Aliens or Angels
How We Really See Ourselves Through Alien “Eyes”
There “ain’t” no such thing as a
real alien! Well, there isn’t in the world of science fiction, although oddly
enough, there might be such a thing in fact. Somewhere in the universe, there
may be creatures that are truly alien, at least to us. They may not think at
all the way we think, have any of our emotions, or motivations. They may be that
to which we can never relate or could even recognize as being intelligent
beings, so being always and forever unknowable by us.
You see, the common definition of an
alien includes “…differing in nature or character typically to the point of
incompatibility.” Incompatibility—the kind of alien who comes from “out there,”
the “undiscovered country,” and not just some foreign country.
As writers, we really can’t create one, a
true alien, I mean. We may get close at times, but to imagine something that is
completely alien may be impossible for humans to do. That’s because we see the
world through our own senses and the filters of our own experiences. We always,
somehow, someway, base aliens on something we already know. Does your creature have
tentacles? Well, so do squids. Does it have wings? So do birds. Is your alien a
vicious horrible creature jabbering at you? Big deal, so are some of our
politicians! Whether your alien swims, crawls, oozes, floats, gallops, flies, resonates,
or sings, it is always something the writer is somehow familiar with to some
degree.
Some
writers try to get around this “truly alien” problem by creating what I like to
call “lumps.” Lumps come in all shapes and sizes, including actual lumps
(blobs?), cubes, spheres, crystals, or whatever; it just sits there like a “lump”
doing something unknowable. For the reader, that is just boring! So to avoid
that, we usually assign even the most horrible, evil, fang-toothed aliens some
kind of recognizable character traits. Even monsters have to earn their keep. They
can’t just sit there and be totally non-reactive. At the very least, they have
to be cute, deceptive, dangerous, or hungry! Otherwise, one might as well write
about a stone, which by the way, we’ve done, too. Writers have come up with
slow-thinking crystals, arrangements of atoms in thinking matrices, intelligent
rocks, and emotional monoliths; you name it -- we’ve done it. But, even those
stones and spires of rock have to have some recognizable traits for us. Otherwise,
there is no story.
Well
then, if we can’t really imagine them in their entirety, then why do we even
bother making up aliens? Well, the answer to that is simple; we wish to see
ourselves in other and new ways. We use aliens to find enlightenment about
ourselves. How do we react under fear or stress? Use monsters attacking to find
out that answer. How do we respond in a new and strange situation, one that
calls into question our basic belief systems? Have enigmatic aliens on strange
worlds test us.
You
see? It is as if we are holding up a mirror (smoke and mirrors?) in which to
examine ourselves. To put it succinctly (I know, too late!), aliens are a lot
like funhouse mirrors. They reflect our motivations and us in different ways. So
whether we write about aliens or angels, we are really writing about ourselves.
To paraphrase, “we have met the aliens and they are us.”
Even
if your creatures are just really humans in weird disguises, they are still
important. They are the “agent provocateurs,” that is, the things that make our
characters act and react, and allow the author to give some insight into the
human condition, whether through us dealing with these monsters, or through
their interactions with us.
There
are some basic dos and don’ts in this regard.
First,
design your aliens to be realistic. Obey the laws of whatever universe in which
your story unfolds. Don’t have them violating the laws of physics unless you
give us a believable way they can go about doing it. If they weigh three
hundred pounds, but can fly on our world, explain how this is possible. (Right,
they use airplanes!) And whatever powers or attributes you give them, don’t
change them in midstream without a darn good reason. This is old advice, but
important.
Believability
is paramount! Recently, I read a short story where a diplomat had great
difficulty in understanding some aliens (they sang their language), and he
inadvertently kept offending them (the diplomat must sing like William Hung!). They
were, seemingly, incapable of communicating fully with humans or vice versa. But
(and this is one heck of a big but!), these creatures had their own alien
psychologist. It explained (regularly) to the humans the nature of the problems
and smoothed over the diplomat’s transgressions with its fellow aliens.
QUESTION:
If the alien psychologist can talk to and understand humans, why can’t his fellow
aliens learn to do the same thing? At the very least, why can’t the alien
psychologist act as interpreter and permanent liaison for both sides? Weirdly,
although this is a glaring inconsistency, a major Sci-Fi magazine still
published it. This only goes to show that even editors make mistakes. (Did I
say that aloud?) Seriously, what it shows is that somehow, we have to understand
our aliens (ourselves?) to some degree or there is no story. The author used an
“alien psychiatrist” to do this. To see ourselves; these lines from a poem by
Robert Burns say it all:
To see ourselves as
ithers see us!”
As science fiction
writers, we use aliens as the “ithers” to give us the gift of seeing ourselves.
Even then, back in 1786 C.E., Robert Burns, seeing a louse on the hat of a
woman in church, wrote those lines. The louse, a parasite, was his “alien” of
the day. And we all remember the movie, Alien, with its parasite, don’t we? Some
things never change. Interesting, isn’t it?
END
