writing · poetry · conlang

Category: Sci-Bi Inspiration

A list of weird scientific phenomena that I take inspiration from in my writing.

I Don’t Even Like Tomatoes (Sci-Bi Inspiration #4)

Next week I start a new chapter of my life, my first job. Though I just completed my master’s degree in adolescent education, I don’t think it’s in my plan to utilize this degree in its traditional sense; however, I decided to take this opportunity to return to the sciences. I’m going back to the laboratory to work as a lab tech (I’ll get to use a micropipette and everything.)

This new development has gotten me back into the speculative nature of science fiction writing. To avoid confusion, I do not consider myself to be a hard sci-fi writer. While I ground a lot of the more technical aspects of my work in my own scientific background, I have never found myself drawn to the kinds of sci-fi that prides itself on multi-page essays regarding the physics of light speed travel. More power to you if that’s what you want to write or read about, but it’s not really my cup of tea.

This brings me to a conversation I recently had with a relative. To preface, it’s a double-edged sword being a STEM major in a small town; on one hand, you get to teach your family cool science facts, and on the other hand, you have to have every single statistic with a source memorized with the proper wording to even have a hope of anyone listening to you. In a recent conversation, I had to teach a relative what a genetically modified organism (GMO) was while simultaneously explaining that it’s not necessarily the technology that’s bad, it’s the corporate greed that goes along with it.

Of course, using the phrase corporate greed would’ve stopped the conversation in its tracks, so I had to lead up to that idea using the numerous examples of Monsanto’s notoriously vicious defense of its patents. This isn’t to say that I’m team anti-GMO, far from it. With climate change and other global catastrophes looming on the horizon, we need all the help we can get in modifying our food supply to meet current conditions. Like the FDA says, “The most common GMO crops were developed to address the needs of farmers, but in turn they can help foods become more accessible and affordable for consumers.”

Outside of food, a more recent example of a GMO is Darling 58, an American chestnut variant that’s tolerant to the chestnut blight fungus that demolished most wild American chestnuts. Like most things scientists come up with, GMOs have the potential to benefit every living organism barring their commodification.

I haven’t even gotten to the Flavr Savr tomato, but I’m sure I will in the process of writing my next TikTok series: Plenty of Tomatoes in the Sea. The first episode transcript is below, and the first episode is slated to come out this Wednesday.

I’m going to start by saying I don’t even like tomatoes. Of all the foods you can print, I don’t understand why you’d choose tomatoes. If you want a red food, go for an apple. If you want a juicy fruit, go for a nectarine. In fact, I’d wager that the only thing tomatoes are good for are sauces, and even then, why would you ever choose a tomato-based sauce over something like Alfredo.

Despite this, I’m still quite disturbed by the news we got this weekend. If you haven’t heard—and really, shame on you for not listening to the nightly news—this past weekend, a virus was found in the computer systems at OpilioneCo, and before it was caught, it made its way into the latest, automatic, mandatory software update. Within the past few hours, we got confirmation from OpilioneCo’s PR team that this virus is working to delete the file for tomatoes off of every organic printer sold by the company.

And, now you may be thinking, “why is this a problem?” Well, it is a problem if you like tomatoes because OpilioneCo holds the patent for the only known tomato genome currently in existence. To be fair, none of this was done behind closed doors, I’ve been warning all of you about this for years. Well, myself and the botanical community at large, but now it’s time to face the consequences.

That means no more tomatoes for you or anyone else unless we can cobble together a passable tomato genome that’s compatible with the digital stuff while being unrecognizable to the virus and without getting sued by OpilioneCo. Yay. Lucky us.

It’s Not Just Mary Sues: A Case for Derivative Works (Sci-Bi Inspiration #3)

A few months ago, I went on the Podcast VJ Talks. The host, V.J. Harris, is a TikTok mutual of mine, and I was excited that they invited me on to talk about worldbuilding, conlanging, and Obligate—the mini-series I was best known for at the time. I had a great time talking with V.J., but there was one admission that I made on that podcast that I’ve been hesitant to talk about on TikTok, that the universe I write in started as a derivative work. 

Yes, the universe that my conlangs, my novel in progress, my short stories, Obligate, and most recently The Boston Androids exist in was originally a Star Trek original series that I called Star Trek: Apgar. The Apgar portion was taken from the name of the galaxy-class starship where the series would take place (I named the ship in honor of the scientist Virginia Apgar whose creation of the Apgar score has saved the lives of many newborns).

Star Trek: Apgar was a quarantine project. In the year 2020, I had just started my third year of college, my mom had just had major brain surgery, and we had just had one of the most contentious elections in US history. Emotionally, I wasn’t doing too hot. My answer to emotional instability was to start watching Star Trek: The Next Generation

I fell in love with the series. The characters, the setting, and the story spoke to me. I took the world building, and I ran with it. I started wondering what the show could look like free from the constraints of 80s technology and TV budgets. I imagined complex life support equipment and languages that didn’t translate. I developed a new alien species, the Beskarans, who were amphibious, quadrupedal, and clear-blooded.

I soon remembered that Beskarans sounded a bit too much like Beskar (a fictional material from Star Wars). As a consequence, Beskarans became Lacerti, based on the Latin word for lizard. Beskaran also became the basis for Beshan, the family name of my new protagonist, Ehno Beshan.

I wrote Star Trek: Apgar as an episode concept. In it, Lt. Cmdr. Beshan’s homeplanet is considering joining the Federation, and the USS Apgar is ordered to oversee talks. It dealt with Beshan’s conflicting feelings on her family, her home, and her decision to leave it all behind to join Starfleet. 

A drawing of a frog-like humanoid wearing a modified Starfleet uniform

I wrote somewhere around 12,000 words before I realized that Star Trek was being used as window dressing. I wanted to write a character-driven story that felt like Star Trek, but that didn’t mean that I had to write within the confines of Star Trek. I think that’s the beauty of derivative works; they give you a familiar space to process what kind of story you want to tell. 

There are a lot of stories that could be told in the sand box that is Star Trek, and I needed that sand box to assure me that I had the capability to write a compelling story. As soon as I felt confined by the preexisting worldbuilding of Star Trek, I realized that I could write compelling original content.

This was the push that got me to rewrite Star Trek: Apgar as my own original work, and I realized that once I took away the titles and transporters, there was very little Star Trek worldbuilding left behind. Now, my worldbuilding includes android societies, morally ambiguous parasites, and glassmaking physics that probably wouldn’t work out in the real world, but most importantly, it’s a universe of my own design. 

Though I still worry that the echoes of Star Trek could one day cause some overzealous fanboy to call Major Ehnno Beshan an OP OC or Mary Sue, I have the self-confidence to know that this isn’t the case. I’m grateful to Star Trek for inspiring me to write complex characters that go on compelling adventures, but Star Trek doesn’t have a monopoly on this concept. 
When we write derivative works, we write out of love for the franchises that give us creative insight. I’m not ashamed that The Astroauroran Chronicles is reminiscent of Star Trek. The nature of existence, the draw to the unknown, and the complexity of the human experience are universal themes, and there’s more than enough room for one more franchise that explores them.

Do Aliens Need to be Humanoid? (Sci-Bi Inspiration #2)

In teaching biology, you often have to throw out a lot of really shocking statistics as your anchoring phenomena (analogous to a hook in writing) for a lesson. One number that always throws them off is that humans share somewhere around 40% of our DNA with bananas. Our genetic bases are a fascinating story for another time, and believe me, I’ll have a thing or two to say about them later, but I have another statistic that always threatens to send me into a spiral of existential thinking—of all the living things we’ve identified on planet Earth, roughly 40% of them are insects.

To preface, I was a bug kid. I loved bugs; I had a bug catching net and one of those cute dollar-store mesh cages that I’d use to keep my daily bug collections in for a few hours before releasing them. I helped my mom curate the wild milkweed that grew on the fringes of woods surrounding my childhood home. Shino Aburame was in my top five favorite Naruto characters growing up (though, my top spot would always be reserved for Hinata Hyūga). 

A bee perches on a hand

(I still let bees perch on my hand; thankfully, I’m not allergic.)

Unfortunately, the world was not as fond of bugs as child-me was, and my poor creepy crawlies are disproportionately relegated to villainous on-screen roles. Though, I appreciate Starship Troopers’ forward nature with skipping the hassle of paper-thin world building and having the characters call the alien hoard as they appear—bugs.

There seems to be a sliding scale in sci-fi (at least in live action); the more humanoid something is, the more agency they’re given. Even though our real world contains variety beyond our wildest imagination as inspiration for alien biology, we always come back to humanity as our template for sapience. I don’t think this inclination is accidental. It’s a mechanism of storytelling. We need to relate to the characters we see onscreen, and it’s easy to see yourself in Spock or Worf, beings that are aliens in only the most superficial of ways.

In live action media, it’s tempting to paint an actor’s skin green or insert colored contacts in place of costly practical effects or CGI. Animated media and books, by their nature, allow for more flexibility in design. It’s easier to describe an eight foot tall sapient praying mantis-amoeba hybrid on paper or animate one in the style of the rest of the cast than it is to underpay a team of VFX artists to add one in during post-production.

Concept drawing of a mostly human alien with gills and a life support device on their back
A concept drawing of an alien with webbed hand, webbed feet, gills, and a tail

(My own alien species, the Lacerti, got less human looking until I tried to make them quadrupedal. Then, I scaled it back to bipedal but kept features like gills.)

Personally, I don’t see anything wrong with making aliens humanoid. No one is complaining about Deanna Troi (who, like Spock, is half-human, but that’s a blog post for another time), Kira Nerys, or Elim Garak looking too human. In my opinion, mimicking the appearance of humanity in sci-fi is a form of shorthand; if something appears human, it means that its intentions, whether good or bad, should be understood in human terms. Non-humanoid aliens such as the bugs in Starship Troopers aren’t given that instant benefit of humanity. We don’t mind that Deanna, Kira, and Garak look human because they fulfill the narrative promise of being something that acts human. 

Does this mean that non-humanoid aliens cannot be fully sapient characters capable of human-like emotions and audience sympathy? No, not at all, but it does mean that they’re starting at a disadvantage. The need to make your sympathetic aliens human-like and your unsympathetic aliens cold extensions of an insectoid hive-mind is tempting and something I struggle with in my own writing, but I’d like to challenge myself to think about why that is.

Why is coding something as distinctly unlike us in physicality and language shorthand for unsympathetic? For any works made during the Cold War era, I think the answer is painfully obvious, but for as much as we like to think we’ve progressed beyond looking at the subtext of what a popular trope could insinuate, I’d say there’s a lot more to be said about how we represent extraterrestrials in sci-fi and how we treat others who may not be similar to ourselves in physicality and language in real life. 

(My work-around for the amoeba- like Ceruleans, another one of my alien species, is mild shapeshifting abilities, but in my attempts to assure myself I’m not ripping off Star Trek, I made sure the closest Ceruleans got to humanoid was four limbs and eye spots)

This leads to the titular question: do aliens need to be humanoid? If we ever meet sapient life in space, I think the answer is maybe, probably, most certainly no. In fiction though, not necessarily.

It doesn’t matter if they’re Nana Visitor with nose ridges or goop in a bucket. Consumers are smart, and if you give them a character with motivations and thoughts and feelings they can either empathize or sympathize with, they will. For once, I think we can take a lesson out of the sci-fi romance handbook: no matter what something looks like, some reader somewhere is going to relate to them in one way or another.


The Gene | The Gene Explained | Is That a Banana in Your Genes? | PBS

Which animal group has the most organisms? | AMNH

Butterflies: Nature’s Answer to Soap (Sci-Bi Inspiration #1)

I can’t be the only one who’s ever looked at a bar of soap and thought “it smells good, it looks good, it must be delicious.” My youthful optimism died with the horrifying realization that you can’t always believe your eyes and nose when determining what will make a tasty afternoon snack. Fortunately, this was a lesson I only had to learn once, and to this day, I have a instant repulsion for foods in a certain tint of pastel lavender.

Nature has its own form of the appealing-but-unappetizing which acts as a species-wide survival strategy called aposematism.

A monarch butterfly perched on a bucket

Take the monarch butterfly. Unlike other insects such as the grasshopper which usually sport coloration matching their chosen habitat, the monarch butterfly takes a lesson in subtlety from Sasha Velour (though the fabulous monarch shown above is actually a king, you can tell by the black dot on each hind wing).

Though it seems counterintuitive, this bright and distinct coloring actually acts as an overall advantage for the monarch butterfly as a species. Due to their diet of milkweed as caterpillars, monarch butterflies retain a level of toxicity that can make predators who ingest monarchs sick.

This usually plays out in nature like so: a bird sees a conspicuously-colored monarch and decides to take an early lunch, the bird becomes ill shortly after eating the monarch, and now, the bird now associates the bright wings of the monarch butterfly with sickness and avoids all monarch butterflies it may see in the future.

If you think back, you may be able to recognize this phenomena of warning coloration—aposematism—in other species. From poison dart frogs to coral snakes, nature has developed its own form of distinctly-colored, snack-shaped, disgusting-to-eat soap that leaves a lasting impression in the minds of hungry foragers.

Though there are many reasons animals are pushed to one coloration or another (I’ll have to go through them some day, they’re fascinating to consider), aposematism provides a unique option for sci-fi and fantasy world builders looking to add a bit of elegant and unsuspecting peril to their settings.


The Monarch is a Poisonous Butterfly

Multiple, recurring origins of aposematism and diet specialization in poison frogs


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