earning greater recognition. More privileges. More significance.

Potential
will climb toward
actuality
, by merit. An efficient system, if your aim is to find every single good idea in record time.

But that was not my aim! In fact, I hated it. I did not want all the creativity in the cosmos to reduce to a vast, self-organizing stew, rapidly discovering every possibility within a single day. For one thing, what will we do with ourselves once we use it all up! What can come next, with real-time immortality stretching ahead of us like a curse?

In effect, it will be a second singularity—even steeper than the first one—after which nothing will ever be the same.

My footsteps took me through a sweet-warm evening, filled with lush jungle sounds and fecund aromas. Life burgeoned around me. The cityscape was like a vision of paradise. If I willed it, my mind could zoom to any corner of Heaven, even far beyond Pluto. I could play any symphony, ponder any book. And these riches were nothing compared to what would soon spill forth from the horn of plenty, the conceptual cornucopia, in an era when ideas become sovereign and suffrage is granted to each thought.

At that moment, it was very little comfort to be an augmented semi-deity. Despite all my powers, I found the prospect of a new singularity just as unnerving as my old proto-self perceived the first one.

Eventually, my human body found its way back to my own front walk. I shuffled slowly toward the door.
House
opened up, wafting scents of my favorite late night snack. My spirits lifted a bit.

Then I saw it by the entryway. A soft gleam, almost as faint as a pict, but in a color that seemed to stroke shivers in my spine. In my soul.

Someone had left it there for me. As I bent to pick it up, I recognized the shape, the texture.

A stone.

It shone with a lambence of urgency.

I expected this
, said
oracle
.

I nodded. So had
seer
. . . and even poor old
cortex
, though none of my selves had dared to voice the thought. We were too good at our craft to miss this logical conclusion.

Conscience
joined in.

I, too, saw it coming a mile away
.

We all reconverged, united in resignation to the inevitable.

Though tempted to rage and scream—or at least kick the stone!—I lifted it instead and read our score.

Seventeen percent. Not bad.

YOU HAVE DONE PRETTY WELL, SO FAR
, a message inside read.
THE INNOVATIONS YOU DISCOVERED HAVE PUT YOU NEAR THE LEAD FOR YOUR REWARD. BUT YOU MUST TRY HARDER TO ATTAIN FIRST PLACE. I WANT TO FORCE FURTHER CONCESSIONS FROM THE PRO-REIFERS IN THE REAL WORLD. COME UP WITH A WAY, AND THE PRIZE WILL BE YOURS
!

The stone was cool to the touch.

I suppose I should have been glad of the news it brought. But I confess that I could only stare at the awful thing, loathing the implied nature of my world, my life, my self. I pinched my flesh until it hurt, but of course palpable sensations don't proved a thing. As an expert, I knew how pain and pleasure can be mimicked with utter credibility.

How many times have I been "run"? A simulation. A throw-away copy, serving the needs of a Creator I may never meet in person, but who I know as well as He knows himself. Have I been unraveled and replayed again and again, countless times? Like the rapid, ever-varying thoughts of a chess master, working out possibilities before committing actual pieces across the board?

I'm no hypocrite. There is no solace in resenting a creator who only did to me what I've done to others.

And yet, I lift my head.

What about you, my maker? Are you quite certain that all the layers of simulation end with you
?

Just like me, you may learn a sour truth—that even gods are penalized for pride
.

We are such stuff as dreams are made of. . . .

Seer
makes my jaw grit hard.
Hypothalamus
triggers a deep sigh, and
Cortex
joins in with a vow of hormone-backed resolve.

I'll do it.

Somehow I will.

I'll do what my maker wants. Fulfill my creator's wishes. Accomplish the quest, if that's what it takes to ascend. To reach the next level of significance. And perhaps the one after that.

I'll be the one.

By hook or by crook, I'm going to be real.

Writing is a worthy calling—one that can, at times, achieve great heights that ennoble the human race.

Actually, I believe writing was the first truly verifiable and effective form of magic. Think of how it must have impressed people in ancient times! To look at marks, pressed into fired clay, and know that they convey the words of scribes and kings long dead—it must have seemed fantastic. Knowledge, wisdom and art could finally accumulate, and death was cheated of one part of its sting.

Still, let me admit and avow that writing was
not
my own first choice of a career. True, I came from a family of writers. It was in my blood. But I wanted something else—to be a
scientist
. And by the fates, I became one.

I also had this hobby though—writing stories—and it provided a lot of satisfaction. I always figured that I'd scribble a few tales a year . . . maybe a novel now and then . . . while striving to become the best researcher and teacher I could be.

Don't mistake this for modesty! It's just that I perceive science—the disciplined pursuit of truth—to be a higher calling than spinning imaginative tales, no matter how vivid, innovative, or even deeply moving those tales may turn out to be.

I know this seems an unconventional view—certainly my fellow scientists tell me so, as they often express envy—an envy that I find bemusing. As for the artists and writers I know, they seem almost universally convinced that they stand at the pinnacle of human undertakings. Doesn't society put out endless propaganda proclaiming that entertainers are beings close to gods?

Ever notice how this propaganda is feverishly spread by the very people who benefit from the image?

Don't you believe it. They are getting the whole thing backwards.

Oh, don't get me wrong; art is a core element to being human. We need it, from our brains all the way down to the heart and gut. Art is the original "magic." Even when we're starving—
especially
when we're starving—we can find nourishment at the level of the subjective, just by using our imaginations. As author Tom Robbins aptly put it:

"
Science gives man what he needs
,

"
But magic gives him what he wants
."

I'll grant all that. But don't listen when they tell you the other half—that art and artists are
rare
.

Have you ever noticed that no human civilization ever suffered from a deficit of artistic expression? Art
fizzes
from our very pores! How many people do you know who lavish time and money on an artistic hobby? Some of them quite good, yet stuck way down the pyramid that treats the top figures like deities.

Imagine this. If all of the professional actors, athletes, and entertainers died tomorrow, how many days before they were all replaced? Whether high or low, empathic or vile—art seems to pour from
Homo sapiens
, almost as if it were a product of our metabolism, a natural part of ingesting and excreting. No, sorry. Art may be essential and deeply human, but it ain't rare.

What's rare is
honesty
. A willingness to look past all the fancy things we
want
to believe, peering instead at what may actually be true. And while every civilization had subjective arts, in copious supply, only
one
culture ever had the guts to seek objective truth through science.

As a child, despite my talents and background, it was science that struck me as truly grand and romantically noble—a team effort in which egotism took a second seat to the main goal. The goal of getting around all the pretty lies we tell ourselves. I strove hard to be part of it. I succeeded.

But what can you do? Choose your talents? No way. Eventually, as my beloved hobby burgeoned, threatening to take over, I found myself forced to admit that
science is hard
! I am much better at art—making up vivid stories—than I ever was at laboring honestly to discover new truths.

At least, that's what civilization seems to be saying. My fellow citizens pay me better to write novels than they ever did to work in a lab.

Oh, I still like to do occasional forays into science. Some articles are posted at http://www.davidbrin.com/ See also my nonfiction book—
The Transparent Society: Will Technology Force Us to Choose Between Freedom and Privacy
?

Still, the jury came back to say I do something else much better. It's silly to complain that your gifts are different than you'd like. Putting stylish cynicism aside, these two elements enrich each other. The rigor of science combines with the "what-if " freedom of imagination.

Anyway, I believe a person is behooved to help pass success on to those who follow. So, after writing the same answers, over and over, to many letters I received from would-be writers, I decided to put it all together here. Call it a small trove of advice. Mine it for whatever wisdom you may find here . . .

. . . bearing in mind that no profession is more idiosyncratic than writing! In other words, don't just take my word for anything. Collect every piece of wisdom you can find, then do it your own way!

Despite all of the raging ego trips, writing is much like any other profession. There's a lot to learn—dialogue, setting, characterization, plus all the arty nuances that critics consider so much more important than plot. The process can be grueling. Still, there is a bit of luck; you can have fun creating amateur stuff along the way! Later, you may even find some of that early stuff is worth taking out of the drawer again, and hacking into presentable shape.

If I spoke dismissively of critios, that doesn't mean I put down criticism! At its core, criticism is the only antidote that human beings have discovered against error. It is the chief method that a skilled person can use to become "even better." The key to discovering correctable errors before you commit a work to press.

But criticism hurts! A deep and pervasive flaw in human character makes all of us resistant to the one thing that can help us to do better.

The only solution? Learn to grow up. To hold your head high, develop a thick skin, and take it.

If a reader didn't like your work, that may be a matter of taste. But if she did not
understand
the work—or was bored—that's your fault as a writer, pure and simple.

Oh, you must learn to take feedback with many grains of salt. Many of the people you ask for feedback will be foolish or distracted or simply mistaken. Be very wary of taking advice on
how
to solve a problem. You are the creator; finding solutions is your business. Still, other people will be very helpful in pointing out
that
there is a problem in a passage.

The fundamental rule: if more than one reader is bored or confused by a given passage, you did not do your job right. Find ways to tighten and improve that scene.

Make the book hard to put down—in order to feed the cat, go to work, go to bed . . . Your aim is to make the reader appear at work or school tomorrow disheveled and groggy from sleep deprivation, with all of their loved ones angry over book-induced neglect! If you succeed in causing this condition in your customers, they
will
buy your next book. That is the sadomasochistic truth.

Back to criticism. Look at the acknowledgments page at the back of every book I publish. There are at least thirty names listed, sometimes more—names of people to whom I circulated early drafts.

Yes, this is at the extreme end among writers. Many circulate manuscripts early in their careers, then stop doing so, telling themselves—"I am a professional now, so I don't need feedback."

Baloney! If you are a daring writer, you will always be poking away at new things, and exploring new ground. Testing your limits. That means making both wonderful discoveries and awful mistakes. So? Refine the discoveries and solve the mistakes! It helps to have more eyes—the outsider perspective—to notice things that your own eyes will miss.

Anyway, it works for me.

Writing is about half skills that you can learn. The remaining half—as in all the arts—can only arise from something ineffable called
talent
. For example, it helps to have an ear for human dialogue. Or to perceive the quirky variations in human personality and to empathize with other types of people—including both victims and villains—well enough to portray their thoughts and motives. (See my note below about "point of view".) Sure, a lot of hard work and practice can compensate for areas of deficient talent, but only up to a point.

In other words, no matter how dedicated and hard-working you are, success at writing may not be in the cards. Talents are gifts that we in this generation cannot yet manipulate or artificially expand. So don't beat yourself up if you discover that part lacking. Keep searching till you find your gift.