by
Ernest Hogan
One
of the advantages of being the Father of Chicano Science Fiction is
that I'm still seen as a young troublemaker. It kind of goes with the
territory. Mixing rasquache and sci-fi tends to result in things that
send shockwaves into polite society.
Or
maybe they’re waves of disgust? No matter.
The transformative
effects are what I’m after.
Maybe
that’s why New York is afraid of me.
You’d
think that now that I’m 64 I wouldn’t be a threat, but I still
have weird shit growing my brain. It keeps me dangerous.
I
never considered myself a cyberpunk, but my age and the times have
stuck the label on me. People have asked me about the Chicano
cyberpunk movement. At the time I wasn’t aware of any.
Some
revolutions happen in retrospect.
It
would be nice to be some kind of literary elder statesman, but that
just doesn’t seem to be in the cards. Maybe it’s all for the
best. I seem to be a universal outsider (even among Chicanos). I’ll
always be a Chicimec, a barbarian, and alien invader sneaking across
borders.
If
I had a dime for every time I was only brown face in the room . . .
I
actually feel comfortable in this role. I’ve accomplished a few
things. My books have been praised, and written up. I keep getting
called a genius, which keeps my ego afloat.
If
for some reason, I couldn’t publish any more, I’d feel like done
something significant with my life.
But
then, people keep wanting to publish me.
And I keep getting these weird ideas.
One
thing I wanted to do was to finish my novel Zyx;
Or, Bring Me the Brain of Victor Theremin--which
is about a Chicano science fiction who has lost track of where his
life ends and science fiction begins--by the end of the year. I’m
steaming ahead on it, but I don’t think I’ll finish it by New
Years Day 2020. I write more and more, and the end gets farther away.
It’s what get for being so creative.
I’m
sure to have a big, hulking chunk done, though, and I’ll keep
going, finish is, even if it is a little late.
I
have to do it. It’s one of the novels I want to write. Years ago, I
gave up on trying to write what the publishers are supposed to want,
what the so-called experts say will sell. My experiments in trying to
go commercial all go terribly wrong, so I’ll write what’s chewing
away at my brain.
If
I can finish these books before I croak (don’t worry, I’m in
great health, but who knows how many decades I have left), I’ll be
happy.
Maybe
when I’m gone, they’ll cause trouble from beyond the grave.
A
good attitude to have while going into a new decade while the world
is looking so apocalyptic it’s not funny.
Ernest Hogan knows where his life ends and the science fiction begins. At
least that’s what he says.
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