I know that within my lifetime, the popular view of science fiction has changed for a lot of people. These days, TV Guide dedicates an entire issue to the new and returning genre shows — there are that many.

So, do science fiction fans still need to be defensive? Is SF still seen as “lurid, fantastic and nonsensical trash”? My answer would be, it depends on who you talk to.

I think overall, more people are open to science fiction, in part because so much of what used to be science fiction is science fact. Also, I think it some cases the quality of science fiction has improved a great deal from the early years, in part to Campbell’s work as editor of Astounding Science Fiction.

But to this day, I still meet people who are turned off by the term science fiction and use it to mean “junk.” I still meet people who won’t watch a TV show like Stargate SG-1 or Lost or Heros because it smacks too much of science fiction.

However, it seems clear that TV and movie executives are totally OK with SF if it has a strong plot.

But what of literature? I don’t see a lot of SF novels on the best seller list these days. Fantasy and horror sometimes make it, but rarely SF. Then again, I could be wrong. It’s not like I have my finger on the pulse of publishing or anything.

No matter how you look at it, I don’t feel the need to be defensive about my passion for science fiction. I wear it proudly.

What about you?

Is is all semantics? Here’s what I think.

Science fiction is a subset of speculative fiction, which also includes fantasy, magic realism and sometimes even horror. Speculative fiction encompasses all fiction that speculates on something that isn’t accepted as fact today (an outpost on Mars, sorcery, magical coincidence, ghosts, etc.) and treats it as a fact within the story.

Science fiction is more specific. It is a fiction that speculates on scientific concepts and theories, or at least pretends to. There is a fuzzy line there. The Barsoom novels are kind of science fiction, but are also purely fantasy (I mean really, a placental human successfully mates with a monotreme Martian?).

Now, just to let you know where I’m coming from, I tend to be a very tolerant, easy going person. I don’t like fighting and tend to find common ground when I can. Maybe that’s why I just don’t see what all the fuss over “science fiction” vs. “speculative fiction” is all about. I think they can coexist peacefully. What do you think?

“Today, of course, anyone with a credit card can trumpet his or her obsession. You can get T-shirts, you can get posters, you can buy books dissecting and analyzing your favorite obsession to the nth degree,” he writes. “What’s more, marketing has discovered there’s gold to be made from fans— lots of latinum, if you will.”

Once upon a time, being a fan and finding others who shared your fannish interests was a challenge. Today, you can find books, TV shows, movies, conventions and more to fill this need. All your really need is an interest, time and money.

My question is, just because fandom has become a bit more “main stream” does it cease to be fandom? When I look at all the kinds of fandom out there, it still seems that the science fiction flavor is still quite different that other flavors.

What do you think?

Introduction

C.S. Pothitt will be giving a speech from the advanced manual “The Professional Speaker.” The first speech in this manual is the Keynote Address, which she has prepared for us today.

She will be transporting us into the future.

The year: 1999.

The event: The first ever Sonoma County/North Bay Science Fiction Convention.

Ms. Pothitt has worked long and hard to make this convention a reality. This is a dream project of hers, and she has prepared today’s speech for this future occasion. Let’s welcome C.S. Pothitt . . . .

Keynote Address

Welcome to the first annual Sonoma County/North Bay Science Fiction Convention, Sonomacon! This convention was born out of a love affair with science fiction.

Like most of you here, I became interested in science fiction at an early age. I was probably five years old when I walked down stairs to where my father was watching T.V. On the screen a space ship was flying across a sheet of stars.

I asked my father what he was watching, and he replied, “Star Trek.”

I asked him, “What’s that?”

He told me, “Wait for a commercial.”

I sat down beside him and proceeded not to wait for a commercial. I prodded him with questions like: “What’s he doing now?” “Why’s she doing that?” and “I don’t understand what’s going on!”

He didn’t get to pay much attention to that episode.

That was the beginning of a life-long interest in science fiction and fantasy. Later, my father introduced me to the likes of Isaac Asimov, Ray Bradbury and J.R.R. Tolkien.

I remember the first Asimov book I read. It was The Currents of Space. Then I started the robot novels: The Caves of Steel, The Naked Sun, etc.

I watched science fiction on television: Star Trek, Lost in Space, Quark — how many of you remember that one? — Space 1999, and more. You name it; I watched it.

When Star Wars came to the screen, I was ecstatic. I saw it at the theatre by Howarth Park in Santa Rosa; then I saw it again on the big, extra-wide screen in San Francisco; and then I saw it a third time for my 13th birthday party. Now I know that seeing a movie three times isn’t very much for some, but it’s quite a bit for me. I rarely pay to see a movie in a theatre more than once.

I was Star Wars crazy. I collected the comic books; I got a T-shirt (with Han Solo, of course), I got the poster and cut out any pictures and articles I found in magazines and newspapers about the movie.

I still have a box containing my science fiction collection. In it I have, among other things, a Captain Cosmic T-shirt (remember him? He was played by the Creature Features guy on channel 2 and aired various sci fi movies and series from Japan?), and a Cylon raider. It has been unarmed. Apparently, people were having problems with kids eating and choking on the projectiles.

But I’m not really here to reminisce. I’m here to welcome you to Sonomacon and let you in on some the behind-the-scenes information about it.

It all began in the summer of 1992. I had had a hard year. I just finished my first year of graduate school at the University of Maryland. And I had lost some people who I had really hoped to meet someday. First, Dr. Seuss died. Then Isaac Asimov — one of my top three favorite authors. And then Gene Roddenberry.

It was the 25th anniversary of Star Trek, and sci fi was beginning to see a strong resurgence on the television.

I came home for the summer. My mom, who at that time had just discovered the wonders of books-on-tape at the library, turned me on to a copy of The Martian Chronicles read by Ray Bradbury himself.

I went to the library and put a hold on the set. Within a week, it had come in and I went to pick it up.

A chill went down my spine when I noticed the dates next to Mr. Bradbury’s name: 1920 – 1991.

My heart stopped. I could feel tears wanting to form in my eyes. I asked the librarian what those dates meant — knowing full well what they were supposed to mean.

“They usually mean the year of birth and death,” he said. Just as I had feared.

“Ray Bradbury is dead? He can’t be! I would have noticed that,” I exclaimed, while trying to hold back those sudden tears.

The librarian got a consternated expression on his face and tried to remember hearing about it himself. He couldn’t remember.

Well to make a long story short, we looked at various sources and found that he had a speaking engagement in January of 1992, so we knew that you couldn’t be dead. Our hypothesis was that someone got him confused with Gene Roddenberry and got the year wrong as well (I guess there is some resemblance, they both have the letter “R” in their name, their last names both end with a “berry” sound and they’re both involved with science fiction.)

I was much relieved and at that moment I decided to write Mr. Bradbury a letter. I was not going to let him die before I had a chance to contact him.

Trust me, this is going someplace, and someplace relevant.

Now let’s go on to the Fall semester 1993. It was my final semester at the University of Maryland College Park. And I was very much enjoying it, not only because it was almost over, not only because I was to soon return to beautiful — and warm — California, but because I was taking a class called “Science Fiction in American Culture.”

I adored this class. We studied the history and sociology of science fiction and how it reflected both the culture of its readers and of American as a whole.

It was also during this semester that I went to one of the best Star Trek conventions I had ever been to and saw Leonard Nimoy speak.

And then, one day, I went to catch the Wednesday $1 movie at the campus theatre. And low and behold, announced on the back of the schedule, it announced that Ray Bradbury was going to be giving a talk at the theatre in one week. (I told you my Ray Bradbury story was leading somewhere!)

My heart stopped. I couldn’t believe it. I was going to be able to be in the same room with my all time favorite, number one author.

His lecture was wonderful and inspiring. He suggested that we follow our dreams and not let anyone detour us from our dreams. He even advocated that if we had any “friends” who didn’t believe in us, we should fire them.

I agreed with everything he said. And I took hope and courage from the tale of his life, for I was just like him. And if he could make it, I could too.

After the talk, Ray Bradbury gave autographs. I waited in line like the rest and internally rehearsed what I wanted to say to him. I was going to ask his advice in getting published. However, when I finally got there, all my rehearsals disappeared. All I could do was smile and answer questions, or make the random lame comment.

Luckily, grasped tightly in one hand, was a letter I had written after I heard he was going to be on campus. I handed it to him — personally. It was that letter I had decided to write so many months before. He took it graciously and said that he would read it later. He signed my copy of Zen in the Art of Writing, and I went on. I felt like such a dummy. All those things I wanted to ask him evaporated in his presence. It was weird. I’m normally a rather in control person.

Now jump back to the class I was taking, Science Fiction in American Culture. I’m pumped and excited about my future. I’m realizing that science fiction brings me joy that nothing else does. And my interest is being validated by both my idols and a graduate level class!

It was out of this class that the seed for this convention was planted. And it was the nurturing words of Ray Bradbury that gave me the permission and the courage to dream.

I was excited about the ideas only hinted at in this class. I realized that the information covered could easily be expanded into many classes.

That summer, 1993, when I got home, I proposed three different science fiction courses to the SRJC’s Community Education program.

It was also that summer that the Sci Fi Channel came to my cable company. Oh Joy! I was so excited. All I needed to do if I wanted to watch TV was turn to the Sci Fi Channel and it was usually showing something I wanted to watch.

Also that summer — notice how things just seem to come together? — I heard that Creation, the organization that had been bringing Star Trek conventions to Santa Rosa, was no longer going to do so. Something about not a big enough market.

I was shocked. I knew in my soul that there was a strong science fiction audience in Sonoma County and the North Bay. I wanted to be an active part of this community, but I didn’t want to have to go to San Francisco — or further — to do so. In addition, I knew how fun conventions could be and I wanted people here, in the Sonoma County/North Bay area, to experience that.

Maybe, I thought, the problem wasn’t the audience in this area, but the way the convention had been marketed and planned. I decided that what was needed was a more all-inclusive convention. A convention where everyone from the hardcore sci fi fan to the more moderate fan, from the younger to the older, from the reader to the watcher, could all come together and share their love of science fiction. I wanted it to be a convention my mother would enjoy. I wanted it to be a convention where people could be proud of their interest in science fiction.

I wanted it to be a convention where the news coverage wouldn’t be “Look at all the weirdoes gathered together!”

Now the commitment to the idea has been planted. I needed a target date. When was this convention going to happen?

I decided an anniversary of some kind would be good for marketing. So I did some research.

It turned out that the first planned science fiction convention took place in Leeds in 1937. The first American convention was in 1938. And the first Worldcon took place in 1939. All these dates meant that a 50th anniversary was coming up soon.

Now remember, it was close to the end of 1993 by now. The earliest anniversary only gave me three years to prepare, and it was more obscure. I decided on this year, 1999 for three main reasons:

1. It was the 50th Anniversary of the Worldcon. I figured this would be marketed relatively heavily because it was such a big deal. I wanted in on that fervor.

2. Having the convention in 1999 gave me about six years to prepare. I needed to build credibility, reputation and a support base. I couldn’t do this convention alone.

3. 1999 is such a perfect science fiction year! So many stories are placed in this year. It is also the year people are looking to the future. The year 2000 is literally around the corner!

And so, from then on its history. I started writing articles about science fiction, I got my stories published, I started a local science fiction club, I taught classes and I even produced a PBS show on the history of science fiction.

And now, today, this weekend, my dream is coming true. But I know that it is not just my dream, but your dream as well.

In summary, what I’m really trying to do here is encourage you to follow your dreams. Go for it. What’s the worst that can happen? The dream won’t come true. But at least you tried. You can be proud of that. It will never come true if you don’t try. And you’ll live your life in a science fiction dream of “What if?”

So I am now very happy and proud to open up this, the very first — of many — annual Sonomacon!

And, oh, Ray Bradbury replied to my letter.

A continuous theme in science fiction is humankind’s relation to “the machine.” The machine is symbolic of “the Other” which helps define “the Self.” The Other helps make the boundaries between Self and not-Self more clear, but the Other can also threaten the existence of the Self. In science fiction, the Other is often some representation of technology.

Science fiction often challenges the concepts of what is Self, what is Other and whether there really is a distinction. It asks: What happens to one’s image of oneself when a machine begins to acquire human characteristics? If machine intelligence can perform the functions of human intelligence, are we then nothing more than machines?

Computers are compelling machines. They are “stupid” in that they only do what you tell them to do. But they are “smart” because they are thinking machines. Sherry Turkle, in her book The Second Self , suggests that computers are mirrors, reflecting what is already inside the user. In one respect, the computer is Other. It is separate, distinct. It is not connected, physically, to the user. But if it is a mirror, then it is at the same time an integral part of the user, psychologically.

She continued, “The simplest force that makes the computer seem more than a machine among other machines is its behavior…. It is hard to capture the computer by seeing it in terms of familiar objects or processes that existed before it was invented.” (p. 272). Of all the machines we have created, the computer is the most like us. Computers are made of logic. And thinking about the core of a machine as logic leads people to thinking of the computer as mind. People tend to have strong opinions about artificial intelligence:

“The vehemence of response expresses our stake in maintaining the line between the natural and the artificial, between the human and the mechanical. Discussion about computers becomes charged with feelings about what is special about people: their creativity, their sensuality, their pain and pleasure. But paradoxically, when faced with a machine that shows any degree of ‘intelligence,’ many of these same people seem pulled toward treating the machine as though it were a person.” (Turkle, 1984, p. 271)

Computers don’t look like people, they don’t walk around and they don’t have faces. So, what happens when a computer brain is placed in a humanoid shell?

In his robot stories and novels, Isaac Asimov explored the robot other. Because his robots were ruled by the three laws of robotics, they were benevolent. They freed humankind from doing the drudgery work. But not all tales of robots are optimistic. There is the fear that robots will replace us, leaving us with no reason to exist. In movies like Westworld, Futureworld, The Day the Earth Stood Still, and The Terminator, robots are a menace to humankind. They are relentless, virtually unstoppable foes bent on the hero or heroine’s destruction.

When a robot is humaniform — is indistinguishable from a person — the fear can be even stronger. How can you fight an enemy when you can’t recognize it? How can you recognize the Other when it looks just like the Self?

Asimov explored this idea in his novella “The Bicentennial Man,” in which a robot seeks to become human. According to Warrick (1980), the implication of “The Bicentennial Man”

is that a line between the animate and the inanimate, the organic and the inorganic, cannot be drawn. If the fundamental materials of the universe are matter, energy, and information patterns (or intelligence), then man is not unique. He exists on a continuum with all intelligence… (p. 73)

However, if a humaniform robot is physically superior to a human, will it try to eradicate us? Turkle poses the question, “Can an intelligence without a living body, without sexuality, ever really understand human beings?” (pp. 19-20). Will what makes humans special and unique as a life form be treasured or reviled by robots? Phillip K. Dick, in this novel Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?, asked the question “When does a machine cease to be a machine and start to be alive?” His robots, or replicants, were so much like people that the only way to tell them physically apart was to have a bone marrow analysis performed. His answer was that the difference is moot.

In Ridley Scott’s film version, Blade Runner , Scott took Dick’s vision and made it more poignant. The replicants, with their implanted memories, were even more like humans. “The replicants,” says J. P. Telotte in his article “The Doubles of Fantasy and the Space of Desire,” “threaten to render their creators superfluous and take their place” (pp. 154-155). But Scott’s version offers us a hope the book does not — in the form of Rachael. Rachael, although a replicant, Telotte argues, “mirrors something significantly human… a loneliness and longing for others wherewith that loneliness might be overcome” (pp. 156). Rachael “awakens Deckard’s slumbering desires and effectively serves as a mirror in which he might see his humanity.” In other words, the Other, in becoming more like the Self, helps define the Self more sharply.

As computers and medical technology advance, the idea of brain implants has come to the forefront. If we can replace the human heart with a plastic and metal pump, why can’t we insert high-tech computer chips into our brains? The movie Total Recall : showed what such technology could be capable of. People could go on vacations without ever leaving their homes — with the aid of false memory implants.

In Tom Maddox’s short story, “Snake Eyes,” a man fitted with computer implants in his brain is confronted with the Other which is really just a suppressed part of the Self. He does not recognize — nor does he want to — that what he calls “the snake” is actually a part of himself. This part of his brain “compels” him to do strange, and often violent, things that he finds repugnant. However, he is confronted with the fact that these actions are a part of himself. A highly advanced computer which he can “plug into,” says to him: “There is no snake. You want to believe in something reptilian that sits inside you, cold and distant, taking strange pleasures. However … the implant is an organic part of you. You can no longer evade the responsibility for these things. They are you” (p. 27).

Stories like “Snake Eyes” and Total Recall tell a tale of the alien within. As postmodernism becomes a way of life, it is becoming more difficult to tell the difference between what we have traditionally considered the Other and what we have traditionally considered the Self. Kenneth Gergen suggests that “as consciousness of interdependence expands, so withers the distinction between Self and other, mine and yours” (p. 255).

Asimov (1990), in his essay, “The Machine and the Robot,” stated that “the great fear is not that machinery will harm us — but that it will supplant us. It is not that it will render us ineffective — but that it will make us obsolete” (p. 440). Turkle suggests, people tend to “search for a link between who we are and what we have made, between who we are and what we might create, between who we are and what, through our intimacy with our own creations, we might become” (p. 12). Machines, computers and robots are the fruit of our labor. They are our surrogate children and they are mirrors of our souls. They are tools to understanding ourselves. In literature and film, we use them to face our fears and express our hopes. We use them to symbolically embrace the Other in order to affirm the Self.