by Jendayi Brooks-Flemister
Jendayi Brooks-Flemister returns to the pages of Asimov’s with their story “Completely Normal” in our [January/February issue, on sale now!]. In this essay, Brooks-Flemister discusses how the the unique perspectives of science fiction characters can foster empathy in readers.
If you’d asked me what my favorite part of my writing process was when I was in middle school, I would’ve told you it was worldbuilding. I thrived creating worlds unknown, from giant rivers filled with horrifying monsters to oppressive regimes born out of rebellions. In truth, I was writing what felt the most like an escape. My childhood sucked. It was abusive and lonely. So, instead of existing in it, I wanted to embody characters in worlds that felt more welcoming, that addressed the hardships I faced with a certain nuance that I couldn’t articulate to my Geometry teacher.
If you’d asked me what my favorite part of my writing process was last year, I would’ve told you that it was the ability to write the characters–the stories, the backgrounds, the identities–that I most resonated with. I would’ve said that I’d evolved from running away from the problems of my youth; rather than create a new world, I was writing about the people of the current and future world. Science fiction to a tee, in a way. If I wrote about a little girl jumping to the Moon, or the sex worker in Tokyo trying her best to make ends meet, maybe people would learn to be kinder to each other, and thus, to the planet we all call home. I saw my writing as a way to embrace the uncertainties of the world . . . to try and create a certainty of my own: we gotta do something.
If I wrote about a little girl jumping to the Moon, or the sex worker in Tokyo trying her best to make ends meet, maybe people would learn to be kinder to each other, and thus, to the planet we all call home.
But now, if you ask me what my favorite part of my writing process is, I can say so confidently that it is both the same as middle school me and last year me, yet different in its refinery. What I didn’t understand before–and what I’m pretending to understand now–is that what I love most is the ability to play with perspectives. What excites me about writing, whether it’s my short stories or my in-progress novel (shhh), is the ability to show you a new version of the world you’d never imagined. You think you know what it means to struggle? You think you know what it means to succeed? You think you know what it means to hope? I won’t question that you think you do–but I will question the lens you look through to conceptualize them.
To me, perspectives are a goldmine of realities. It isn’t just about the worldbuilding or the characters you create, but the ways in which you ultimately decide to tell your story. First person? We know that already. Third close? Been there. Unreliable narrator? We love her. But what if we had all three at once? What if we switched perspectives with each beat, and with each switch we gain new truths that change exactly how we perceived the story we thought we knew. Isn’t that wonderful to consider? It is to me. And maybe I’m just weird. But to me, there is no one truth. And to claim that there is somehow one truth is truly a disservice to the many people and interactions that characters will have throughout their journeys. No one is shaped by themselves.
“Completely Normal” is just that–a completely normal conversation between two completely normal people. However, as the story unfolds, you learn so much about the way perspective shapes what normal looks like. You, the reader and the person receiving the story, are told that the narrator’s perspective–that everything they share with you–is their normal. And what does it mean to receive that? To have no choice but to accept that reality because, in a fleeting moment, the interaction ends. When you’re left wondering if it were true, you’re met with the point I’m trying to make: this person’s perspective is their reality. And if you don’t accept their reality, then aren’t you just denying their existence as a whole?
I hope this story makes you think, but not about the story itself. I hope it makes you consider the perspectives of others around you. There’s so much hate in the world, and I’m so tired of having my identities on every electoral ticket. If we could all appreciate each others’ perspectives a bit more–if maybe we could just accept that there are some things we can’t understand, but that we can at least respect–then wouldn’t it be a nicer world overall?
Maybe I’m silly for being this optimistic. I’m not usually like this. But I think we have a duty as writers (especially as science fiction writers) to unlock more parts of the world to our readers. You probably don’t know someone with a tomato soup obsession. But if you did, how would you engage? If your instincts tell you to question their reality, then maybe shift your own perspective instead. Try seeing it their way. Try seeing it from the chef who made the soup in the first place. Then try imagining the pride a tomato must feel to be so delicious that someone can get addicted to that tangy, acidic, sweet, juicy goodness. Oh to be a plump, ripe tomato, excited to become so much more because others can see your potential.
From Earth to the Stars 