As I got to know my partner’s reading habits, I began to realise there was a massive gap in her reading of science fiction. So I decided to make amends to this with the idea of recommending all the great classics, or the ones that I think still hold up, such as The Stars My Destination (Alfred Bester) and Gateway (Frederick Pohl).

I began compiling my list pretty quickly, but as soon as I declared my intentions, she quickly quipped “I don’t want to be reading a bunch of ‘lonely men in space’ books.”

I was nothing short of horrified at her shallow judgement of such great past literature.

But then I had a little think.

And much like the trope of damsel in distress, or women in refrigerator, I did realise there was some truth to her perception of the genre. After all, it had been dominated mainly by heterosexual white men, and even authors like Arthur C. Clarke, who was by all accounts gay, did little for the plight of women in space. Of course, there were women writers all along, like C.L. Moore, Andre Norton, Marion Zimmer Bradley, Kate Wilhelm, but by and large SF was written for males and featured male characters with little input from female characters. And the story of James Tiptree Jr., if you don't know, begins with a woman, Alice Sheldon, writing under a male name to avoid attention for being a woman writer.

When I looked at the books that I was recommending, I realised that many of them could be distilled down to a simple 'lonely man in space' blurb. So, here’s my list of great, and maybe not so great, books from the fields of Science-Fiction and Fantasy distilled down to the most simplistic of blurbs.

~//~

The Stars My Destination (Alfred Bester)
    • Lonely man in cold space seeks hot revenge.


Star King (Jack Vance)
    • Lonely man in space starts pogrom of revenge on interstellar crime bosses.


Ender’s Game (Orson Scott Card)
    • Lonely boy in space commits genocide.


Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? (Philip K. Dick)
    • Lonely cop commits android genocide.


Fahrenheit 451 (Ray Bradbury)
    • Lonely fireman commits book-genocide.


Dune (Frank Herbert)
    • Lonely man on desert planet becomes messiah. Later he commits genocide.


Dune: House Atreides (Brian Herbert)
    • Lonely son commits patricide.


Gateway (Frederik Pohl)
    • Lonely man on earth recounts lonely time in space to robot psychologist.


Beyond Apollo (Barry N. Malzberg)
    • Lonely man on earth writes autobiography about being a lonely man in space.


The Voyage of the Space Beagle (A.E. van Vogt)
    • Lonely man at typewriter sues 20th Century Fox for plagiarism.


Harlan Ellison (Harlan Ellison)
    • Lonely man at typewriter sues everyone for plagiarism.


A Time of Changes (Robert Silverberg)
    • Lonely man on planet takes drugs to avoid loneliness.


Solaris (Stanisław Lem)
    • Lonely man on earth visits lonely planet in space to escape lonely memories of dead wife.


The World of Null-A (A.E. van Vogt)
    • Lonely man with big brain tests big brained leaders to prove his big brain is even bigger than their big brains.


Elric of Melniboné (Michael Moorcock)
    • Lonely weak albino emperor discovers lonely talking sword that turns him into lonely strong albino emperor.


Rendezvous with Rama (Arthur C. Clarke)
    • Lonely men in space explore lonely cylinder in space.


Steel Beach (John Varley)
    • Lonely and bored man (later woman) on moon colony.


I am Legend (Richard Matheson)
    • Lonely last man on earth invents zombie genre.


The Day of the Triffids (John Wyndham)
    • Lonely man runs away from man-eating plants. (I sense some kind of metaphor growing out of this one...)


Neuromancer (William Gibson)
    • Lonely keyboard-warrior hacks computers.


Foundation (Isaac Asimov)
    • Lonely man combines science and psychology to predict the downfall of the first galactic empire.


Stranger in a Strange Land (Robert Heinlein)
    • Lonely martian-man returns to earth and freaks even the hippies out.


Way Station (Clifford D. Simak)
    • Lonely man in space station has tea and biscuits with alien visitors.


Hospital Station (James White)
    • Lonely man doctor in space hospital unable to relate to human female seeks solace in alien patients.


More than Human (Theodore Sturgeon)
    • Lonely young man discovers how to not be lonely by talking to other people.


~//~

It is interesting that there is a certain preponderance for men to write about men in a singular sense, especially across the genre of Science Fiction. More so in the pulp category which relies on the male fantasy of conquering aliens, planets, and winning the affections of females. When women wrote in the same setting, they often followed the same rules and guidelines, even with female leads. The rise of the 60s counter-culture and the writings of James Tiptree Jr., Ursula Le Guin, and Joanna Russ, saw a change in how women's roles in SF should be perceived.

But still, the men wrote about men. As it were.
And space is a lonely environment. There aren't exactly a multitude of space party books...

For most who are aware and critical of gender roles, it is relatively common knowledge that men have been taught by a culture of masculinity to be ashamed of their feelings, and as a consequence there is a tendency to recoil into oneself, or take the opposite route and put on a façade of extravagance or extrovert behaviour (often in the form of machismo). There is loneliness in a physical space, as well as loneliness in a crowd, and when men reach out they aren't aligning themselves with the human experience, but the male experience of being lonely. In Science Fiction their dreams of freedom could be realised. In Science Fiction their dreams of connecting with fellow men could be realised.

This sounds belittling of the genre as an exercise in thought. There is a great intellectual pursuit in Science Fiction that can be found in some of the best male writers like Olaf Stapledon, H.G. Wells, Arthur C. Clarke, Isaac Asimov, Stanisław Lem, and Frank Herbert; while others, like Jack Vance, who would garden worlds, populated their planets with love and care. But for what reason was that intellectual pursuit, that love and care, not extended out to the female characters?

It's impossible to believe that male writers can't empathise. Even after the year 2000, I still see reviews of males writing one-dimensional women. Are they still so out of touch with their own feelings?

My partner suggests a way to look at one aspect of male fragility: "There's a difference between being able to express feelings and working with someone to cure loneliness. When these particular men get lonely they try to define the social norm on their own terms and expect others to fit in with that. And if they can't fit in, well it's exclusion and rejection for that person - my way or the highway." I still see these attitudes existing in men of my own generation, which I find disappointing.

Anyway, some of these authors are disappointing too, but the books as ideas and concepts are almost always interesting.

New Zealand went into their second Level 4 lock-down last Wednesday 18th August on only my second day at my new job as assistant gardener at a retirement village. 'What an opportunity' I thought to myself. Here I was in an isolated cabin halfway down the property tenant's jungle of a backyard garden, a writing desk, a kitchenette (double hotplate, fridge, basin, jug), and time on my hands to continue writing Dim Day.

One of the tenants visits the beach every morning here in Paekākāriki which was great non-verbal encouragement for me to do the same - most mornings I have. Once lock-down arrived I chose to be a lot more discreet about it, running approx. 3km up the coastal trail, checking out how deserted the beach is before finding an unoccupied spot to wade in and feel the rush of winter salt water washing over me before jogging back to keep up my warmth. Occasionally the debris lapping in on the morning waves has left me less clean than when I went in, so on my arrival back I pop around the corner of the cabin out of sight and have a hose-down. A minimum of 21 press-ups, 21 "leg-ups" (lying on my back and lifting the legs up and down) accompany the morning rising from my bed, or the return from the sea, occasionally I do straight-leg sit-ups with my back as straight as possible. The abs aren't quite showing yet, but that's probably the fault of that packet of Toffee Pops and Whitaker's Artisan Chocolate I bought last week (...and the yoghurts, and the salamis, and the cheeses I bought many times before that as well!). But still, as I said to our new flatmate ("resimate" as I refer to the house dwellers on the property (i.e: Residential Mates)) when she expressed the fact that at her current mid-50s age this is the healthiest, both mentally and physically, that she has ever been, I concurred and was able to relate - in my 44 years this is also the healthiest, mentally and physically, that I have ever been. There is a photo of me from 2010 with quite a puffy face - years of Burger King, Burgerfuel, and heavy protein and carb dinners that weren't being worked off. Since moving into my car and living on the side of the river from 2018, all that unnecessary fat has been shed; with a much more consistent approach to physical body toning without any obsessive desire to build muscle, a massive reduction in food focusing on one good meal each day and only snacking (at most) (mostly nuts) beforehand (and coffee with honey replacing sugar) adding up to an average of 1.5 meals a day, I have consistently weighed-in at less than 67kgs for the past four years. There is no guilt should I choose to eat some Toffee Pops, some licorice (unless I eat them all at once, which I have done *shakes head sadly*), because I know that their energy source will get used rather than be stored (I mean, mostly - like I said, my abs still aren't showing *grumpy face*).

Anyway, enough about me. Dinners are coming along just fine. As you can see, tonight I made a crushed Pumpkin and Sunflower Seed curry with mixed beans on pulse pasta instead of rice. A very tasty meal for this lone red cabin dweller. But this is not a lone lock-down bubble (though I would have no problem if it was). Every day of the week, the five of us take turns cooking for one another in the house (back of photo, extra sleep-out to left), and have ranging conversations from gardening (everyone's a gardener, except me - total newbie!), to books, to music, to covid, to "can we trust the authorities???" - it's all up for discussion, and makes the evening over a glass of wine that much more enjoyable.

But what about Dim Day? Yes, what about the novel I've been trying to write since 2009? I have reached 48,000 words with only 5-6 scenes left to either write or finish off, which I expect the total word-count to be around 60,000. This is a good amount, as there has been a bit extra world-building going on, which I am cautious about. Why? Is not solid world-building the goal? Yes, but this book was never meant to describe a 'world' as such; it was only ever meant to describe a place. Imagine walking into a theatre to watch a play, seeing the curtains rise you know that the props in the background are not real, but you suspend your disbelief and invest in what the actors portray. This was always my intention, and I have tried to keep that world-building to a minimum so that the reader doesn't get distracted, so that the reader only knows what supports the story directly related to the characters. This is not science fiction, this is not mainstream 'genre' fantasy, I wouldn't even call it magic realism; there is no magic, there are no monsters and strange creatures, no technology advancing and changing society other than what characters may project with limited knowledge; what there is instead are animal and plant variations that inhabit their own ecological niche, there are people who act and feel like us living in a similar past, but there is only this place, similar, but very different, and the story that unfolds from one dim day to the next...

A steel-string acoustic trickles down from the speakers in high corners of the cafe-restaurant, sultry hushed vocals whispering notes of longing and wonder. Chatter across the seated tables ignore the minute contemplations spent on remembering love.

Amy busies herself with the chicken burger dripping soft avocado, cranberry and Camembert across the plate, a knife and fork is employed to quarter and then dissect until bite-sized pieces will fit in her mouth.

Clouds have greyed out the often blue sky requiring a two bar heater to help keep the customers warm inside, puffy jackets and wool scarves not enough to ward off the striking cold whistling down from the Kahurangi hills. Escape swirls the cranberry sauce up with avocado, holds on with some freshly cooked soft bun, and launches the sweetness at her tongue. Escape remembers that love is broken sometimes, and musicians are there to remind; songs will invade the quiet and calm in sultry whispers, breaths that fade into chattering voices.

A bus load of school children stop at the intersection outside, last day of term, homeward bound they run. A blonde girl looks in at the customers, raises a hand and waves. Amy is not sure if it's her the girl is waving at - child eyes are peering through a layer of glass doors, see-through canvas that squares off the café’s sun area, and the bus's own dirty and unwashed window. And Amy knows there are customers behind her.

But she smiles, raises her own hand, twinkles some fingers and returns to her burger, sopping up more spilled cranberry and Camembert hoping to avoid any embarrassment if the girl on the bus had in fact been waving to someone else. But Amy is sure she caught a smile out of the corner of her eye as the girl returned to looking forward and the bus moved out of sight.

The smile imbued the cranberry and Camembert with satisfactory sweetness.

Dimlight bathed the clouds in a bright silver glow that reflected rays on everything below, intensifying and radiating the silver blue of ordinary dim days into every crevice and knoll.

“We are children of the mist, our ancestors used to say. But I think they were wrong. We are of the earth, like the animals; for us to return we must end up burnt; so we commit ourselves, to this death inherent in life, to let our bodies die when our children have only just reached maturity ready to take our place and repeat the cycle.” Meridule paused, looking forlornly into the fire that burned and cremated the house that had been destroyed as the sinkhole beneath it had given way. "But we come here this evening to remember the lives of Sauel, J'nifer and their newborn lost far too early to this tragic event. Their hard work lost to the community, but the memories we have of them live on and set the example of what we ourselves must live up to - working for the community, helping raise children when called on, and friendships that never faulted. They go with the winds to settle in the lands somewhere else and be a part of the world again from where we all once came."

Jansuell glanced upwards as fire rose and shone orange against everything. This Dim Day made light again. But upwards with the flames would go the bodies that lay in the pit below, the wood floors, walls, beams and window frames, charring up and rising too with each spark that flung out, each wraith of smoke that billowed; all of it rising and dissipating outwards eventually to be a part of the clouds above and then depart outwards, away from land.

...away from the land. Like clouds drifting across the skies to coalesce into the mist.

Maybe the ancestors were right. We are of the mist. And my parents just wanted to know where we came from, or at least, just what was beyond. The same worlds as ours? The same neighbours growing the same fruit, farming the same crops? Why is everyone else so happy to just shrug their shoulders and say “It’s just mist. There’s nothing in it, there’s nothing beyond it.”? There are other people beyond the hills in the opposite direction, there must be other people beyond the mist. Surely. Why can’t we get to them?

Why can't we be like my parents and just try?