An examination of the word “speculative”
I’ve always disliked the term “speculative fiction.” I don’t mean I dislike actual works classified as speculative fiction, mind you, but the term itself. There have been arguments over the meaning of this term for going on almost a hundred years now, and it’s fallen in and out of favor several times along the way. So I’m not the only one.
(This is, I promise, a review of Emma Burnett’s Ex Partum, and we’ll get there eventually.)
Part of my issue is the use of the term as a euphemism meant to cultivate a more literary-sounding veneer. It has never been enough for some fans of science fiction that their preferred genre has achieved total and complete cultural dominance, but it needs respectability as well.
More importantly, words have meaning.
Robert A. Heinlein, the coiner—or at least original popularizer—of that term, defined it, in part, as works of fiction that tackle the question of “What would happen if–.” That makes sense from a definitional standpoint! Speculating, as it were.
He used the term as a direct synonym for science fiction. In recent decades, it has expanded into a big tent, including (according to Wikipedia) sixteen different genres. One problem with this expansion and the vague meaning is that at some point we need to acknowledge that most works of fiction tackle some kind of “what if” scenario. What if these two enemies fell in love? What if this serial killer left clues that only one detective could decode? What if this cookie reminded the narrator of his youth? And, okay, if we acknowledge that, sure, we’re all critically thinking human beings and we know what we’re talking about, and, okay, speculative fiction refers to the reality-breaking “what if” scenarios, we also have to start to wonder why this still-hugely broad category needs to exist.
But since the term started as a synonym for science fiction, and it’s almost always used to mean “science fiction and whoever else we’ve decided to invite this time,” we also have to speak to the real problem, which is that “what if” science fiction is the absolute worst kind of science fiction.
There are four types of science fiction.
Not delineated by sub-genre, but by primary purpose. In descending order of worst to best.
4) “What If” science fiction. This is the worst kind for two reasons. Reason one is that fiction whose whole purpose is to ask and answer an internal question is essentially just a logic puzzle. What are we, babies? The second reason is my friend constantly tries to convince me that “what if” science fiction helps prepare humanity for a variety of futures and therefore is the most important kind of fiction, and then he tries to get me to read books about aliens turning the Earth into a giant video game. (Which I did eventually read and did unfortunately love.) The point is, “What If” science fiction loses ranking by the sheer pompousness of its close association to the trying-to-sound-fancy “speculative.”
3) “Spectacle” (as opposed to “speculative”) science fiction. I’m not exactly sure what to call this one. Action science fiction, pure plot science fiction, aliens shooting laser guns at each other, etc., just a complete reveling in the fun of unbounded science fiction play. It’s the kind of science fiction that will have some breakout successes, and fans will clamor for more literary critics to review it, and those same fans will then all angrily respond to one hundred percent of that literary criticism by saying “it’s not about that” or “it’s not meant to be realistic” or “can’t we just enjoy things.”
2) “Lens on current society” science fiction. This is the thing science fiction does best! It allows an author to take us out of the limitations of our current world, weaken our psychological defenses by telling us a story about something that appears different from us, and then secretly point out all the ills of modern society while we thought we were reading about aliens. This is obviously the best kind of science fiction minus one, because this is what all the best fiction does. It’s also a good way to prove that speculative fiction is a bad term, because people often point to Atwood and Le Guin as some of the best examples of speculative fiction, by which they are trying to attach the entire genre to their literary bona fides, but it’s amazingly obvious that neither of those authors were interested in some purely technical “what if” scenario building, but actually attempting to comment on us as we are now. The most speculative of speculative fiction is not speculative at all.
1) Weird shit. The only reason “lens on society” doesn’t come in first is because we all know the best science fiction is the stuff that’s too weird to make any certain statement about its purpose.
The Review
Emma Burnett’s Ex Partum, a fantastic novel that you should read, falls clearly into the #2 “Lens on current society” science fiction, in exactly the best ways of Atwood and Le Guin. And, just like the novels of Atwood and Le Guin, many reviews and readers treat it like a #4 “What if” science fiction novel.
There is a clear high-concept world framing that understandably takes center stage in many readings. In the world of Ex Partum, subscription capitalism has reached a localized zenith. Everything from housing to medical care to—most importantly—food is now gated by universally controlled corporate subscription models. (On second thought, if one considers “rent” or “mortgage payments” akin to a subscription, that part of subscription capitalism is already nearly universal.)
In the life of the protagonist Panya and her baby Liber, subscription food is the key factor in the story’s worldbuilding, where all consumables have been reduced to user-tailored slurpable “nutribulbs.” To maintain this lock on distributable goo substances, the entire society has cultivated a taboo against the concept of chewing, deployed viciously against an othered group of solid-food-chomping humans who choose to live outside of corporate control. When baby Liber rejects moving from breastfeeding to nutribulbs, Panya begins to bump up against the extent of her social conditioning.
As the title implies, the book explores postpartum depression. Maybe more like postpartum anxiety. Within the limits imposed by her subscription life, she must constantly ask herself: “Am I doing the right thing by my child?”
But, also, other anxieties. There’s a lot about class and status anxiety, about immigration and security anxiety, about being unsure of your footing in society. Work anxiety. Purpose anxiety (an anxiety I clearly share).
These anxieties resolve phenomenally into a critique of current techno-overlord-capitalism trends. And there’s a point in reading this book where you realize this is not a fantastically realized #4 “What If” science fiction novel, but a blistering #2 “Lens on current society” science fiction novel. Because the novel is not really interested in exploring some fully realized plotting of corporate subscription models. It’s interested in today’s living humans, already trapped by the capitalism thrust upon us.
But, furthermore, the story’s strength lies in driving more micro and more inward in its care. It’s the pre-resolution that matters. (Endings are almost always irrelevant to the quality of a story.) Ex Partum focuses on the way anxiety about belonging keeps one, intentionally, in a place of doubt and loneliness and constant tension.
While it’s easy to discuss the book’s core conceit—extending “everything is a subscription now” to its horrible logical conclusion—most of the book focuses on the much more interesting question of how people (or a person) might allow themselves to live that way. It’s not just “lens on current society” but “lens on human psychology,” an even stronger, better sub-purpose.
The Squint
If I have any qualms with the book, it’s that the ending lets Panya off a little too easily in terms of moral ambiguity. She’s a complex character, not always kind and rarely perfect, fighting for no one but herself and her child. Towards the end, we learn that her husband has not just been absent, both emotionally and in body, but also physically abusive. It’s not that I don’t believe in his abuse (sadly, I believe it all too much) but that it lets Panya (and the reader) avoid any further moral conundrum right around the time she is choosing whether to flee with her child.
Not that this small qualm stops the momentum or keeps the book from succeeding in its purpose. It’s a quiet story that manages to be very loud, a family drama with a society-spanning clash folded inside it, less a speculative warning than a brilliant interrogation of our current “whatever this is.” And extremely enjoyable to read.
From a classification standpoint, Ex Partum demonstrates that no work of science fiction (or any fiction) can be truly categorized with any sure solidity into any of the taxonomically-authoritative four purposes. It’s fuzzy borders. A science fiction story can be pure fun, with lovingly detailed “what if” scenarios, explore the depths of the human condition, and also hyper-fixate on weird-as-shit goopy food bulbs. Ex Partum does all four at once, at various points, usually on the same page. So you have to say “primary purpose” rather than “purpose,” and employ other milquetoast conditionals to avoid getting yelled at on Bluesky.
But some primary purposes are more primary than others, and Ex Partum knows exactly which one it’s really about. Some reviewers will keep calling it a #4 and we can mostly leave them to it. But underneath the high concept, it never loses the thread of what it’s actually interested in. It’s not the mechanics of subscription capitalism, but the specific, private, human weight of deciding whether to keep chewing. No matter how much you want to argue that all fiction can truly satisfy all purposes and, furthermore, that all purposes are of equal merit, they aren’t. And, in your heart of hearts, you know it when you read it.
Gewgaws*
🐟🐟
*Gewgaws are like Michelin stars, but better cause they're for short fiction. They are determined by the editor with input from the reviewer.
1 is great; 2 is exceptional; 3 is perfect.
Emma Burnett