The scariest thing about science fiction in the 1990s is how accurately it was forecast by the cyberpunks of the '80s. We may not have all the neat hardware Gibson and his fellow writers predicted, but their chilling vision of a mega-corporate future is rapidly coming true, and SF book publishing is right in the middle of it.
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| Traditional SF magazines like Asimov's Science Fiction , Analog and The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction are the laboratories of science fiction, where new writers experiment with new styles. Their circulation has declined steadily all decade. |
Amazing Stories even stopped publishing midway through the decade, and even though the magazine was later revived by current publisher Wizards of the Coast, it was in a format that featured a media tie-in story every month. |
Granted, a few new SF magazines have appeared in the last ten years, but they've been careful to tout their familiarity. SF Age presents mostlymedia news and stories by older and more famous writers, while Absolute Magazine claims its mission is to bring back the "good old days" of adventure SF. |
Mainstream America is more interested in science fiction than ever before, which is good news and bad news. The good news is that there's plenty of SF to read and watch.
The bad news is how aggressively it's aimed at the lowest common denominator.
No room at the inn!
Most of the decade's worst SF books can be traced to movies and television.
When the '90s began, Star Trek: the Next Generation was just being recognized as a hit. Pocket Books' series of Star Trek novels rode the wave of the show's popularity. At the same time, Timothy Zahn's "Thrawn Trilogy" of Star Wars novels became unexpected bestsellers.
Media tie-ins were recognized as big money -- most Star Wars and Star Trek novels outsell regular science fiction by a factor of ten to one -- and so there were more tie-in books. Novelizations were nothing new, of course, but soon there were prequels and sequels for every property, from Independence Day to Space Precinct.
Most of these books are quick knockoffs of the original material, which is no sin in publishing. If a book gives pleasure to its buyer, it has accomplished its purpose.
What made the popularity of media tie-ins bad news is that they quickly began crowding original work off the publishing schedule.
There's only a limited amount of room for science fiction in any publisher's list. Three SF paperbacks a month is a fairly typical number. If one book a month gets dedicated to media tie-ins, then the publisher can only produce two original books instead of three -- as a result, good books can get cut simply because they don't have a brand name attached.
Feeding frenzy
The rapid consolidation of publishers in the '90s has only accelerated this effect. There seems to be a merger every month, and when two publishers merge, they only need one science fiction line.
Doubleday and Bantam Books used to have excellent science fiction lines. You can still see the old imprints on the shelves of used bookstores. However, both Doubleday and Bantam became part of Bantam Doubleday Dell, and within a few years the Doubleday line had vanished, leaving a solitary imprint -- Bantam Spectra -- behind.
This spring, Bantam Doubleday Dell bought Random House. For now, the combined entity has two SF imprints (Spectra and Del Rey Books), but only one line is likely to survive in the long run.
Elsewhere in the industry, HarperCollins bought Avon this fall, and already HarperPrism has been discarded in favor of Avon's Eos line.
The wages of synergy
As the '90s draw to a close, five companies -- most owned by multimedia conglomerates -- publish almost all the mass-market science fiction in the United States.
As consolidation continues, that number is likely to shrink. There will be fewer lines and less choice, as well as more tie-ins published to fit the conglomerates' multimedia strategies.
It's already difficult for the average SF writer to find a place on a publisher's list. Soon there may be no room at the inn, because half the bedrooms have been closed off and Ewoks have rented the rest.
A passion for the familiar...
Original science fiction now looks a lot more like television, too. SF fans have always loved series --
Edgar Rice Burroughs could churn books out like Star Trek novels -- but the '90s brought series into an undisputedly dominant position.
In the broad genre, Robert Jordan set the pace with his seemingly endless "Wheel of Time" fantasy series for most of the decade, until being finally unseated by J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter books.
It's less clear who the top-selling space fiction authors of the decade were, but fan awards like the Hugo are going to sequels.
In the '90s, Lois McMaster Bujold took home three Hugos for books in her "Miles Vorkosigan" series, while Kim Stanley Robinson won twice for his second and third "Mars" books. Joe Haldeman and Connie Willis took home awards for sequels to earlier novels -- loosely-connected sequels, admittedly, but follow-up books nonetheless.
... an aversion to the new
It wasn't always this way. Series books did turn up in the Hugos before 1990, but almost all of them were the beginnings of series, and there were many more standalone novels.
The Nebulas (which are awarded by pro SF writers) of the last decade have also been considerably more diverse, but the taste of fans -- the people who actually buy the books -- seems to be narrowing, increasingly electing the latest helping of familiar dishes over new flavors.
Of course, Hugo voters are a small minority of the SF audience. It takes less than a hundred nominations to put a book on the final ballot, and 400 votes virtually guarantees a win.
The publishers themselves are playing into this shift by revisiting classic series.
In the last decade, Orson Scott Card
revisited Ender's Game, Arthur C. Clarke brought back Frank Poole in 3001, David Brin continued his Uplift series, and Joe Haldeman wrote two sequels -- one thematic, the other direct -- to The Forever War.
Meanwhile, HarperCollins published prequels to the Foundation series, and Bantam is doing
prequels for Dune.
There's nothing wrong with going retro now and then. But it's strange that for the last ten years a supposedly forward-looking genre like SF has fallen so in love with nostalgia.
By 2006, you might be a member of the Vernor Vinge fan group, waiting toreceive an email telling you his new book is ready. When you do, you'll go to the web site and decide whether to download it into your reader or order a nice hardcover to put on your shelf.A few minutes or a couple of days later, you'llsit down with your book and your favorite beverage, and 30 seconds after you'redone you'll be on the newsgroups talking about how Vinge rocked your world again.
So are we all doomed?
What lies ahead for science fiction in the next decade? Is there nothing but corporate takeovers and recycled Star Trek on the horizon?
Actually, the future is surprisingly hopeful. Though publishers' lists have been tightening, plenty of exceptional science fiction made it to the readers in the '90s.
Old masters like Jack Williamson,
Hal Clement and Poul Anderson are still doing creative new work, and the last ten years have seen the rise of new stars like Stephen Baxter, Greg Egan and Robert Sawyer.
An eye on the real world
Science fiction is about change, and in the last decade there's been more change for SF writers to explore than ever before. Biotechnologists, physicists and computer scientists are breaking into strange new worlds, and writers like Nancy Kress and Greg Benford are using the latest discoveries in their books.
The space program is also gathering momentum again, driving and occasionally taking inspiration from near-future space writers like Allen Steele and Michael Flynn.
While megacorporations may have a stranglehold on the mass market, there's no shortage of creativity, and structural changes on the horizon may give the genre room to breathe.
The small press triumphant?
New technology is so make it cheaper and easier to publish small quantities of books. On-demand printing can take a book from computer file to paper for $5 in about 30 minutes, while e-books and Internet delivery systems keep creeping towards economic viability.
Of course, small presses are nothing new to SF culture, which has always relied on independent or even amateur publishers to produce beloved books that aren't viable commercially.
Small SF publishers like Meisha Merlin and NESFA Press (the publishing arm of the New England Science Fiction Association, a regional fan club) have already leapt to take advantage of the new technology.
Perhaps mass-market publishers will continue to churn out Star Trek books and the latest volume of Fighting Star Marine! in the next decade, rounding out their lists with whatever original work dedicated editors can sneak through the corporate system.
Meanwhile, almost in the shadows, a new publishing system will be growing. Small presses and e-publishers will quietly sign up science fiction's unique voices and promising newcomers. They'll build up networks of fans in web-based communities, and use the excitement they generate to attract new readers.
By 2006, you might be a member of the Vernor Vinge fan group, waiting to receive an email telling you his new book is ready. When you do, you'll go to the web site and decide whether to download it into your reader or order a nice hardcover to put on your shelf.
A few minutes or a couple of days later, you'll sit down with your book and your favorite beverage, and thirty seconds after you're done you'll be on the newsgroups talking about how Vinge rocked your world again.
It won't be a perfect world, but it should be interesting.
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