Tip of the Week: It's = it is.

Its = belongs to it.

Reason for the confusion: until sometime in the 19th Century, the possessive pronoun for 'it' was 'his'. That's why we (correctly) say, 'Every dog has his day,' which is an old proverb. The 19th Century was full of grammar nazis. Blame them and the uselessness of spellcheckers.

When you write, you tell people a lot about the world you're describing by what is assumed in the narrative.

I smiled at her. She didn't smile back. Mrs Jaderlund was on the favorable side of fifty, and she had ice in her eyes as well as on her wrists. But as I said, the purse was interesting. It looked like its contents might be promising, and the detective agency Jamey Wright and I operated was sorely in need of capital.

Okay, you think. This is a typical noir story, 1940s or 1950s, American, by the language. There are assumptions here: rich people can send detectives on journeys. Women with missing husbands – Mrs Jaderlund's husband is missing, that's why she's in the office – may not like what they find out. Particularly middle-aged women with 'ice' in their eyes. 'Ice on her wrists' just means she's wearing expensive jewellery, another hint to the way the society views capitalism. So you're set to enjoy a detective story, right? Read on:

'Would you mind telling me why you picked us?'

She shrugged. 'You seemed to be my only alternative. When I went to the police, they claimed
the case was out of their jurisdiction now, and that I would have to take it up with the Interplanetary Authorities. Frankly, I didn't favor the idea of so much red tape.'

'Garden of Evil' by Henry Slesar, Amazing Science Fiction Stories, vol 32, number 8, 1958, p 5.

The galacto-penny drops (unless you're in zero-g). This is one of those 1950s science fiction stories. 1950s science fiction stories from the US frequently start with a world familiar to 1950s US readers: Cold War America. Then they add on the 'science fiction'. Words like 'Interplanetary' and such. The planet the detectives are headed to has a numerical designation. Stuff like that. 1950s science fiction makes a lot of assumptions. One of them is that, wherever you go, there's a binary relationship between men and women that doesn't change much. Yes, men are real men, women are real women, and small, furry creatures from Alpha Centauri are real small, furry creatures from Alpha Centauri, as somebody wrote once.

Writing starts with assumptions. That's why you always want to set the scene as quickly as possible – so your readers know what universe they're in. Yeah, yeah, it's a dark and stormy night. But on what continent? On what planet? How many fingers on the hand that's lighting the candelabrum?

Be careful with those assumptions. I'm not the only person who puts down a book or a story after a couple of paragraphs if I realise the author is making assumptions I either can't follow or find distasteful. Do you remember the quotation from the other week, where Philip K Dick had his character say 'jejune' and state that overweight women were dangerous characters? That was okay, because it was his character who said it, and it's a good hint that we shouldn't overinvest our sympathy in that character. But if the author implies that he believes nonsense like that, we go away quickly.

Implied assumptions are what makes genre fiction so acceptable to lazy readers. The idea that ethical issues are always clearcut, for example, informs (or misinforms) a great deal of cowboy fiction and fantasy fiction alike. Even the 'good' stuff. Go back and watch High Noon again. Yeah, it's a parable of the Cold War. It's also simplistic, as any Quaker would tell you.

So, this week's lesson: pay attention to your implied world. Lean into it or contradict it as you see fit. Just be aware of what you're doing.

And Now, for Something Completely Different

While searching the internet archive for a suitable example for this week's column, I stumbled across this magnificent editorial in the same issue of Amazing Science Fiction Stories as above. Remember: this was 1958, the US, during the Cold War. And this happened:

It Began With A Letter From The Russians –


– from the editors of a Russian science fiction magazine called Znanie-Sila. The letter began with: Let's get acquainted, and ended with: We . . . do not know enough about american science fiction . . . so let's get to know each other better. We . . . shall publish the best American science fiction, while you can introduce young Americans to the science fiction of Soviet writers and scientists who contribute to our magazine. Will you accept our offer?

Sure, why not? So we contacted the Russian Embassy in Washington and asked for details. We were given another number to call and the assurance that we would be cordially received. We called the number over a three-day period and finally raised a Washington housewife who was just back from spending a week with her mother in Cleveland. We called the Embassy again and they said they'd never heard of the number they gave us the first time, but here was a different one and long live science fiction. The second number bore fruit in the form of assurances from the man at the other end that Mr. Kurochkim was handling that bit and while he wasn't in at the moment, he'd call us back. We waited two days and called again. Mr. Kurochkim was out to lunch. Three days later (it was getting to be a habit now) we put in another call. The elusive Mr. Kurochkim was in Maryland. We were going to call again this morning, but over the week end there came the report that a Mr. Kurochkim had been requested (by U. S. authorities) to leave the country because of, we understood, some sort of illegal activity. Now, whether this Kurochkim was our boy or not, we don't know. Maybe that name is equivalent to Smith over here. And we'll never find out because the phone bill is getting too high.


So we tried to get you some Russian science fiction and while we didn't succeed, we hope you'll give us an A for effort. –

PWF [Paul W Fairman]

There are worlds of implied assumptions in that editorial. And it's very enlightening.

Paul W Fairman (1909-1969), when not editing and trying to chase down Russians, wrote detective and science fiction. His 1952 short story 'Brothers Beyond the Void' was adapted by Rod Serling for the Twilight Zone episode 'People Are Alike All Over'.

Writing Right with Dmitri Archive

Dmitri Gheorgheni

04.02.19 Front Page

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