Yuval Noah Harari published a book in 2011 titled Sapiens: A Brief History of Humankind. A friend recommended it to me earlier this year, and I thoroughly enjoyed reading it.
One concept that stood out to me was the notion that what makes humans different from every other species on the planet is our ability to tell and, more importantly, believe in stories.
Imagine how much one person can do. Now imagine how much more ten people can do. But for those ten people to be effective, they must be united and work together. So, how do you unite ten individual creatures with their own wants and needs?
You get them to believe in a story.
Maybe you tell a story of how god wants them to do a thing. Or maybe you get them to believe that monsters will eat them if they don’t do a thing. Or maybe you convince them that this funny paper can be traded for food, and if they do the thing, you’ll give them the paper.
Harari argues this ability of humans to develop a shared belief system brought about the cognitive revolution, the agricultural revolution, globalization, and the scientific revolution.
In other words . . . stories are a big deal.
When politicians run for office they tell a story about not just themselves, but about the nation. About the other party and candidate. When countries go to war, they tell stories about their foes and about themselves because they know that the narrative matters. Sometimes, the narrative will win or lose a conflict.
What fascinates me about this whole idea is that the truth or validity of the story is inconsequential. Whether a group works together because they believe in monsters, a god, altruism, or science doesn’t matter. If they believe the story, the result is the same: They become unified.
But what happens when that story changes? What happens when the paper money suddenly isn’t worth as much? Or when that scientific “fact” is proved to be incorrect. Or that god falls out of favor (maybe Zeus will make a comeback?)
Everything changes. And that’s why I like speculative fiction.
Let me give another example.
We all agree that killing another human being is wrong. If I kill somebody accidentally, that is bad. If I kill somebody purposefully, that is worse. If I kill several people, worse still, and if I kill 50 people, I’m a monster. The consequences vary based in each of these scenarios.
But if I’m a soldier at war, and I accidentally kill a foe, suddenly, that’s just an interesting story. And if I kill somebody intentionally, it’s “good.” If I kill several people, it’s “better” still. And if I kill 50 foes, I get a medal.
At the end of the day, the atrocities are the same. People are dead. But because of the narrative, I’m either the hero or a villain. What is good and evil can appear to change with a change in the narrative, and speculative fiction allows us to explore these ideas of right and wrong by presenting a new story.
One last example, and we’ll wrap things up.
I watched Jericho when it was on TV. The premise was that a small town in Kansas struggled to survive after a nuclear attack. In one episode, the town realized it did not have enough food to last through the winter. Some suggested that they kick out some of the older and unhealthy members of the town so that everyone could survive.
In the series, the mayor of the town chooses not to do this but instead hopes that more supplies can be found.
I was fascinated by this decision. Was it right? Was it wrong? Had the mayor saved a few lives or killed them all? What would I do in his place?
It’s these delicious questions that keep me reading and writing speculative fiction. Sometimes, I feel like I have the answer. Other times, I don’t.
Monster has several of these questions and characters who argue both sides. And if, after completing it, you ask me who I agree with, I’ll answer straight away . . .
I have no idea . . .