So I’ve been watching Dr. Who lately. Last night as I plunked down on the couch and watched the season finale, a thought occurred to me:

There’s no reason, as far as I can see, for Dr. Who to be successful.

Except that it’s smashing good fun.

There’s no science to speak of– on the whole, the “science” is really so far out there, it could practically be magic. The creature designs are clumsier than a drunken Star Wars cantina patron. The plots are generally hokey.

AND…it completely works. It’s engaging and fun. And more– the show is capable of strong social commentary. Serious commentary through completely unorthodox and ridiculous means? OF COURSE I love this show!

Compare this to my reading of the most recent Asimov’s. I’m a subscriber to Asimov’s; and have been so for the past…8 years or so. I generally like the magazine. But this issue, the stories were so…drab and gritty, it was a chore to pay attention to them. Kudos, however, to Ian Creasey and Will McIntosh, who not only made me pay attention to their stories, but engaged my sense of wonder (McIntosh), or my sense of indignation (Creasey). Actually, I’m not sure what emotion Creasey’s story brought out in me– I know that I was disgusted by the mother in his story, Cut Loose the Bonds of Flesh and Bone, and rooting for the daughter. McIntosh’s Midnight Blue was an utter delight.

Comparing these two experiences– warping around the universe with the Doctor, and plodding through another bit of literary-sci fi, I couldn’t help but wonder: is this what’s wrong with our genre? I know– it’s hyperbole. There have been issues of Asimov’s where I’ve utterly loved just about every story. So my attitude right now isn’t indicative of the average. But it’s something I’m thinking on, and since this is my blog…

I think a large part of what was missing from the sf I’ve been reading is wonder and delight. Adventure, too. I’m sick, honestly, of grit. In a sense, I’m tired of the nihilistic tendencies I see a lot of sf authors glomming onto. Maybe it’s the death of exploratory science that’s done it to my genre– our space programs hit against the brick wall of bureaucracy and funding, and suddenly, the fiction works that should be blasting our minds into danger, suspense, action, and futuristic innovation are…navel-gazing. Don’t get me wrong, I like some navel-gazing. And my stories are fairly dark.

But nihilism?

Hmm…an author I know said something that really struck me. The discussion was about Harry Potter, and whether it was escapist. No, said she– I think it was Vylar Kaftan or Elaine Isaac or Ruth Nestvold or some other wise, female f/sf author. Harry Potter, she said, was enabling, in that it endowed its readers with a certain sense that if Harry could overcome all these things, so could they overcome the difficulties in their lives.

I’m not saying that we all need to be writing inspirational stories about man’s triumph over dark forces. I am saying that a little bit of sunshine in a univere that seems (to me, at this precise moment) to be getting dull and grey, would be a very welcome thing.