Everybody’s tried to make a meal they mess up. A pile of perfectly good ingredients that just won’t come together into something palatable despite our best efforts. And when time and money and supplies are tight, sometimes tossing out the pot and starting over is not an option.

In each act of my new spacepunk steam opera novel, FLOTSAM, the four-person airship crew sits down to a meal. They come together to eat, to debate, and to problem solve. Their thoughts in these scenes are filled with worry over finding work, getting paid, keeping the ship in good repair, and staying out of trouble long enough to spend any money left after that.

Each meal is a backdrop to what’s going on in the story at that moment: an easy, familiar meal to celebrate getting away from a confrontation in one piece; a load of their favorite takeout as distraction from unpleasant news; and, finally, a dinner that goes horribly wrong before coming together in the end.

FLOTSAM‘s Captain Talis is as reckless in the galley as she is in life. When the crew members normally in charge of cooking are otherwise engaged in higher priority duties, Talis volunteers herself to fix them something to eat. She fumbles her way through dinner preparation until the engineer discovers her at work on an over-salted, unpalatable meal and firmly ejects her from the galley. When the captain later tastes the food she’s amazed that it has transformed into a rich, balanced, and flavorful chowder.

Even in secondary world fiction there is research to be done. During one revision pass of FLOTSAM, I double-checked a piece of cooking advice I picked up somewhere: that you can add a starchy vegetable to the pot to draw in excess salt. This proved to not be the case, as an oversalted meal needs not one starchy vegetable or even a pile of starchy vegetables, but rather an increase in every other flavor and ingredient in the meal to balance itself out. There are no magic bullets or miracle treatments.

The disastrous meal was a critical component of the final act. The situation that limited their menu options, the botched attempt to make something of it, and the meal’s subsequent salvation were deliberately crafted and I was reluctant to fudge the details.

I turned to my friend, a classically trained chef and cookbook writer, in the hopes they could give my scene a pass of plausibility as I described it. When I was told that there’s no easy fix, I felt lost. Frustrated. This big important scene became implausible and people would stop reading, throwing the book across the room because I stretched credulity well past its breaking point.

My friend reminded me, “It’s Science Fiction and a different planet; who’s to say they don’t have a fix?”

It is a different planet. It is a different reality. I’ve knocked it down and built it up so many times over and over in different ways, there wasn’t any reason why the rules of cooking couldn’t also be knocked down and rebuilt.

I rolled up my sleeves, thought about the oversalted dinner and the rules of the world and the characters who abided by them, and finished the scene with only minimal adjustments.

In FLOTSAM‘s final draft, the ship’s engineer brandishes a jar of something she calls “an old family secret” and chases the captain from the galley. The draft saved the amusing interactions between characters along with the parallel between the meal and the situation aboard the airship. And along with the dinner’s saltiness went my own self-conscious over-explanation. My characters gathered in the next scene over a hearty meal and hoped, despite everything they’d been through, things just might turn out okay.

And now that dish might be my favorite meal in the novel.

About the Author
R J THEODORE (website) is hellbent on keeping herself busy. Seriously folks, if she has two spare minutes to rub together at the end of the day, she invents a new project with which to occupy them.

She lives in New England with her family, enjoys design, illustration, podcasting, binging on many forms of visual and written media, napping with her cats, and cooking. She is passionate about art and coffee. Follow her on Twitter @bittybittyzap.

Book One of the Peridot Shift series (Parvus Press), FLOTSAM is Theodore’s debut science fiction novel, available March 27, 2018 in print, digital, and audio.

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Last week, Argentina’s largest literary prize, sponsored by the government through the National Arts Fund, announced that it would only accept science fiction, fantasy and horror entries this year.

All hell broke loose immediately. In some cases, there were people outside of those genres who’d been working on their manuscripts assuming it would be a non-specific contest the way it always has been. I can see how those individuals might have been miffed.

But in other cases, the pushback owed more to the fact that the SFF genre is seen by many as less than literary in scope and ambition.

As an Argentine writer who spent his childhood outside the country and who currently writes for the English-language market exclusively, I find this last attitude surprising.

Why? Because, although Argentina doesn’t have a long-standing horror tradition, the science fiction and fantasy genres have traditionally been extremely literary and socially critical.

Argentina doesn’t have, in the gestation period of the genre, an equivalent to the Pulp Era in which different kinds of fiction were massively marketed to different kinds of readers.  While that lack did somewhat stunt the growth of the SFF genre in popular terms, it allowed writers to feed the tools of different genres into literary fiction without having to worry about any associated stigma.

Jorge Luis Borges, of course, is the first name one thinks of when discussing Argentine science fiction, but he was just the tip of an iceberg that included not only a tradition in Argentina but also around Latin America (writers such as Gabriel García Márquez and, to a lesser extent, Mario Vargas Llosa were using these tools as well).

Of course, it would be disingenuous to say that this wasn’t also happening in the English-language genre. It was. But perhaps the main difference is that in Argentina, no one was too concerned about classifying things as science fiction and fantasy. They were just books, written by better or worse writers, and only in the 1970s was the genre separated in any real sense””and that was only by taking the obvious spaceship tales and dragon stories out of the “literary” category. Magic realism was still perfectly literary, and no one would ever have dreamed of reclassifying it.

All of which was quite bewildering to me at first. I was brought up on the genre classifications of the English-language world in the 1980s. Since I was strictly a reader back then, not a student of the genre, my view of what was and wasn’t SFF was formed by what popped up on which shelf in the Walden Books near my house.

So when I moved back to Argentina, I found it a bit bewildering. Suddenly, SFF wasn’t meant to entertain people, but mainly to criticize society and expand philosophical discussions. It really wasn’t what I expected of the genre, and I found Argentine SFF difficult to read and much too politically engaged for my liking.

To this day, I still prefer genre work in which the story and characters take precedence over politics and philosophy, and I’ve been told my writing reflects this (in rejection letters as well as in reviews!), but I’ve made my peace with the fact that the genre in Argentina has different roots and that I’ll never find a plot- or science-driven novel on the shelves here.

Along with this realization, I’ve come to understand that most of my own work wouldn’t be aligned with the national taste either. While the market for a more traditional style of SFF still exists in the English-language world, especially among readers who grew up reading the Golden Age greats and their descendants, it has never truly existed in Argentina.

But those who enjoy China Miéville””hailed as quite possibly the greatest genre writer of this generation down here””will find Argentine SFF very much to their liking”¦ if you can read Spanish (I’d be delighted to point anyone interested in the right direction, just drop me a line).

BIO: Gustavo Bondoni is an Argentine writer with over three hundred stories published in fifteen countries, in seven languages. His latest novel is Jungle Lab Terror (2020). He has also published another monster book Ice Station: Death (2019), three science fiction novels: Incursion (2017), Outside (2017) and Siege (2016) and an ebook novella entitled Branch. His short fiction is collected in Pale Reflection (2020), Off the Beaten Path (2019) Tenth Orbit and Other Faraway Places (2010) and Virtuoso and Other Stories (2011).

In 2019, Gustavo was awarded second place in the Jim Baen Memorial Contest and in 2018 he received a Judges Commendation (and second place) in The James White Award.  He was also a 2019 finalist in the Writers of the Future Contest.

His website is at www.gustavobondoni.com.

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