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The 2025 Philip K. Dick Award finalists have been announced:

• City of Dancing Gargoyles, Tara Campbell (Santa Fe Writers Project)
• Your Utopia: Stories, Bora Chung, translated by Anton Hur (Algonquin)
• Time’s Agent, Brenda Peynado (Tordotcom)
• The Practice, the Horizon, and the Chain, Sofia Samatar (Tordotcom)
• Alien Clay, Adrian Tchaikovsky (Orbit US)
• Triangulum, Subodhana Wijeyeratne (Rosarium)

The award is presented annually to a distinguished work

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By Eugen Bacon

Undugu—it’s a Swahili term for kindredship. It’s not far off from “ujamaa,” a premise of sharing and togetherness that was President Julius Kambarage Nyerere’s socialist experiment when the United Republic of Tanzania first gained colonial independence. Ideally, ujamaa should have worked—it’s a beautiful and generous concept. In practice, it wasn’t quite the success it was meant to be. So there are also inherent risks with “undugu”—because kindredship means inviting others into your personal space. It’s a trust relationship founded on goodwill. And this is what it means to collaborate: to trust, to respect, to have goodwill in the understanding that all participants are beneficiaries of the outputs, that we all put in effort for the best outcome(s). 

Undugu—this is what I aim to achieve in my collaborations. And they’re many. 

The most powerful and, hopefully, the longest lasting of them is the Sauútiverse. Back in November 2021, Wole Talabi, one of the founding members of the Sauútiverse, reached out to African writers for expressions of interest in becoming part of a collective, to create a shared world using the Syllble platform. A bout of brainstorming sessions followed, in which we determined our vision as holding the key tenets of collaboration, support, creativity and Afrocentric-based storytelling. The Sauúti Collective, as we named the founding members, comprised ten African writers and creators from Ghana, Nigeria, South Africa, Tanzania and the diaspora—Haiti. Together, we  created a new world, the Sauútiverse: an Africa-inspired secondary world with humanoid and non-humanoid creatures in a five-planet, binary star system with a shared history, and the presence of sound magic. 

The name Sauúti is inspired by the Swahili word “sauti” which means voice or sound. 

The five main planets, each named after the words for ‘song’ in various African languages, are: 

• Zezépfeni—from the Amharic word “zefeni” 
• Wiimb-ó—from the Swahili word “wimbo” 
• Órino-Rin—from the Yoruba word “orin” 
• Ekwukwe—from the Igbo word “ukwe” meaning “song” or “anthem”
• Mahwé (before its destruction)— from the Kirundi word “mawe” meaning “mother”
• There is also an inhabited moon, Pinaa, from the Setswana word “pina,” meaning “song.”

Illustrated by Akintoba Kalejaye and Stephen Embleton

These genre-bending worlds are the perfect setting for black speculative fiction stories. Members have shared in various interviews and articles what being part of the Collective behind the Sauútiverse means to them, including in a conversation published in Brittle Paper and titled “The Sauúti Fictional World: A Partnership Between Syllble and Brittle Paper.” In a question on what it personally means to create in the same world with other African writers, they answered: 

I have always believed that “The only way forward is to work together.” Like I heard my old man once say to a friend of his that “Eni to fe Yara, nise lo da rin, Eni to fe lo jina, nse lo mu awon ara e dani.” This translates into: “if you want to go fast, go alone, if you want to go far, go together.” The cast of Writers and Creators in this project so far are so immensely talented that I feel honored every time I am in the same space with them. I believe that consensus of this nature is the true way to make progress and make giant strides for African Speculative Fiction

Kalejaye Akintoba

~

At first I was unsure of the process, never having done it before, and not knowing how I could add value or input. But the first session really opened me up to the other contributors, their skills and knowledge, that is already making the world-building fun, interactive, and most of all extremely prolific in covering so many aspects that a single writer or creator would battle to do themselves. We quickly saw where each person’s interests lie, and that means areas I may find out of my depth will be picked up by another contributor or contributors. Or I might find a partner-in-crime to go into things I’m keen to investigate —and then be able to throw ideas around. It’s been fascinating to see how it has evolved and where we all agree on the direction of certain aspects. 

Stephen Embleton

~

There is a sense of many hands working with something malleable, like mud, and the joy that comes from watching such a vast world take shape. This constant spinning exchange of ideas and the multiple points of view cohering into one wide whole. Most exciting is the many writers who will come to this world and create stunning work that we who worked on its origins couldn’t have seen coming. Making this open imaginative system with so many different Africans who are professionals in their varying fields, but also intuitive and attentive to detail is a continuing honor. 

Dare Segun Falowo

~

It’s an honor and a joy to collaborate on building an Afrocentric fictional world. There’s something really powerful about bringing minds together and watching the most extraordinary, exciting ideas take shape on this scale and to have the opportunity to learn about different African cultures. Most importantly, I love knowing that what we build in this project will belong to any and all African writers that want to play in this world. 

Cheryl Ntumy

~

It feels really good, to be honest. I feel seen. Since 2018 when my novella The Book of Lost Words got some recognition at a manuscript contest, I do not think I have really had this kind of exposure to other writers and creatives. You know writing is primarily a solo endeavour. But this is very exciting, and I look forward to making the most of it. 

Ikechukwu Nwaogu

~

I believe almost every writer begins by writing fan-fiction. Our earliest stories are usually inspired by other stories we’ve heard or read or seen and want to see continued in some way. I also stumbled into my writing career by working on stories with other writers and I learned a lot from those interactions. I think having a shared world takes us back to the core of our creativity and learning and opens us up to even grander stories. To do this with a cohort of very talented Africans of varied backgrounds is a pleasure and one I think we will all benefit from.

Wole Talabi

~

On what motives creativity, Adelehin Ijasan wrote: 

Writing is a form of expression for me. On the occasion I come up with something I think is really cool, I want to share it with others. Being mind blown by some piece of art, short story, movie or comic, also sets me on fire and I’m desperate to evoke a similar feeling in others. 

Adelehin Ijasan

~

Also on creativity, fellow Collective member Jude Umeh wrote: 

An inborn need to play and explore, coupled with the right role models who make it ok to indulge and find satisfaction in creative pursuits across a spectrum of art forms. Creativity inspires creativity, and each story told or art completed only sparks more of the same and/or better interpretation or extension of itself. 

Jude Umeh

On specific areas of individual story focus in the shared fictional world, Xan van Rooyen wrote: 

Definitely the music and magic and the culture this system would create, bringing in the religion as well. As a musician who was always taught to read music, the concept of oral traditions, of knowledge being passed down and shared without the need or desire to write it down has always fascinated me and this is a concept I am keen to explore, especially in the context of how vulnerable that knowledge and cultural heritage might be to loss and corruption. Having read and loved works by Akwaeke Emezi, I am also keen to explore gender and gender identity in a more specifically African context within the world we create. 

Xan van Rooyen Cover by Akintoba Kalejaye

In his introduction to the inaugural Mothersound: The Sauútiverse Anthology, founding member Guerrier had this to say: 

I have a dream of a future when creative writers around the world will wake up and their natural inclination will be to collaboratively write and produce within the unique story worlds they create. 

In this future, writers from different backgrounds, locations and cultures will imagine deeply together, they will be more empowered, they will work hand in hand, side by side in artist collectives. In this future, they will fuel our ability to collectively imagine with more complexity, more profoundness and more beauty. This future, I believe, is already here, and it is called ‘Sauúti’. 

Guerrier

I connect with all these motivations behind the Sauútiverse. Writing black speculative fiction is important to me, as I wrote in the Brittle Paper interview: 

Speculative fiction is a safe way to explore our world meaningfully, creatively. In its generality, encompassing fantasy, science fiction, horror and the paranormal, it explores the diversity of our world and the universe beyond our understanding. It’s about interrogating possibilities in the exact meaning of the world: to imagine, to conjecture, to think, to reflect, to fabricate… Speculative fiction can be a powerful tool of subversive activism for an author as an agent of change to explore themes relating to climate change, social injustice, greed, politics, racial inequality and more, in worlds parallel to ours.

Eugen Bacon

I am a mother, a woman, a writer, an editor, a scholar, a colleague, a mentor, a friend. I am passionate about: motherhood, climate action, social justice, stories of culture, tradition, our past, our future, black people stories… The creative space where I tell stories is literary speculative fiction. I write and perform short stories, novels, novellas, prose poetry, and creative nonfiction. Being an African outside of Africa, especially as a creative, I discover myself every day in fiction, as a way of navigating my otherly space of hybridity, betwixt, a sum of parts—I am many. The more I write myself in, the more I see myself. The more I ‘become.’ The more I embrace my past, my present, my future. 

The Sauútiverse is especially fulfilling to me, and I have written a novel, a novella, and many stories in this world. Our first anthology, Mothersound, is holding its own in awards and recognitions. Stephen Embleton’s novella “Undulation” won the Nommo Awards for speculative fiction by Africans, and Cheryl Ntumy’s short story “The Way of Baa’gh” was a finalist in the same awards. The anthology was a finalist in the British Fantasy Awards, achieved a starred review from Publishers Weekly, made the Locus Reading List, and was shortlisted for the British Science Fiction Association (BSFA) Award, with some individual short stories and artwork from the anthology also longlisted. 

“Mothersound is a primal scream that shatters all that has been done in the past. Sauúti is a unique mythology that is challenging dominant Western narratives, ways of thinking, and stories that have been so much rooted in the legacies of Western colonialism and individualism,” says Guerrier in the foreword.

Wole Talabi agrees. “We believe the Sauútiverse can be the next step in the evolution of African speculative fiction by being a sandbox for generations of African and African diaspora writers to work together and imagine endless possibilities,” he says, also in the introduction to Mothersound.

Indeed. We are guts into our next anthology, Sauúti Terrors, and thinking ahead to more anthologies! I am co-editing Sauúti Terrors with members of the Collective Cheryl Ntumy and Stephen Embleton, as I continue to navigate my other spaces—with like-minded creatives. What’s particularly refreshing about the Sauútiverse is its openness to other members who were not part of the founding team as our expansion continues. In Mothersound, we published non-founding members, and there will be more in the new anthology, Sauúti Terrors, which will also include Afrocentric poetry. As you can see, undugu is inherent in the Sauútiverse, and we continue to hum the song of Our Mother, the Creator from the creation myth by Wole Talabi and Stephen Embleton: 

Khwa’ra. It is acquired.

Ya’yn. It is uttered.

Ra’kwa. It is released.

Illustrated by Akintoba Kalejaye 

An Inner Gaze into the Sauútiverse 

And now, I will tease excerpts of various stories from members of the Collective, as published in Mothersound:

“What Has No Mouth? (A Fragment From Our Sonic History, On Alleged Utterance of The Mothersound Among The Surali of Wiimb-ó” by Dare Segun Falowo:

Illustrated by Akintoba Kalejaye

Wet salt burned Ikululu’s eyelids. He would say he was unsure of the source of his tears, and maybe blame them on the acrid smoke or the ash blowing about, but the gnaw of Erigiga’s absence was scraping against his ribs. It felt like a black hole had opened inside his stomach. He tried to remain mute, because a maadiregi only makes use of their voice when it is most important but the sound of his brothers and sisters openly wailing around Erigiga’s pyre made him let go, to ragged sobs. 

Introducing this story, Talabi writes: 

In this Wiimb-ó-set story, we learn a fragment of sonic history, from 300000 juzu [year] B1B. It is a tale of the Surali, who are a group occupying an isolated continent of the planet, much like our own Australia, that must rediscover and reclaim their world using the primordial power of sound that drives all things this universe, its magic, technology and people. And we follow the Surali as they also learn of what can happen if that power, the Mothersound that animates the Sauútiverse, is not handled with care. 

~

“The Way of Baa’gh” by Cheryl S. Ntumy:

Illustrated by Stephen Embleton

Easing sideways into a cove, I sink below the sea, pincers opening wide as the cold water soothes my pain. I can’t go back to the safety of Kuu’uum. Not when I’m the only Og’beh left in the colony who hunts true Nududu.

A ripple moves through the water as a zje’lili fish passes me. Designated Nududu thirty generations ago for their ability to glow in the dark, the soft billowing creatures have shown no growth since. I turn my gaze to the plants that rise up from the water, seeking more promising prey. Their bright leaves and long stalks mock me. Same as last juzu. Same as ten juzu past. Everything the same, generation after generation.

Only Baa’gh change.

Introducing this story, Talabi writes:

One of the important non-human intelligent species of the Sauútiverse are the Baa’gh, who played a pivotal role in another major event of the physical history of the Sauútiverse – the destruction of Mahwé… In the following story by founding collective member Cheryl S. Ntumy, which takes place in 2000 juzu before the first Boāmmariri (five year event, meeting of the interplanetary council), we learn how Ss’ku, one of the Baa’gh—a crab-like species on Mahwé who have a unique way of evolving by consuming other creatures, and who have been oppressed and mistreated by the empire-driven humanoids—played a role in the failure of this grand experiment on Mahwé. It’s a wonderful story about generational strife, evolution, power and folly of empire that sets up much of what happens down the line in the Sauútiverse, beautifully told from a very non-humanoid point of view and culture.

~

“Xhova” by Adelehin Ijasan:

Illustrated by Akintoba Kalejaye

I named you Nitiri. All the other automatons addressed their children by their batch codes. You were not X Æ A-116 to me. You were Nitiri from the old Mahwé myth. Nitiri, who faced the frosted ice giant on the melting ice caps of the North Pole and defeated him. Nitiri who was beauty, fertility, grace, and goddess of nature. A mortal who attained godhood by sheer will. I called you Nitiri, and when words finally coalesced on your tongue, you called me Apa! Father. I was Father. You would stare at me when you suckled at my breasts, little hand reaching up to touch the cold lenses that were my lidless eyes. You would stop intermittently to smile and chuckle. It was in my code to simulate love, but I was never created to feel it the way I did. To love you as humanoid fathers loved their daughters—without calculation, purpose or condition.

Introducing this story, Talabi writes:

And so we come to this epistolary tale by Sauúti collective founding member Adelehin Ijasan, told from the point of view of a semi-independent parenting automaton under the control of the master AI on Pinaa. It takes place several generations after the destruction of Mahwé and the events of the previous story, about 900 juzu B1B, when the AI is at its most overprotective and Pinaa, as a consequence, is at its most isolated.

But every creation carries the seeds of its creators and the AI was made by the people of Mahwé. Which means that yes, it carries within it their desire for control as well as their capacity for fear. But that also means it carries their capacity for love. For revolution. And perhaps… for something more.
~

“Sina’ by Eugen Bacon:

Illustrated by Akintoba Kalejaye

The girl, Rehema’re—it means blessing—her echo does not come with light. She speaks good Sauúti. She bends her magic, can do many things with it. Hers is a good echo. It has transition, reflection. It’s long and deep with superior timing. Wey ma. Wey ma. Uuuuuuu.

Sina is not laughing now. The impudu-pudu’s echo is a bellow, infiltrating with such loudness, it hurts his ears. And the smell! It started off from a distance as a sickly-sweet odour of turning fruit, mingled with a stench so foul it pulled water from his eyes. Closer, the lightning bird has the stench of putrid onions. The odour of a rotten klalabash. The stink of bad t’apiapia fish. The pong of fresh faeces from an old stomach. The spray of a dying chekele’le beast—the laughing one, greedy as sin and with its shorter hind feet—moments before its bowels collapse.

Introducing this story, Talabi writes:

This story takes place centuries after the independence wars, 15 juzu A1B, when a loose federation of planets has been formed with representatives from each planet present to discuss trade, maintain peace, etc. Told from multiple viewpoints during a hunt, it is the lyrical and lovely story of a child on Ekwukwe who does not fit in, who is born missing something the culture deems fundamental, and yet, finds a way to become more than what he seemed destined to be at birth. To become more than anyone could have expected. To become a legend.

~

“Undulation” by Stephen Embleton:

Illustrated by Stephen Embleton

She let out a whoosh of air until her lungs were empty, while both hands pushed outward, completing the signing of the words as she understood them:

It is acquired. It is uttered. It is released.

The recognisable tingle formed on the tip of her tongue, warming her face, as she slowly took in air. A low vibration rippled through her. The magic was in her.

For Hmahein, that was the easy part. The beginning of the Creation Myth always stuck in her throat. As a ruevaagi, a bearer of histories for the worlds, a word should not be a hindrance.

She shook it off and locked eyes with her reflection in the wooden-framed, oval mirror of the small shrine.

She blocked out the word pulsing in her mind like a racing heartbeat. She blocked out the dimly lit room, draped in fabrics, curtains and intricate rugs. She blocked out the wafting scents of the dried kalabash vine leaves burning in the brass bowl on the small table, below the mirror.

She watched her mouth open, hands poised at the ready, and closed her eyes.

“Our Mother,” she began.

Introducing this story, Talabi writes:

In this story by Sauútiverse founding member Stephen Embleton, which takes place 90 juzu A1B, we dig deep into the creation myths and epic poems and also the people who tell them. The ruevaagi, custodians of knowledge. Like African griots of old, they are tasked with telling the people the stories of themselves. But they are still under the sway of Zezépfeni, and can only tell the official version of events. They travel the five worlds, spreading the stories of what happened, performing it. Soft power. Even though there is nothing soft about it.

~

“Muting Echoes, Breaking Tradition” by Eye Kaye Nwaogu:

Na-Achana was finishing the last of her meal when she heard the call. As always, she had the eating area to herself, having come late to avoid her fellow students—something she always did anywhere outside of class. It was easier that way. It was not that she hated people; she was just tired of the constant looks of pity they always gave her. It was not her fault that she was an orphan, her family having been killed when she was a child, and she was being raised and sponsored by The Order of The Silent Sisters. She longed to feel a sense of belonging, to be part of something bigger, something more, but the Silent Sisters were not exactly the best definition of a family. The most they were good for was the vast library, with its millions of sonic recordings and stories. Like stories of the Akalala and the change its call heralded. But Na-Achana didn’t believe in myths and fairytales. Her life had been too harsh for those.

She finished her food, cleaned up and hurried briskly to her tent.

Introducing this story, Talabi writes:

So now we come to this story by collective founding member Eye Kay Nwaogu which takes place 35 juzu A1B. It examines the echo of violence from the past in service of empire and its impact on the future, as represented by children, like our protagonists. For this story, we first go back to Wiimb-ó, to a school where two students from different worlds find themselves linked by history. Echoes of actions taken long ago. Echoes of truth and violence. They must choose what to do with the knowledge, and chart a course for the future, for better or worse.

~

“Kalabashing” by J. Umeh:

Illustrated by Akintoba Kalejaye

Muji-Aah brushes back his thick dreadlocks as he looks up at the ceiling, the distinctive silvery sheen of his skin catching the harsh electric light and giving his skin a semi-luminescent, metallic appearance that sharply contrasts the strange, dark, tattoo-like markings around his entire body. He whistles out a deep breath.

Mother God, help us.

Never in all the nineteen juzu he has lived has he experienced this level of excitement and trepidation, not even before the previous bés’s semi-final performance, or his first sono-aural sexual experience on Ekwukwe. No. There has been nothing like this, the feel of having something you’ve always dreamed of being at your fingertips, just one performance away.

Muji-Aah has never fit in. Always felt like an outsider. His unusual skin and natural affinity for technology marked him as an outcast even when he was a child. But he knows he can’t be alone. He wants to explore the system, find people like him or at least find his place in the Sauúti system. He seeks people who understand what it means to be an outcast. Which is what bonded him to the twins, the other members of the band.

Introducing this story, Talabi writes:

In order to choose a group that will give the opening and closing performance at the event—a series of local talent contests are held. This is where we find ourselves at the start of this story by J. Umeh, a founding member of the Sauúti collective. We go back across the binary star system, to Ekwukwe, where we meet a very special band of musicians vying for the honour of playing at the 40th Boāmmariri, 200 juzu A1B. A story about the joy of performing and sharing music with others. Even when that music literally has the magic stripped out of it. Of course, the members of the band bring their baggage and their drama and their talents and their gifts with them. And lurking in the background are the hands of Zezépfeni, always seeking more knowledge, more control.

When all of these things are shaken together and allowed to run over, well, we get something special. We get… Kalabashing. 

~

“Lost in the Echoes” by Xan van Rooyen:

Ruk shuddered and curled his fingers, magic sizzling through his sinews. He was trying to do the right thing even if it might be too late to earn his people’s forgiveness, to repair the trust he’d shattered when he’d broken the rules governing his power.

The club would be closing soon as one sun set and the other rose somewhere far above the mire of the city’s lower levels.

The patrons would have to emerge groggy and disorientated, disgorged from reverie but hopefully rejuvenated. Ruk surrendered to sensation as he embroidered the air with a final rising melody over the pounding bass.

The dancers contorted, limbs plucked by melismatic tendrils of power, faces seized in ecstasy. When it was over, the club-goers staggered, released by magic but still drunk on music: their auras more consonant, their souls soothed.

Introducing this story, Talabi writes:

Enter Ruk, or Ruk’ugrukun kel Az’zagru, our deaf protagonist of this wonderful story by collective founding member Xan van Rooyen.

A citizen of Órino-Rin in 400 A1B, about 200 juzu after the events of the previous story, Ruk has a unique ability similar to that of the Kali twins combined, but perhaps more potent.

Ruk is unable to hear sounds and lacks a perceptible sound aura or ‘echo’ of the Mothersound but can feel the sounds made by others, interpret the fundamental vibrations of the world, of people. And Ruk can even manipulate them, though this ability comes at a price, the price of pain. He is a runaway from his nomad tribe, working in the clubs of Órino-Rin as a kind of DJ, performing un-restricted, illicit music-magic until, as we find out in this story, he gets caught in the web of a Korp power play and is forced to make a difficult choice.

~

“Hologhiri” by Akintoba Kalejaye:

Illustrated by Akintoba Kalejaye

1. The Failing Wall

The sky raged pink and green on Zezépfeni.

In the hall of a large stone temple, its walls pulsing with energy, twelve figures wearing dark red robes sat in a silent conclave. Wires and circuits jutted out if their bodies like vines.

Their robes pulsed with the same energy that ran through the walls. They spoke to one another, not with their voices but through thought. The subject of their discussion could not be uttered, secrecy could not be broken.

Their facial expressions changed rapidly, the only evidence of their communication. From shock to anger. From indignation to frustration. And then, collectively, resignation.

Finally, one of the figures waved a hand, and suddenly, they were in the middle of a dark sphere, the spectrum of color leeched away. Not even faintest trace of color remained within the space. There was only light and dark. The space hummed.

The motion of the figure’s hand coincided with movement of lips. “They are breaking through,” the figure said. “The Hogiri Hileh Halah is failing.”

Introducing this story, Talabi writes:

Being the closest to the outer boundary of the system, Zezépfeni are the first to discover a secret about the nature of the Sauútiverse. That Nga’phandileh, powerful beings of unreality that exist in a parallel dark dimension, want to enter their space and claim it. And just like the people of Zezépfeni, the Nga’phandileh too are motivated by more than mindless desperation for power. Even the monsters seek a kind of justice as you will come to see.

So, the leaders of Zezépfeni take it upon themselves to keep this a ongoing war a secret and maintain the reality border, constantly seeking new knowledge, new powers to help them hold the Nga’phandileh at bay.

Now, in this fast-paced, epic story also set in 400 juzu A1B by founding collective member Akintoba Kalejaye, which sets up a lot of what is to come from this world, we dig into the details of this border. We meet the people that control it, the warriors that protect it and of course, the creatures of unreality themselves that threaten it.

This is Hologhiri.

Outside Mothersound, here is an excerpt of Wole Talabi’s story “How To Win The G’idiidigbo Challenge: A Practical Guide” published in 99 Fleeting Fantasies, an anthology by Pulse Publishing:

 1. Don’t panic. 

Remain calm when you are chosen to represent your family on the silent grounds. You must fight Kele’leke of Yu’usara to settle the dispute that has festered for more than twenty juzu, despite the best efforts of the elder’s council. Thus, it comes to this. The ancient way. Each family has chosen a member of the opposing family to do battle. The Yu’usara have chosen you because they think you’re the weakest of your clan. They have chosen you because you’re small, with a moderate echo and a tilt in your gait courtesy of scoliosis. 

Your spine may be bent but your will isn’t. 

2. Train twice a day. 

At dawn, practice movement. At noon, spar with your sister Ireno’ore in the garden. Do so in silence. All children on Ekwukwe are taught the fundamentals of combat. But the only way to win the G’idiidigbo challenge is to be prepared. The only way to be prepared for a fight is to get into one. Ireno’ore is skilled, and she has a good echo. You hear it in her motion, the potential for magic if she spoke the right words. But the challenge demands silence. There will be no magic. 

When she catches your kick and lands a clean cross to the left of your jaw, fall and look up at the sky where the suns Zuúv’ah and Juah-āju are staring down at you, their heat tickling your sweat-slick skin. Pray to the Mother for strength, then get up. Continue. 

3. Rest. 

There should be no sparring the day before G’idiidigbo. Spend the daytime alone by the river. Swim across it a dozen times. 

Spend the night in your grandfather’s glass and metal compound where there is a tiny opening in the ground that’s linked to the network of underground caverns beneath the planet. Listen to your younger brother sing the Rakwa wa-Ya’yn. Go to your grandfather, hug him when he begins to cry. Nod confidently at Ireno’ore. Give your mother a reassuring look, repaying her for the unwavering support that persists even now. 

Luxuriate in the love of your family. Listen to their echoes.

Structured as a numbered list of steps to win a challenge called G’idiidigbo on the planet Ekwukwe, this story follows a young woman who has been chosen by her family to represent them as she prepares for, and participates in, this cultural rite modelled on sports and other forms of cultural competition that include controlled violence. Many of such rituals were, and are, still present around the world, including in Africa. The story emphasizes the importance of preparation, skill, cheering, and community support in such encounters. 

You can see the recurring themes of sound magic, tradition, mythology, community, a longing to belong, and more, in these stories. The Sauútiverse is a home for undugu, kindredship, and ujamaa—sharing and togetherness. It’s a beautiful and generous concept, and we hope this trust relationship founded on goodwill will continue to be a success, as we trust and respect each other, beneficiaries of our outputs for the best outcomes. 

References

Guerrier, Fabrice (2022), ‘The Sauúti Fictional World: A Partnership Between Syllble and Brittle Paper’, accessed 29 March 2024. brittlepaper.com/2022/06/the-sauuti-sc-fi-fantasy-world-a-partnership-between-syllble-and-brittle-paper/ 

Guerrier, Fabrice (2023), “Foreword”, in Talabi W (ed) Mothersound: The Sauútiverse Anthology, Android Press: Eugene, Oregon

Publishers Weekly (2023), Mothersound: The Sauútiverse Anthology, accessed 29 March 2024. http://www.publishersweekly.com/9781958121603

Sauutiverse (2024), Sauuti.com, accessed 29 March 2024. sauuti.com/

Syllble (2024), Sauúti, accessed 29 March 2024. syllble.com/sauuti/

Talabi, Wole (2023), “Why We Created the First Collaborative African Sci-Fi/Fantasy Universe”, in Talabi W (ed) Mothersound: The Sauútiverse Anthology, Android Press: Eugene, Oregon

Talabi, Wole (2022), “How To Win The G’idiidigbo Challenge: A Practical Guide”, in Brozek J (ed) 99 Fleeting Fantasies, Pulse Publishing: Spokane, Washington

Bio: 

Eugen Bacon is an African Australian author of several novels and collections. She’s a British Fantasy Award winner, a Foreword Indies Award winner, a twice World Fantasy Award finalist, and a finalist in other awards. Eugen was announced in the honor list of the Otherwise Fellowships for ‘doing exciting work in gender and speculative fiction’. Danged Black Thing made the Otherwise Award Honor List as a ‘sharp collection of Afro-Surrealist work’, and was a 2024 Philip K Dick Award nominee. Eugen’s creative work has appeared worldwide, including in Apex Magazine, Award Winning Australian Writing, Fantasy, Fantasy & Science Fiction, and Year’s Best African Speculative Fiction. Visit her at eugenbacon.com.

Grist,  the online environmental magazine, has announced three winners for their Imagine 2200: Climate Fiction for Future Ancestors Short Story Contest. The contest asks authors to imagine “the future we want — futures in which climate solutions flourish and we all thrive.”

The winners are:

• First Place: “Meet Me Under the Molokhia”, Sage Hoffman Nadeau
• Second Place: “Last Tuesday, for Eternity”, Vinny Rose Pinto
• Third Place: “Mousedeer Versus the Ghost

...Read More

by Albert Zhang

Science fiction is often much more concerned about the physical than the organizational reality of a setting (and that’s understandable). But a good fundamental economic story can facilitate plot development and lend realism to a setting. To that end, I hope to share some tips for incorporating economic events into your own writing. 

My goal is to move beyond the what and into the why of economic history. Consider the following questions:

1. What is the payoff?
2. What is the cost, and who is paying it?
3. What are the main externalities?

As with many things in economics, the concepts are simple and the implementation is…less so. Let’s consider an introductory example below.

The Gold Rush

The asteroid 16 Psyche holds an estimated USD 100 quintillion in gold. And there are 1.1 to 1.9 million other large asteroids in just the local asteroid belt. If humanity gained access, how might the ensuing scramble be portrayed?

The California Gold Rush (CGR) springs to mind as a comparable event. The temptation might be to lift a few details from the period and call it a day: poor prospectors, boomtowns, maybe a splash of frontier justice. But let’s see if we can’t “mine” this scenario deeper for worldbuilding purposes.

Payoffs: Scale and Usage

When thinking about payoffs, consider scale and usage. In this case, miners find gold or other mineral wealth. But it’s only valuable if someone wants it! This provides our first major complication: Who needs a bajillion tons of gold?

In general, payoffs tend to decline in resource shocks. Either the supply depletes (as in the CGR), or the demand depletes (as in the infinity-gold-mining scenario). But that also gives you an opportunity. This difference of demand can inspire any number of potential solutions:

• Payoffs decline, and the rush is to get there first, while demand exists.
• There is adequate demand but for unexpected minerals. Miners switch to tungsten because of new demand from megaprojects.
• There is limited supply. Asteroid mining is constrained by some third thing, like a rare component for ship engines
• There simply is unconstrained demand for gold. A cult builds on Earth, intent on creating The Sphere, a golden moon for the mega-wealthy.

In this way, even when we can’t copy history, it can still point us to worldbuilding details that might be more satisfying than “someone buys the gold, don’t think about it.”

Costs: Dynamism and Competition

Costs are often easy to overlook, especially because they tend to evolve in the opposite direction of payoffs. In general, there is a tendency for the cost of incremental production to increase after a shock.

Low cost was a big part of what made the CGR possible. For the initial prospectors, cost was largely confined to travel. While the journey across the California Trail could be arduous, costs were borne completely by the miners. 

But these costs did not stay low. As the news spread, more sophisticated prospectors began to arrive. They brought in more expensive technology, even diverting rivers to mine riverbeds. What started as a simple grab for gold evolved into a complex system of claims, violent disputes, company investments, and larger-scale operations. By 1868, railroads had arrived in California, attracted by increasing populations and the availability of natural resources.

Think about our own space mining scenario. We can apply these lessons in any number of ways:

• Who is bearing the costs of mining the asteroids, and why? 
• If individuals: How do they bear that cost, and why are they doing it? Is space travel/housing very cheap? Is it a penal colony scenario?
• If corporations and governments: What does that look like? Who is in charge? For example, asteroid mines might work like oil rigs, with only a few people managing large operations.
• How do rising costs and competition cause those entities to evolve and conflict? Is there a “timer” on certain interests before the big boys arrive?

Here the parallels to the real world shine. Historical implementations can be the basis for details that give life to a setting, as well as to potential conflicts or pressures that motivate a narrative. 

Externalities: No Action Has One Effect

Externalities are the tangled patterns of cause and effect that spring from singular events, and they can be arbitrarily complex. Thankfully, history can provide some indication of the overall picture. Let us ask a few questions:

Who else is benefiting, and why? Perhaps the most visible changes to California came from a rapidly expanding population that funded boomtowns and cities. Economic stimulus spread as far as Chile and Australia through trade for grain. The transcontinental railroad was financed in part by CGR money and constructed in part to service a growing western populace. The US government itself had a vested interest in the settlement of the West Coast.

Consider how political or economic interests might view the colonization of the asteroid belt:

• What new constructions and economies emerge? Are there new businesses and services? Are certain goods more or less valuable on the frontier?
• How does the Rush benefit people economically? For example, housing might become substantially cheaper on Earth as the steel supply becomes near-infinite.
• What larger interests have an indirect stake in the success of our mines? Do they have a permanent presence? Might there be proxy conflicts to secure those interests?

Who is losing out, and what happens to them? The influx of settlers accelerated the California genocide of Indigenous peoples, with the backing of the US government. Extensive mining operations led to widespread deforestation, mercury contamination, and sediment pollution. These impacts can be long-lasting; hydraulic mine sites are hotspots for bioaccumulated mercury in fish even today.

We might consider some of the negative repercussions of establishing space mines:

• What existing residents might be displaced by larger interests? Researchers? Settlers? Outlaws?
• What potential environmental effects might asteroid mining create? Space travel, for example, might become more dangerous as asteroids are split apart for resources.
• Some earthbound industries would doubtlessly be thrown into chaos. Mines on Earth might be less profitable, for one.

Who isn’t involved, and why? What are the repercussions of that difference from “normal” society? There were no laws or enforcement mechanisms in California following the Mexican-American War. This environment of lawlessness is thought to have shaped the beginnings of San Francisco’s prominent queer history.

• If asteroid mines are a Wild West, why is the government not involved? What informal systems of law emerge? What unique cultures form?
• If asteroid mines are not a Wild West, how does the influence of government entities change the status of miners, create factions, or influence exploration? If the miners are independent entities, how do they stay independent?

In all of these cases, externalities provide a link between individual events and the overall setting. 

In Summary

Economic events create a rich and evolving tapestry of competing interests. By picking these out, we can find unique dynamics that can inform realistic worldbuilding. I hope that this article has provided a place to start when reading through economic history and that you can incorporate it into your own settings and narratives.

A professional economist in his less important life, Albert Zhang otherwise enjoys spending too much time thinking about the minutiae of science fiction and fantasy worlds. His debut novel First Contact was released on October 14, 2024. You can find him consuming potentially unhealthy quantities of coffee and haunting various restaurants around Boston and New York. Find out more about his book as well as worldbuilding blog posts on his website: https://www.albertzhangbooks.com/

The post Enriching Your Worldbuilding with Economics appeared first on SFWA.

Lee Murray is among those appointed by King Charles III as an Officer of the New Zealand Order of Merit (ONZM) in recognition of her “services to literature, particularly speculative literature.” ONZM officers will be presented with ONZM insignia at an investiture to be held at New Zealand’s Government House later in the year. The complete ONZM list celebrates 30 people for their contributions to New Zealand across various cultural, ...Read More

The Washington Science Fiction Association is now accepting nominations of works “published for the first time in the English language” in 2024 for its Small Press Award, given annually to an outstanding story of “imaginative literature” (17,500 words or fewer) published in the small press. The deadline for nominations is March 31, 2025 at 11:59pm ET.

Authors and small-press publishers are among those eligible to nominate, and need not be ...Read More

By Ibtisam Ahmed 

Science fiction narratives all engage in an element of world-building, even if the descriptions are minimal. By their very nature, the settings are fictitious and, more often than not, have elements that are fantastically different to reality. They are imaginary potentials, the possibilities of what-could-be. As such, every single aspect of these stories is crucial to creating a fuller picture. One element that can be overlooked in the analysis of the genre is costume (especially in texts that are only in the written form), but it is still a vital part of the wider world-building. In this essay, I consider the impact of costume in creating and holding community history in two science fictional texts – the short story ‘The Last Dawn of Targadrides,’ and the X-Men comic book arcs focusing on the Hellfire Gala.

Both examples are fictional counterparts to real-world analogues, but heightened to focus on marginalised community identity. As a scholar and performer whose artistic work engages with my own multiple marginalised identities (queer, Bangladeshi, migrant), these narratives provide instances of meaningful empowerment and even liberation. As such, just as these fictions build on real-world histories, my own work is influenced by and builds on these fictions. This is something I will reflect on at the end of this essay, but it is important to start by exploring each of the examples individually.

When Costume is a Repository

The short story ‘The Last Dawn of Targadrides,’ by Trip Galey,is part of the anthology Glitter + Ashes: Queer Tales of a World That Wouldn’t Die. The anthology, edited by dave ring, was published in 2020, and is a collection of stories that respond to the idea of apocalypse from various queer perspectives. While the stories are narratively unconnected, with each contribution providing a different speculative approach to the idea of the end of the world, the collection’s impetus already situates ‘The Last Dawn of Targadrides’ as part of a creative response from a community perspective – specifically, the idea of how queerness responds to apocalypse, an idea made explicitly clear in the editor’s preface:

“These stories show us that the end is not simply a dark road leading to more grit and doom. In that tradition, Glitter + Ashes: Queer Tales of a World That Wouldn’t Die is an anthology centering queer joy and community in the face of disaster […]” (6).

Thus, the story has deliberate politics that celebrate queerness and especially queer community as specific means of tackling distressing futures. The plot follows Virtus, a member of House Valenziaga, as he gets ready to debut his drag persona, Aurora, at a futuristic queer ball. As the story progresses, we learn that this debut is not just part of regular competition for Virtus, as he is acting in defiance of his House Mother to (re)claim his independence and autonomy as a person and as a performer.

In our world, the ballroom scene began as an underground art form in the USA, most famously in Harlem. Its pioneers were Black and Latine queer artists who took part in categories dedicated to fashion, dance, and lip syncing. Being led by non-white voices, it was a direct response to the racism that was still prevalent in mainstream queer cultural spaces like drag pageants and nightlife. It also nurtured found family dynamics, including pooling resources to rent houses together (the origin of the House system), allowing for safety from estrangement from biological family, transphobic violence on the streets, and homelessness.

Voguing was birthed in this space as a way to reframe the prejudice directed at effeminate movement into a dance of power and precision. Runway categories that awarded marks for “realness” (the term used to indicate how convincing a competitor looks in their ensemble) allowed trans and gender-diverse people to safely explore their gender presentation and to practice the ability to ‘pass’ in wider society (i.e., be visually accepted as their actual gender instead of their gender assigned at birth). The House structure within this scene brought together artists who shared a common identity and/or performance ethos, adding a layer of community cohesion on top of the practical safety that Houses provided.

These elements are still present in the short story, with House Valenziaga acting as a surrogate found family and safe haven for Virtus, despite the toxicity of their House Mother. Amidst these more recognisable trappings of ballroom and urban life is the occasional cataclysm that breaches through the fabric of space and time to wreak havoc on Virtus’s city. Described as “edges”, these events send debris from other worlds hurtling to his own, but they also provide an opportunity for scavenging materials and resources by so-called “Edgerunners”, of which we learn Virtus is one. Another fantastical element is how each character seems to have some form of incredible ability, with Virtus himself having the power to create adornments like specific flowers or crystals that sprout from his mouth depending on the emotion he is feeling.

The story goes back and forth between his weeks-long preparations for the ball and the immediate backstage drama just before he walks onto the stage, climaxing with the grand debut of Aurora Thunder. Unsure at first, Aurora wins over the crowd by dramatically unveiling the otherworldly costume that has been fashioned from the ruins of another world, with “fabric woven of dawn itself, the last light of a world now dead and gone.” (195) As Aurora recites the dying moments of Targadrides and its unnamed emperor, great care is given to describe the intricacies of the costume:

“Flakes of gold as fine as ash crumbled from her words as she spoke. […] Layer after layer of the dress was transformed, a slow but steady glow creeping up the dress like the rising of the sun. […] The dress blazed like a rough-gilded rose, pink and gold as the dawn. The only spot of darkness left was the coiled tresses crowning her head. […]” (196)

At this point, the costume becomes more than just an item of clothing and, indeed, more than just Virtus (as Aurora) laying claim to his own worth as a performer. It shines with the history of Targadrides, a foreign land lost to time and tragedy. The fabric transcends the physical space which it inhabits, no longer confined to the cramped floor of the stage or the ballroom, but instead holding the light of a dawn that will never be seen again – and, crucially, would never have been seen at all were it not for Virtus’ use of the material in his costume.

The dress ceases to be just artifice; instead, it is a physical archive that holds a tangible history of a community. It carries with it the death of an entire world, now immortalised for others to see and admire and mourn. Where many repositories are littered with gaps in their historical records (many of which are artificially imposed to hide crimes of coloniality and oppression), the costume here becomes a way to prevent historical erasure. It becomes a statement of resilience and survival, and perhaps even of sustainability, with one world’s loss fuelling emancipation in another.

When Costume is Political Action

Where ‘The Last Dawn of Targradides’ is entirely in the written word, my other example has more visible representations of the costumes I am going to discuss. As a side note, this means that I will not be providing quoted descriptions of costuming in this section. The X-Men comics are a longstanding staple of the publisher Marvel Comics, following the struggles of superpowered mutants as they fight to save themselves and to protect humanity at large, while still facing regular discrimination from ordinary humans. The Hellfire Gala arcs that I will be discussing take place during the comics’ Krakoan Age, published between 2019 and 2024.

This era of the famous heroes takes its name from the fictional island of Krakoa. Within the mythos of their world, Krakoa is an uninhabited, partially sentient island which becomes a new homeland for all mutants around the world. Seeking a formalised community but rejecting attempts at settler colonialism, Krakoa becomes a fresh start where mutants are able to build their own nation-state from the ground up, with the world-building explicitly touching on aspects such as forms of government, crime and rehabilitation, familial and romantic dynamics, trade, healthcare, education, and international relations.

It is part of this last strand of world-building in which the Hellfire Gala takes place. It is an event that sees mutants inviting diplomats from non-mutant nations to visit Krakoa, share resources, and finalise foreign policy. As part of this diplomatic endeavour, the Krakoans aim to show off their newly consolidated culture and wealth. (The gala takes its namesake from a prior event in the X-Men chronology, but that is not the version that is discussed in this essay.)

The real-world comparison for this event is the annual Met Gala, which takes place at the Metropolitan Museum of Art Costume Institute in Manhattan, New York. Formally called the Costume Institute Benefit, the Met Gala is a fundraising event for the institute, the theme of which ties in with the museum’s major yearly exhibition. Designers are invited to bring celebrity guests wearing haute couture ensembles that respond to the theme in some form or another. There is a similar level of exclusivity in both the Met Gala and the Hellfire Gala, and both focus on high fashion and the use of resources to highlight culture.

Interestingly enough, the theme for the 2008 Met Gala was dedicated to Superheroes: Fashion and Fantasy. Through a curation that mixed original comic issues, film and television costumes, and high fashion interpretations, the Costume Institute’s exhibition considered the cultural impact that superhero stories have had on real-world styling. Of particular note is how the exhibition considered superhero costume as a means of making statements against prejudice and bigotry through high camp. In the companion artbook by curator Andrew Bolton, the nature of the superhero body – especially that of the mutant superhero – becomes a site of upheaval thats ubverts the status quo:

“Mutant bodies are explicitly analogized to Jewish bodies, gay bodies, adolescent bodies, Japanese or Native or African American bodies – they are, first and foremost, subjugated and colonized figures. If they are victims, however, they are also valuable sources of disruption and challenge – transgressive, uncontrollable, and alternative bodies.” (131)

It is in this mode of disruption that the Hellfire Gala and its fashion becomes such a powerful narrative space. Unlike the majority of X-Men eras, the Krakoan Age is notable for giving mutants a more proactive and autonomous role in world affairs through the creation of their own nation-state (instead of largely reacting to prejudice that was directed at them in the past). Mutants have created a just and equitable society from the ground up. As the most visible and glamorous cultural export of this society, the Hellfire Gala takes the transgression of mutant bodies and redirects it to become the new – and fabulous – norm. Of particular note is that non-mutant heroes who are invited to attend the event (such as Captain America, Iron Man and Spider-Man) are provided haute couture costumes made by the mutant designer Jumbo Carnation. Thus, even guests who are welcomed into the space are outfitted in regalia made in the mutant atelier.

The fashion itself is diverse. In sharp contrast to the occasional uniformity seen by superhero teams, including several iterations of the X-Men themselves, each attendee wears a look that is tailored to their powers, personalities, and complex histories. Thus, Emma Frost is bedecked in luxurious fabrics which highlight her affinity with the figure of the femme fatale; Cyclops channels strategic thinking in looks shaped by military history; Mirage includes adornments that pay homage to her Cheyenne Nation heritage; Manifold wears an outfit that is painted to reflect the cultural heritage derived from indigenous Dreamtime spirituality; and Iceman explores his recently-found queerness with corsetry and androgyny. (Note that these are just some of the looks that are worn by these characters as they had different costumes for each edition of the Hellfire Gala.)

The in-universe visual references to oppressed histories are explicit and intentional . As shown in the companion anthology Marvel Voices: Pride (a collection of short comics which focuses on queer characters written and drawn by queer creatives), Jumbo Carnation makes it a point to celebrate the specific heritages and identities of some of the queer heroes getting ready for the then-upcoming Hellfire Gala. He does so as a means of reclaiming painful pasts that were used to engender fear and shame, taking sources of pain and violence and using them to create pride and self-worth. As Carnation himself says: “[…] at least once a year, I am reminded that there is a group where I will always belong.” (no page numbers, emphasis from the original text)

From an authorial and artistic perspective, this is equally important. The designs for the Hellfire Gala costumes were created by a range of queer and racially minoritised artists, such as Russell Dauterman, Luciano Vecchio, Kris Anka, Javier Pina, and RB Silva. The comic book industry is known to be majority white and cisheterosexual. While its inception owes a lot to the creativity of members of the Jewish diaspora fleeing persecution in Europe, it has grown to become a space that is dominated by individuals with systemic and identity-based privilege. Thus, having artists who are still underrepresented in the industry – and some of whom would likely not have even been welcome to contribute to X-Men stories in the past – ensures that the centring of diversity at the heart of the Hellfire Gala is also reflected in its creative team.

The costume work in these issues makes a strong political statement towards listening to previously silenced voices. Community becomes a space of healing from traumas of the past, and the extravagant haute couture weaves in elements of suppressed cultures that loudly challenges oppression. The exclusivity of the event is catered towards prioritising and lifting up stories that had been hidden away in the past (which stands in contrast to other forms of high fashion exclusivity, including in the Hellfire Gala’s real-world inspiration), which leads to a community that is not only built on inclusion but proudly proclaims it as one of its strengths.

An Artistic Response

As explored through this essay, costume in science fiction is a nuanced space that can be used to explore stories of liberation, inclusion, and empowerment. When used by minoritised and marginalised creatives to tell stories of minoritised and marginalised characters, it becomes a powerful means of challenging the continuing sidelining of many community experiences in both fiction and the real world. As a multiply marginalised scholar, it is always a joy to be able to write down these reflections.

As a multiply marginalised artist, these incredible stories are also a wonderful source of inspiration. My artistic work involves showcasing my heritage – as a queer Bangladeshi migrant living in the UK – in spaces that are still largely white and overwhelmingly British. I like to wear fabrics and costumes from my home country whenever possible, and my performances in lip sync categories usually involve miming to English-language music in the style of jatra folk theatre and kathak classical dance.

In its own way, marginalised artistry can be seen as an act of speculative world building, where the stage becomes a space of re-envisioning and redefining norms. It is in this spirit of world-building that I include a sketch of an idealised costume in this essay.

The costume would need to entail a level of science fictionality as the methods of fabrication and textile I imagine at its heart have been lost. The bulk of the outfit is made of delicate Dhaka muslin, a fabric made using a 16-step crafting process with a rare type of cotton by skilled artisans, and with a weave so fine it is almost transparent. While modern artisans and researchers have rediscovered parts of this process, to the point that a variation of Dhaka muslin now exists again, the specifics of the full process have been destroyed due to the ravages of British colonialism – through the enforcement of industrialisation in the textile industry which pushed out hand-woven fabrics; through the hyper competitiveness of capitalism that valued quantity over quality which prompted artisans to abandon their skills; through unequal trade practices that stole resources and skills away from the peripheries of the empire; and through increasingly oppressive clothing and cultural laws which made it effectively illegal to promote local forms of dress.

These colonial policies had a devastating effect on the region’s textile production. Prior to British colonisation, the region produced a quarter of the world’s fabric; by the middle of the 20th century, this share had become ten times smaller. Governments and colonial administrators ensured that textile production had shifted to enrich new industrialists which, incidentally, also destroyed local workshop-based production in Britain itself, in favour of factories. An additional act of colonial brutality in this process was how South Asia was forced to forego necessary food production so that cotton could be prioritised as a key resource for the British manufacturing industry. It is no exaggeration to state that millions of lives were lost due to the move away from local artisans to machine-heavy mass production. It is because of this lost heritage that the asymmetrical train in my costume is made of frayed layers of the fabric, speaking towards the violent interruptions that cut the continuation of my heritage.

The neckpiece and headpiece are primarily made of gold filigree, a technique that is still practiced across South Asia (including Bangladesh). The technique ties my look in with a wider tradition of craftsmanship across the region, bringing in an element of solidarity with other oppressed histories, while the silhouette and designs harken to a specifically Bangladeshi experience.

The rainbow colours in the feathers of the headpiece and the small jewels in the neckpiece weave my queerness into the look. Erroneously, queerness can be seen as a modern Western imposition in cultures considered conservative in their traditions. The truth is that diversity in sexuality and gender identity had always been present in what is now Bangladesh – and, indeed, across the world – before the Christian mission at the heart of British colonialism outlawed such identities as immoral. The rainbow symbolism is a modern creation, but placing it in prominent positions in my costume indicates how intrinsically linked my queerness is with my geo-cultural identity.

Considering that my performance work – where this fantastical costume would be worn if it could ever be made – takes place in the UK, the very country that outlawed parts of my identity and destroyed multiple histories of craftsmanship, the sketch feels like a particularly strong statement. As in ‘The Last Dawn of Targadrides,’ it alludes to a repository of lost knowledge and resilience. As in the Hellfire Gala, it celebrates a multitude of oppressed identities as a clear political statement. As in both, it allows for an imagination of (science) fictional community, liberation, and joy.

References

Bolton, A., 2008. Superheroes: Fashion and Fantasy. Yale University Press.

Duggan, G., Anka, K., Dauterman, R., et al., 2022. X-Men: Hellfire Gala – Immortal. Marvel Comics.

Duggan, G., Dauterman, R., Vecchio, L., et al., 2023 X-Men: Hellfire Gala – Fall of X. Marvel Comics.

Galey, T., 2020, ‘The Last Dawn of Targadrides’, in Glitter + Ashes: Queer Tales of a World That Wouldn’t Die. Edited by dave ring. Neon Hemlock Press.

Hickman, J., Duggan, G., Dauterman, R., et al., 2021. X-Men: Hellfire Gala Red Carpet Edition. Marvel Comics.

Various, 2023. Marvel Voices: Pride. Marvel Comics.

Bio
Ibtisam Ahmed (he/him) is an independent scholar who received a BA/Leverhulme Small Research Grant in 2022-2024 to complete a project on queer performance history. He performs on-stage as Indigo Spice as part of the House of Spice, a Queer Brown Performance Collective in the UK. Prior to that, he completed a postgraduate degree at the University of Nottingham with a focus on decolonial utopianism. His work has been published in different formats and platforms, including a chapter on superhero bodies as queer immigrant utopias in the book The Politics of Culture (2020, Cambridge Scholars Publishing), which he also co-edited. He is a massive nerd and a lover of costume design.

Catherynne M. Valente has packed a lot into the first 20 years of her career. Her genre-busting work runs the gamut from alternative history to fairytale fantasy to cosmic horror. In addition to writing 27 novels and novellas, she has multiple collections of short fiction and poetry. She is also the creator of a six-year-old human, but motherhood shows no signs of slowing her down. Space Opera, her 2018 bestseller about an interplanetary Eurovision Song Contest, was shortlisted for Best Novel at the Hugo Awards. Her new novel, Space Oddity, picks up where Space Opera left off and reflects contemporary concerns like pandemics, online misinformation, and the threat of all-out war. https://www.catherynnemvalente.com/

Tony Conn is a writer and filmmaker with an interest in all things strange. He is perhaps the world’s leading expert on the Megatron, a flying saucer-shaped restaurant that used to adorn the Cambridgeshire countryside and now features in Space Oddity. https://tonyconn.com/

TC: Could you tell us about your background and early influences?

CV: My parents met at UCLA and divorced when I was very young. I had two stepparents most of my childhood and went back and forth between Seattle and northern California. My dad was an aspiring filmmaker who went into advertising instead, which is very much a family thing on my father’s side. A lot of them intended to be artists and ended up in the family business. My mother is a retired political science professor. She was in her master’s and PhD programmes through almost every portion of my early life that I can remember. She was working for the mayor of Seattle, getting her degrees in public policy, doing advocacy work, and she’s a pretty hardcore statistician as well.

They were in their early twenties when they had me. They had no sense of what was appropriate for a child. I had no boundaries as to what I could read, or watch, or anything. I just had to be vocal about when it was too much for me, which is kind of a modern parenting idea. My mother read Plato’s Republic to me as a bedtime story, specifically The Myth of Er, which is this allegory about what happens when we die. At five, she had me read The Breasts of Tiresias by Apollinaire. It’s above the pay grade of adults, let alone a small child. My mother had no sense of that. In my mom’s house, there are stacks of books that are now end tables. Cairns of books everywhere.

Both of my birthparents are big musical theatre people, so I grew up seeing musicals all the time. I’ve always had this really low voice, since I was ten. I wanted to be a singer, but there weren’t any parts for somebody with a voice like mine. My mom also has a master’s degree in drama, so I remember when Beaumarchais was a big thing in our house. At eleven, all that anybody talked about was The Barber of Seville.

I had a lot of influences from my parents. My mom read every murder mystery. My dad is hardcore science fiction. And then, my stepmother Kim is the world’s biggest Stephen King fan. Horror was my first love, both as a reader and a writer.

TC: Is it a coincidence you ended up living in Maine?

CV: I would like to pretend I did not move to Maine because I got obsessed with Stephen King as a small child, but that would be a lie. I read Stephen King by the time I was nine. I found Salem’s Lot in the garage and sat down on the floor to read it. I was obsessed with Maine as a child. To me, it seemed like that’s where they kept the magic. In all the books I read, the magic is in Britain, or Europe, but in Stephen King there was this place in America where horrible but magical things could happen. Recently, I was invited to contribute to an anthology of new stories set in the world of The Stand called The End of the World as We Know It, so I got to write in Stephen King’s universe as a grown-up.

TC: You’ve mentioned elsewhere that you have ADHD. Does that go some way to explaining how prolific you are, and the way you jump between genres and styles?

CV: Yeah. I really can’t do the same thing twice in a row. It nearly kills me. Part of my brain is desperately trying to wander off and find something new to do, so I do jump genres a lot. Maybe I would’ve had a more successful career if I had stuck to one thing, but I just can’t do that. The thing that I enjoy the most is writing something unexpected, that people think I would never write. I’m always looking for that thing that kicks off my imagination, that hyperfocus.

Honestly, it’s not good for me to take a long time to write a book. The best way to do it is to have between eight and twelve weeks, and produce an entire manuscript in that time, all the research having been done. I can believe in myself and the project and everything else for about that amount of time before it all crumbles and falls apart. I didn’t know I had ADHD till I already had several books out, but I do think The Orphan’s Tales (2006), which was my first big New York book, I should have been able to give to a doctor and receive a prescription.

TC: One strand that runs through your work is remix culture – turning genres on their heads, taking new perspectives in stories that might seem familiar. Do you think that reflects the times we live in?

CV: Yeah. We’re pretty far past postmodernism. We screwed up by calling it postmodernism, and now nobody knows what to say next about that kind of thing. I remember, in creative writing classes in college, being told to not use modern pop culture references because it dates your work. I think that, for science fiction people, it’s just not the same. Using modern cultural references in order to introduce something totally alien as a culture is really helpful, and we would be loath to give it up. I think a lot of that has changed with things like Don DeLillo’s White Noise, which I’m not a huge fan of, but it’s impossible to argue it’s not totally seminal. I think it certainly changed with the advent of the internet. We’re constantly making memetic references to the point where we sound like that Star Trek episode with Darmok and Jalad. The progress of memetic culture is fascinating.

TC: Were you surprised by how successful Space Opera was?

CV: I think we all were. It was supposed to be a novella, for one thing. We all thought it was going to be pretty niche. No Americans knew what Eurovision was at the time. Thank you, Will Ferrell, for that movie (Eurovision Song Contest: The Story of Fire Saga). I no longer have to give a short TED talk on what Eurovision is before I give a reading. The idea of an American writing a comedy about Eurovision for Americans, which would appeal to neither Americans nor Europeans, who don’t want to hear an American’s opinions on Eurovision – none of us really thought it was going to be a big hit.

Then, that first print run sold out weeks before the book came out. We went through something like nine editions in the first six weeks because we just couldn’t keep it in stock. Popular Mechanics had it on their Father’s Day gift guide, so it was: whiskey, knives, boots, book with a disco ball and girl whose name is spelled funny on it. Just wildly strange. Almost no publicity was done for it. It was all word of mouth. We were all very shocked, and it sold movie rights right away. Unfortunately, Covid killed that project, but it is under development as an animated series right now.

TC: I was going to ask about that…

CV: Yeah, so Universal picked it up almost immediately, less than a month after the book came out. There was a whole team. We had songwriters. It was a going thing, and then, you know, Covid killed a lot of things. Everybody involved still wants to do it, but it just wasn’t meant to be. Never before have I had an option expire and attached to that email was the next option offer, because they’d been waiting for it to expire.

I think, in retrospect, that an animated series is a better destiny for it. It doesn’t cost nearly as much to animate all those aliens as it does to CG them, and I think that you can do a lot more with the structure of an animated series than you can with a two-hour feature film. For the same kind of reason, it’s always been so difficult to adapt Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. The nub of Hitchhiker’s Guide, and it’s true of Space Opera as well, is those expository comedy bits explaining some little aspect of the world. That’s most of what people remember, not necessarily the plot.

Lower Decks has been great at doing good science fiction while still being comedy. I think we have a lot of examples of how to do more elevated animated series these days than back when I was a kid, and it was The Simpsons or nothing. 

TC: Space Opera and Space Oddity contain a lot of British references, like Douglas Adams, Doctor Who, Monty Python, David Bowie. Would you describe yourself as an Anglophile?

CV: I think it’s a complicated thing. We are taught so much British culture in America, to the point that it can feel like American literature, even in our own colleges, is a secondary concern. Britain, and British culture, has been excellent at spreading and taking root all over the place, for good and for ill. I guess I’m an Anglophile, but when you grow up on fairy tales and King Arthur, you end up having this idea about the UK.

I went to university in Edinburgh, and that’s part of why the band in Space Opera and Space Oddity is British. At the time, I thought it would be funny because of the UK’s traditional placement in Eurovision. Then, of course, a few years after the book came out, it’s hosted in Liverpool with a song called Space Man, because of course.

And good Lord, who doesn’t love Douglas Adams? I wouldn’t want to meet that person. When I wrote the first chapters of Space Opera, I wrote it very quickly, and I was really happy with it. I’d never done anything that was first and foremost a comedy. But I had to sit back and say, “Alright, so you have Brits in space, and you’re writing it like this. You’re going to get compared to Douglas Adams. Are you comfortable with that? Are you cool with hearing how you didn’t live up to Douglas Adams?” I decided that I was okay with that, and to some extent it took some pressure off. Was I going to sit down to write the great science fiction comedy novel? Absolutely not. I could shoot for the bronze, and it would be fine.

There are several references to Douglas Adams throughout both books. He’s a brilliant and unsurpassable talent, and I adore his work. Terry Pratchett as well. All of the things that you mentioned. To be allowed to hang out outside the house where they all once lived is fine for me. I can hang out in the garden. 

TC: Did you have to do a lot of research into British slang and regional dialects?

CV: Not really, because I did live there. I think I made it harder for myself, because there are things that bother me when Americans write British characters. I didn’t want to overuse “bloody.” I didn’t want to use “Oi, guvnor!” I didn’t want to do any of that stuff. I gave myself three “bloody”s per book and had to be a little bit more creative with my intensifiers.

TC: I believe all the members of the band are of mixed heritage…

CV: They are, which is important to me, and very deliberate.

TC: Did that involve a lot of research, into British-Asian culture, for example?

CV: Yeah, that did involve more research. That was more for the first book, because those characters are defined by the second. Richard Ayoade has the same kind of cultural background that Decibel Jones has, so I listened to a lot of interviews with him. There’s a lot of Ayoade’s voice in Dess.

You always want to do the absolute best you can, even in comedy. I’m sure that there are mistakes. There’s always mistakes. But it was important to me to have this plucky, punky band that is made up of Britons who have a heritage that is not just of the British Isles, because that’s such a huge part of Britain’s history and heritage.

TC: You have a playful attitude towards gender and sexuality in the Space Opera books. Was that something you consciously wanted to explore? Do you think science fiction is a good way to do that?

CV: I think it’s a great way to explore that. There is no reason an alien species should conform to our ideas of gender. Much of the animal kingdom doesn’t. Once you get outside mammals, you have all kinds of different combinatory ways of reproducing. I wanted to be honest about how weird aliens should be. My rule was: You must be at least as weird as things we already know about.

Within the alien species, I wanted to have a huge variety of gender expression, and then rock stars have always been a little bit exempt from the kind of judgement that us normal people get. Freddie Mercury and David Bowie were totally acceptable to play in straight, regular households, and they were wildly nonconforming. I wanted to have a lot of fun with that. I’m queer myself and I felt like, particularly in this day and age, if you’re going to do Brits in Space, there’s no reason not to push it a little further, make it a little gayer and younger and stranger, particularly because two of the genres of cultural expression that often get exempt from prohibitions against your own expression are comedy and music.

The other way that the species’ anatomy came about is reverse-engineering it from the kind of music that I wanted them to represent. Music has a lot to do with our anatomy. The beats that feel natural to us. Our own heartbeat, that’s the beat that we have in our bodies all the time. We have ten fingers. It determines the kinds of instruments that we play. If we had twelve, we’d be playing different kinds of instruments. The resonance chamber created by our inner ear and skull determines the range of sound that we enjoy and don’t enjoy. If you have a completely different anatomy, it would be a completely different kind of music.

TC: Is there an overarching narrative to the series?

CV: I very rarely have an overarching plan. It’s that ADHD again. I want to keep myself surprised constantly. I try not to plan prescriptively too much, because then my brain thinks it’s already done this book and will go on permanent hiatus.

TC: You said you hate to do the same thing twice. Did you feel under pressure to recreate the first Space Opera book in Space Oddity?

CV: Sure, a little bit. I knew when I finished writing Space Opera that I would probably want to go back to that world. The first one doesn’t end on a cliffhanger, but there’s obvious threads to another story there. I didn’t really want to commit to it until I had an idea for what book was going to be. It was about a year before we sold the sequel, and then it was like, “Well, can I get back into that voice?” I ended up folding it into the sequel, that anxiety about your difficult second album, and what happens to the Hero’s Journey when you’re done with it.

When I first started writing it, Covid had happened. I had Covid in February 2021, when I was finishing the book. We are very fortunate it’s in English and paragraphs because I was completely delirious. I went and quarantined at a friend’s house for eight days and, even in my feverish brain, I thought, “I will never again have eight days to myself, so if I’m going to finish this book, I have to do it now.”

Because Eurovision was cancelled, it seemed to me that’s what the book had to be about on some level. But by the time that I was editing it, Russia had invaded Ukraine and then removed themselves from Eurovision, and I felt like what the book was about had to change a little bit too.

TC: Did it feel cathartic to write this satire of what was going on at the time?

CV: Yeah. Covid was really rough for writers. You need to experience things. It’s a real part of the process, at least for me, and to suddenly have no input but your own four walls made it so strange. I live on a little island in Maine. I couldn’t even get food delivery. We have one store that everyone goes to and one boat that you have to take to get to the mainland. People lost their minds. It was really hard to make something that’s new and exciting when nothing was new and exciting.

TC: You wrote a touching dedication to Christopher Priest in the new book. You also lost a lot of family members while writing it. Can you tell us how that affected you?

CV: Between the start of lockdown and the end of 2021, my husband and I lost 13 family members. It was gruelling. There were times when it was just month by month. My husband’s grandmother died during my grandfather’s funeral. It’s hard to write comedy when everyone around you is suffering. I think the books that I wrote during this time, Osmo Unknown and the Eightpenny Woods (2022), which is literally a book about death, and Space Oddity, are lobbed into the future to explain what we were all going through. It’s weird when your own life starts to fall apart at the same time the world is falling apart, because you can’t tell which of that is your problem and which of that is that everything’s messed up.

The world has gone absolutely spare in the last several years. I don’t like people pretending that it’s not unprecedented. It is. None of us experienced a pandemic before. That’s new for all of us, and no-one’s getting therapy about it. I think Space Oddity is partly me working through it. It takes time to make art out of trauma, because the trauma has to stop before you can make art. There has to be a minute where you’re not being actively traumatised to process all of that into art. I think we will see everybody’s Covid novels over the course of the next 10 or 15 years, as people have different speeds of processing and writing.

TC: Does having a child mean that you see literature through a new lens?

CV: In some ways. The thing that is bringing me a lot of joy right now, as my kid’s just turned six, is sharing some of the more complex young reader books that I loved as a kid, between The Hobbit and The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. There’s this book called Seaward, by Susan Cooper, that most people have never heard of, but it was absolutely my favourite when I was little. A lot of the fiction that I’ve been taking in is rediscovering those things that I loved so much as a young reader.

In Space Oddity, there’s the whole bit in the beginning about the Blowout, which is what happens to first contact cultures when they finally get a chance to process what they’ve gone through, and they all lose their minds. The comparison is to a baby’s blowout diaper. It’s obviously right from my kid. Also, for a long time, I couldn’t read or watch anything where bad things happened to children. I just couldn’t handle it. I’m starting to get over that now, but I still am a lot more squeamish about that than I used to be. It does change your perspective somewhat.

I still think of this child as like a rogue AI that I’m slowly programming. You will tell them something and they will take it completely literally. When they were a little younger, we said, “This is your body. It belongs to you. Nobody can do anything to your body that you don’t consent to.” So, I get a phone call from daycare because my son has pushed a little girl off a chair into the gravel, and nobody knows why it happened. The minute we walk away, the three-year-old tells me, “Brooklyn would not stop singing Let It Go into my ear, and my ear is part of my body, and I get to say what happens to my body, and nobody can do anything to my body that I don’t consent to.” I’m like, “Okay, well, thank you for listening to that lesson. You still can’t push somebody. That means you’re doing something to her body.” It’s the most perfect example of how a robot would interpret that instruction. How I think about AI and how people learn things has certainly changed a lot, watching this ball of id slowly grow a superego.

TC: Do you have any other projects that people should look out for?

CV: Space Oddity is the big thing. I’m coming up on finishing a new novel for Tor called Nobody But Us. I have a number of short stories coming out in quick succession in 2025, including the Stephen King anthology, The End of the World as We Know It. I have stories coming out in Uncanny and an anthology called The Book of the Dead.

Space Oddity is released on 9th January 2025 in the UK.

Voting has opened for the 2025 Fanzine Activity Achievement (FAAn) Awards, recognizing work done in 2024. Categories last year included: Best Genzine, Best Perzine, Best Fan Writer, Best Fan Artist, Best Letterhack, Best Cover Art, and Best Special Publication. Voting is open to anyone, and no memberships or fees are required. ‘The Incompleat Register 2024′ voters’ guide is available online. Results will be announced at the Corflu 42 banquet on ...Read More

Author Andrew Pyper, 56, died January 3, 2025 at home in Toronto, Canada of cancer. Pyper published 14 novels, many thrillers with speculative elements.

Andrew Derek Pyper was born January 4, 1968 in Stratford, Ontario, Canada. He graduated from McGill University with an English degree, and went to law school at the University of Toronto. Though he passed the Bar in 1996, he never practiced law, instead becoming a full-time ...Read More

The judges for the 2025 World Fantasy Awards have been empaneled.

The judges will read and consider eligible materials from 2024 between now (January 6, 2025) and June 1, 2025. To be considered for awards, all materials must be received by all five judges and Peter Dennis Pautz by June 1, 2025. “If… something is received on May 31 the judges may well have only one day to read it ...Read More

Wizard’s Tower Press has an­nounced the new Wiz Duo novella series, edited by Roz Clarke and Joanne Hall, to launch in early 2025. Each volume “will contain two novella-length stories from different writers.” The first two books include stories by David Gullen and Ben Wright, and Juliet Kemp and E.M. Faulds. Their novellas were first acquired by the now-defunct Grimbold Books. Publisher Cheryl Morgan said:

While I love reading novellas, ...Read More

Author Stephen King is shutting down the three independent radio stations he owns in Bangor ME: WZON, WZLO, and WKIT. They are expected to go offline on De­cember 31, 2024. King said, “While radio across the country has been overtaken by giant corporate broadcasting groups, I’ve loved being a local, in­dependent owner all these years,” but the stations have never been profitable, with King covering the revenue shortfalls personally. Now, ...Read More

George Zebrowski (28 December 1945–20 December 2024) was a prolific writer and anthologist. He edited three Nebula anthologies and headed SFWA’s committee that oversaw the selection of editors for Nebula Awards anthologies from 1983-95. His collection of Bulletins and Forums now makes up the majority of SFWA’s archives at Northern Illinois University. He was editor of the SFWA Bulletin during 1970 to 1975, and then, jointly with his long-time partner Pamela Sargent from 1983 to 1991. Together they won the Service to SFWA Award in 2000.

Born in Austria, Zebrowski moved to the US at age five. He attended one of the first Clarion Writers’ Workshops in 1968 at age 22, and, notably, rose quickly to publication, in collaboration with Jack Dann in 1970 with “Traps” and “Dark, Dark, the Dead Star” and his own “The Water Sculptor of Station 233.” Two years later, his first novel, Omega Point, was published with Ace Books. He went on to write more than a hundred published short stories and essays, along with twenty-one novels, including Star Trek tie-in works. He also edited more than a dozen anthologies, including five volumes of Synergy: New Science Fiction. Zebrowski won the John W. Campbell Memorial Award in 1999 with his book Brutal Orbits, and he served on the Theodore Sturgeon Memorial Award jury from 2005-2013. Three of his short stories, “Heathen God,” “The Eichmann Variations,” and “Wound the Wind,” were Nebula Award nominees. 

Paul Levinson, former SFWA President, says, “George Zebrowski was a science fiction writer’s science fiction writer. What I mean by that is he was as passionate and committed to loving science fiction—thinking about it, writing about it, and of course, writing it—as he was when he first encountered it. When George called me, or when we met at a convention, I truly felt like I was 12 years old again, consumed by and beaming with that sense of wonder.  I guess it never leaves most teenage fans of the genre, but it more than didn’t leave George—he constantly contributed to it with his electric and eclectic imagination. It was truly a privilege to know him, and wherever he is now, he’s also permanently somewhere in my brain, and no doubt the minds of many lucky others.”

Writer and editor James Morrow recalls, “Before I knew George Zebrowski, I knew about him. The connection remains vivid in my memory. Sometime in the early 1980’s, I was hanging out with a filmmaker friend in his Boston apartment, where we were eventually joined by an accomplished book critic (his name escapes me) who specialized in science fiction. I had recently published my first novel, a dystopian satire called The Wine of Violence, that owed its existence primarily to Swift and Voltaire. At the time I was largely ignorant of contemporary SF, and I felt ambivalent about continuing to write in that genre. The critic told me that, if I wanted to appreciate the stylistic, intellectual, and sociopolitical feats of which SF was capable, I should read two recent novels without delay: In the Ocean of Night by Gregory Benford and Macrolife by George Zebrowski. I had heard of neither book (and neither writer), but I followed the critic’s advice. And so it was that, by dazzling me with the intensity of their imaginations and the range of their philosophic and scientific passions, Benford and Zebrowski inadvertently convinced me to remain in the SF field. Eventually I got to know George in person, and he quickly proved an admirable colleague, tirelessly working behind the scenes in SFWA politics and SF publishing (often to my personal benefit). Thank you, dear George. Ave atque vale. I owe you more than I can say.”

Writer Jack Dann says, in summary of a lifelong friendship, “George was one of the most ethical and moral people I’ve ever known. He simply could not embrace cynicism. He persisted in doing good deeds for people he did not even know because it was the right thing to do. For example: after discovering that a publisher was not paying proper royalties, he spent months negotiating until the writers involved received ‘windfall’ royalties amounting to thousands of dollars. George Zebrowski the writer…? His intellectual contemporaries were Arthur C. Clarke and Stanislaw Lem—Clarke was a longtime friend and correspondent. Like Clarke and Lem, George was interested in rigorously extrapolating ideas into plausible, possible future realities. He turned cold equations into futures that we could imagine living in. Quintessential thought experiments. If you would like to experience his excoriating insights and genius, take a look at what I consider his magnum opus: Macrolife: a Mobile Utopia. To sum up. George: brilliant, cranky, generous, loveable, and passionate about everything that interested him. A fiercely devoted friend. An argument ready to happen. Someone who did not—could not—suffer fools gladly. Well, perhaps he did because he suffered through our friendship for almost sixty years! Vale, my brother…”

George Zebrowski lived 78 years.

The post In Memoriam: George Zebrowski appeared first on SFWA.

Asimov‘s magazine has opened up the ballot for its 39th annual Readers’ Award. On the ballot, available here, readers can select their favorite Asimov’s short stories, novellas, novelettes, poems, and covers from 2024. The poll closes on February 1, 2025.

Founded in 1977 by Isaac Asimov and Joel Davis, Asimov’s publishes science fiction, poetry, editorials, and non-fiction. For more on the magazine’s history, see here.

While you are here, please ...Read More

Analog Science Fiction and Fact has opened up its annual poll for the Analytical Laboratory of reader favorites. On the ballot, available here, readers select their favorite Analog short stories, novellas, covers, articles, and more. The poll closes on February 1, 2025.

Analog, begun in 1930 as Astounding Stories, publishes science fiction and articles on science and technology. For more information about the magazine, see here.

While you are here, ...Read More

by the SFWA Publications Crew

In recent years, The SFWA Blog has undergone many changes and refinements to serve its community better. Where we once had a single editor, we’re now a team that reviews pitches collectively and looks for ways to bring more voices into the conversation. This past year was an especially exciting time for us because we were able to launch more open calls and elevate the excellent work of committees such as History, Indie, and Game Writing: volunteer-run initiatives here at SFWA that advocate for writers in different fields of the SFF industry.

The SFWA Blog is a free-to-read service—no membership necessary!—and our mission in 2025 is to continue growing conversations of value to professional and professionalizing writers in SFF.

Going forward, we’re partnering with more SFWA advocacy groups to bring their expertise to The Blog, and we’re developing conversations we began this year through our open calls. On our Highlights page, you can currently explore articles in our “Writing from History,” “Writing by Other Means,” and “Perspectives in Translation” conversations, along with limited series like “Playtesting Game Narratives” and long-term committee offerings from History, Indie, Romance, and Safety. We’ll be growing our list to include special topics, like articles about action-writing and worldbuilding, and seeking more roundtable and interview opportunities.

More details are available on our Submission Guidelines page for these open calls:

• Lessons Learned
• Perspectives in Translation
• Volunteer Networks: The Heart of SFF
• Writing by Other Means
• Writing from History

What Do We Want at The SFWA Blog?

Despite the range of highlights you can read to get a sense of the publication and the thorough guidelines available to would-be Blog writers, many still struggle at the pitch stage.

If you’re considering submitting an article pitch to The Blog, we’d love to read it! Here are some tips to help you create a successful pitch:

1. We love work that addresses writers at all stages of their careers, but we most often receive pitches that address an audience of complete novices. We would love to see more pitches that go past a basic introduction to a topic and more work that addresses the needs of a mid-career writer/creator in SFF.
2. We love work that explores lesser-known experiences. Although every topic can do with a refresher piece occasionally, we have a range of creators in SFF who rarely get a platform to discuss what makes their niche special. Let’s change that together.
3. We prioritize work that doesn’t simply promote a single author, organization, or professional service. (And that includes self-promotion: the best self-promotion, for us, is an author who demonstrates their talent for writing through their mastery of other article topics.) We’re more interested in exploring a concept holistically, so give us collective histories or technical discussions that include a wider range of product options.
4. We love work that uplifts rather than tearing down. Sometimes, well-meaning writers will pitch us articles that focus on how [X] text got [Y] representation wrong. These don’t tend to make it past the pitch phase. The author’s heart is in the right place, but stronger pitches will center work that gets [Y] representation right. This is also important because writers from [Y] demographic sometimes simply don’t know about the wonderful work already being done by other members of their demographic.
5. Relatedly, we love it when writers don’t feel that they have to carry a whole demographic on their own. Everyone has a distinct and wonderful voice. No group is a hivemind, so please pitch us work based on your experience in [Y] demographic rather than feeling pressured to represent The One True Experience for the whole.
6. Although we avoid blatant self-promotion, we welcome your singular, first-person experiences—so please feel free to use personal anecdotes to frame the professional core of your piece. Conversely, though, you do not have to include any personal details if you don’t want to. It’s only in pitches discussing technical topics (e.g., scientific subfields, medical know-how, or martial arts) that relevant experience in either the pitch or author’s bio will help us evaluate the submission.
7. Lastly, we love work that challenges our expectations. This doesn’t mean being controversial for the sake of controversy, but we sometimes see pitches that advocate for methodologies we disagree with—and then we ask ourselves if there’s a body of writers who might benefit from the perspective all the same. No two writers are alike, and having a team of editors allows us to signal-boost a range of perspectives. So don’t ever feel like you have to submit something based on the professional preferences of our editors! Write with a demonstrated level of authority about your point of view instead.

The Nitty Gritty of Your Submission

The SFWA Blog editorial team meets monthly to consider your submissions. While we discourage flooding our inbox with too many pitches, if you’ve sent one and haven’t heard back yet, feel free to send another along in the same window if inspiration strikes again.

In your pitch, give us a clear sense of what the article will cover so we can better evaluate your proposal. If you want to approach a subject from many different angles, please let us know. If you want to bring multiple authors/works into discussion, please list them in the pitch. If you think of structuring your article as an argument, give us a sense of the steps that get you to your conclusion.

If you get a rejection from us, please know that there are many possible reasons for a declined pitch, and you’ll find the most common listed in that email. Read them carefully, consider which ones might explain your situation, and then please feel free to submit anew.

This was a terrific year for getting more open calls and committee series off the ground, but we’re just getting started at The SFWA Blog. There’s always so much more to say and do for this weekly conversation among professional and professionalizing writers in SFF.

We hope you’ll engage with us next year by reading The SFWA Blog, commenting on or sharing articles, and submitting your own pitches. We on the editorial team very much look forward to the work that lies ahead. Join us!

The post What Should I Pitch to The SFWA Blog? appeared first on SFWA.

Kazuo Ishiguro is the first name on the 2025 King Charles III New Year’s Honours list. The list gives Ishiguro the Companion of Honour distinction, which BBC.com notes as rare, as it is “a select group which is limited to 65 people at any one time.” Jacqueline Wilson DBE is next on the High Awards list, given the Grand Cross of the Order of the British Empire. The complete list ...Read More

The 2024 Trans-Atlantic Fan Fund (TAFF), which “will send a European fan to the 2025 Worldcon in Seattle,” has selected its nominees and will begin voting on January 1, 2025.

The candidates for this year are Zi Graves, Mikołaj Kowalewski, and Jan Vaněk jr. Voting is open to any individual with their donation of £3 or $4 to TAFF. The ballot is available here.

TAFF “was created in 1953 for ...Read More

The 28th ICon was held October 20-22, 20-24 in Tel Aviv, Israel, and included almost 350 panels, lectures, workshops, games, and roleplaying. Some 11,000 tickets were sold to the different events. In each of the three days, at a certain point, entrance to the venue had to be restricted to those who had tickets, because the 1,800 people limit on premises, set for health and safety reasons, was reached.

The ...Read More