I’ve often wondered what I should write after everyone is already living the Zombie attack and is bored with hearing about how to grow food and mend your socks. I figure at some point, the market will be saturated by such things, and people will want to escape – and I should start thinking now about escapist fiction. I was thinking detective novels, but I clearly should have been thinking “porn.”
Apparently IPCC head Rajendra Pachauri has already begun preparing for his post-climate crisis second career, by writing what nearly every review suggests is an unbelievably bad smutty novel with lots of heaving breasts. As I said, I was thinking some other kind of genre fiction, maybe SF or mysteries, but now I’m thinking “I couldn’t possibly write worse sex scenes than the ones excerpted in these reviews…hmmmm…”
We do need fiction, of course, to dramatize our experience – good stories are essential. It is perfectly possible that the reviews under-rate the book, that there is some fine science here, and complex, nuanced characterizations, along with the descriptions of voluptuous heaving breasts and sixty-plus scientists getting a firm hold on them. It is even possible that those breasts are heaving due to toxic air pollution. I shouldn’t mock, right?