We saved this article for last because of the question it asks: after all the fanac,
after all the recognition, after all the efforts to preserve the past, will anything
of what any of us has done, in the long run, endure or even matter? We don't know
how much of what we've done will ultimately survive us or how we'll be remembered;
we do know, though, that we have very much appreciated all the support from you, our
readers, friends and especially our contributors, as we tried keep the memories
alive a bit longer. It's been a very enjoyable ride, but now it's time to leave our
footprints in the sand...
 # # # # I've always found myself obsessed
with the question of how much of what human beings create will actually survive into
the future. I suppose it's an inevitable question when one lives a life in science
fiction. It's also inevitable when one writes, as you like to think that your words
will persist, and that people in the future will remember you and what you did.
Greg Benford wrote a whole book on this subject, Deep Time, which concerned
itself with the question of how to leave a message for the future. His conclusion,
that "all our gestures at immortality...shall at best persist for centuries or, with
luck, a few millennia" (p.207) is a depressing one. If what I do will never be
remembered, even in the tiniest way, why do it?Or, to put the question in a slightly
different context, why involve oneself in science fiction fandom?A few years ago, at a Boskone
convention for which Nomi and I were running Logistics, I had a sobering
conversation with a fellow fan. For purposes of this article, I shall refer to the
fan by the name Mark Olson. Mark and I had gotten to discussing fandom as a
subculture, and I remember asking him about the older works of fiction, stories and
novels, that younger people don't read anymore. I myself had been cited
(anonymously, I'm glad to say) by Gardner Dozois as one of a new breed of writers
who had never read the works of Cordwainer Smith before I started publishing.So Mark and I got to talking, and the
conversation drifted towards broader topics. Ever since I entered active fandom at
the age of twenty-one, the graying of fandom was a topic I kept hearing about.
Older fans bemoaned the lack of younger fans participating in fan activities, or
fanac. Every year, the active fans grew older, and the younger fans were nowhere to
be found. The implication, of course, was that without an influx of younger fans to
take on the reins, fandom would slowly start to decay and then die, like rotting
fruit falling off a tree.The idea of fandom eventually
disappearing seemed to bother me a lot more than it bothered Mark. The way Mark saw
it, fandom, like any other institution or subculture, could not last forever.
Eventually, perhaps within the next century or two, people might lose interest in
science fiction as a subculture, and move on to something else.You know something? It bothers me,
in the same way it bothers me that we can never be sure how long anything will
last.I'm reminded of the story of the time
capsule the New York Times put together shortly before the year 2000 to
commemorate the millennium. They wanted to ensure that the "New York Times
Capsule," as they eventually named it, would last for a thousand years, and so after
considering a whole list of ways to keep it safe, they decided to entrust it to an
institution. The American Museum of Natural History, located in New York City,
offered to hold onto the capsule and keep it on permanent display until the
capsule's scheduled opening date of January 1, 3000.By now, I'm sure that many of you are
already pondering what the capsule builders were pondering when the Museum made
their generous offer. The people from the Times thanked the Museum board, then
gently asked them what would happen to the capsule should the Museum close or
disappear sometime during the next millennium.They were met with blank stares. One
board member reportedly even asked, "What do you mean? We're the Museum of Natural
History! We're not going to disappear!" Apparently, he had never heard of the
Library of Alexandria. (Side note: If you're intrigued by this time capsule, you
can find the list of the contents secured inside by visiting the webpage
http://www.amnh.org/exhibitions/timescapsule/contents.html. Ah, but how long
will webpages themselves be around? Better go check it out while you still can.)The fact is that most of us don't
consider the issue of whether or not what we create will endure. In some ways, it's
an unbearable thought, almost as difficult to ruminate on as that of our own deaths.
And it's bigger than that. For example, most of us don't worry about the fact that
the Sun will only last another five billion years, or that the universe will most
likely expire in a heat death or a reverse Big Bang, but in all honesty, these
questions do sometimes keep me up at night. However, if I were to let these
questions haunt me to the point of obsession, I would probably go insane, never
seeing the point of doing anything at all. We deal with the knowledge of our own
deaths by concentrating on the notion that something -- our stories, our children,
our institutions -- will endure, and carry the memory of ourselves along with
them.But what if nothing endures? More
specifically, and without being ironic, what's the point of fandom? If, as Mark
suggested to me, it's only a matter of time before the subculture fades away, why
do we get involved? Why do we do it? Why do we organize conventions, publish
fanzines, join associations devoted to the true quill? What is our ultimate
motivation?For some of us, that's an irrelevant
question. We do it because we enjoy doing it, and we let the future take care of
itself. Like the Museum board member, we may seriously be befuddled by the
suggestion that fandom will not endure. Or, like someone living in the mundane
world, we may just sweep the question under the rug and trudge along.But, as you've probably guessed, I
personally find both of these to be unsatisfactory responses. Both of those
approaches go against the entire point of science fiction fandom. Going back to
the time of Sam Moskowitz and the Futurians, it was clear that science fiction fans
thought of themselves as something more than ordinary people. "Fans are slans," the
saying went, Slan being the title of a A.E. van Vogt novel about humans with
superior mental powers. I don't want to think of myself as devoting so much of my
life to a hobby that could just as easily be another diversion or time-waster. I
want our activities to mean something more.And I think they do.Science fiction fandom differs in one
main respect from all other hobbies that the human race has ever developed. All
artists and politicians hope to communicate with and shape the future, but science
fiction in all its forms was the first endeavor that realized that the future would
be different, and tried to figure out how to communicate with our descendants on
their terms, not on our own. In many ways, it is the main human endeavor that
specifically connects us to the future. It's no wonder that I hope that the
subculture of fandom will last forever. And should it eventually die out...I see a picture in my mind of the
last World Science Fiction convention. The thousands of attendees we get today has
dwindled below the hundreds we once got; fewer than fifty people are present. The
"Closing Ceremonies" for the convention are acknowledged by all to represent much
more, as no committee has stepped forward to run a Worldcon ever again. And the
Con Chair, an elderly gentleman with white hair and a shaggy beard, puts together a
time capsule, containing within it one last Hugo Award, the traditional rocket
sitting on a simple wooden base, inscribed as follows:"For Science Fiction Fandom: We Made
a Difference"And you know something? If that's
what our century or two of fanac boils down to in the end, it was still worth doing.
Because no matter what else, we will be creating the future, and if we don't,
someone else will do it for
us. Title illustration by Brad Foster |
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