Of Insects and Innovation: Writing Science Into Fiction
Author Lauren Stienstra discusses using science (and acronyms) to write a novel with depth.
Sourdough starters. DIY Carpentry. Binge watching Tiger King.
These were the trends I missed out on during the fated spring of 2020. As an emergency manager, I’d spent much of my career preparing for something like COVID-19, and though I relished the opportunity to as state governors understand their pandemic-related policy options, the unchecked workaholism was starting to take its inevitable toll.
My husband was the first to offer a solution. “I think you need a hobby,” he said. “Or I’m afraid you’re going to lose your…”
“Mind?!?” I screeched.
He cowered. “I was going to say hair, but okay.”
To be honest, with all the stress, both were well underway. But as a type-A person, I needed more than a hobby. I needed a challenge. In my 20s, I’d set out to run a marathon before I turned 30, and guess what? I finished the Marine Corps Marathon at age 29.
What could be next?
A Grand Challenge
“I’m going to author a science fiction novel before I turn 40.”
I made this announcement to my family over our 179th takeout dinner, causing lo mein noodles to dangle from their slackened jaws.
Creative writing? Neither my husband nor my children had seen that one coming. While they knew I loved science (I studied physiology in college and longed for an advanced degree), my interest in writing came as a complete surprise—at least to them. Much to their dismay and my chagrin, I’d long ago buried my noveling dreams after a whole host of dull journal articles convinced me that writing about science was (gasp) boring.
But I still loved the underlying concepts. Could I bring them into fiction instead? With the vaccine forecasts predicting several more months indoors, maybe this was my time to try.
My husband was first to offer encouragement. “Well, have you heard about murder hornets? They might make a good villain.”
No, I’d not yet heard about these flying abominations. The only plague I was familiar with was the incoming brood of periodical cicadas. Millions of mundane insects scheduled to emerge in perfect synchronization after a 17-year nap. Interesting, if you’re a nerdy biologist-type like me, but tedious in comparison to their far more monstrous brethren.
Was I really going to have to write about murder hornets?
From Theory to Laboratory
When you sit down to write a book, everyone will tell you that “you just need a novel idea!” They will talk about this idea as if you can just stumble upon it, like a heads-up penny. As a science-minded person, I figured there must be some kind of underlying process for creativity that went beyond simple serendipity, and fortunately, I was right. The academics who study innovation often suggest that the creative process begins with combination: existing concepts, smashed together to beget something new. And the tool for this smashing? A laboratory. Not the Large Hadron Collider, but an acronym.
SCAMPER: Substitute, Combine, Adapt, Modify (also Magnify and Minify), Put to another use, Eliminate, and Rearrange (or Reverse.)
While I didn’t want to write about murder hornets, they were sticking with me. How could I SCAMPER them? I could substitute—murder hornets, out; Brood X cicadas in. The next change? Elimination.
And not just extermination.
Extinction. (See how I magnified it too?)
Armchair Entomology and Related Pursuits
Sure, I could easily wipe millions of insects from the face of the earth with a stroke of a pen, but how?
Despite my general scientific education, I was not at all familiar with entomology. To compensate for my lack of expertise, I read. I found the insects’ 17-year life cycle particularly fascinating (how do they know it’s been 17 years? Why 17 years to begin with?)—and also ripe for SCAMPERing.
I decided to reach into my genetics coursework next. In college, I’d learned about Huntington’s Disease, an inherited and fatal neurodegenerative disorder caused by the accumulation of HTT gene repeats. (While everyone carries the HTT gene, those with Huntington’s disease have an unusually high number of repeats. This causes harmful protein buildup in the brain, which damages the nervous system. There is no known cure.)
What would happen if instead of accumulating, the number of gene repeats decreased over time? And what if this gene encoded for reproductive capacity instead? Through this series of questions, I derived the underlying scientific mechanism for the cicada extinction that would drive my story: If 17-year periodical cicadas carried a gene that would erode with every reproductive cycle, each emergence would see one of those genetic chits spent. Extinction would be…natural.
My pulse quickened. This idea was getting really interesting. But before proceeding, I decided to put this mechanism to another use:
What if, instead of cicadas, this reproductive decay affected humans?
But What About the Actual Story?
Unfortunately, a cool science idea does not a novel make. While my story now had a decent premise, it still needed characters, a plot, and (hopefully) some greater themes.
If genetically-encoded extinction were to be discovered, the world would launch innumerable initiatives to find a cure. Perhaps my characters could search for a helpful mutation. Though “mutation” can be a loaded term, such anomalies occur naturally and at varying rates across the human population: For instance, I personally carry the genetic abnormality that causes cystic fibrosis, and this mutation occurs in one of every 25 people of northern European descent.
My research then led me to Melanesia, a Pacific subregion with a high incidence of unique (and ancient) genes derived from their Denisovan ancestry. This place seemed like it might hold the next key to my story: Idyllic scenery, interesting cultures, and serious genetic potential—what more could an author like me want? However, while I was delving into these features, I also uncovered disturbing reports of Marshallese children being trafficked in the U.S. through fraudulent adoption proceedings. My initial excitement soured into shock.
The longer I sat with this heartbreaking story, the more I realized how much it resonated with so many literary themes: the meaning of biological and found families, the loss of children (both as individuals and as a biological function), and the responsibilities of parenthood. When I started writing this book, it was important to me that it be as factually correct as possible on a scientific level, but after uncovering the Marshallese adoption fraud, I felt like the story could be much more authentic on an emotional level, too. I can only hope that by elevating this story, I draw awareness to it—for the sake of the separated families, and to prevent such tragedies in the future.
Jined ilo kobo to anyone who might need to hear it.
Okay, You’ve Convinced Me. But I’m Not a Scientist.
In practice, neither am I. Though I’ve got a rich scientific education, it would be more than a stretch to say I actually practice science on any given day. But it’s the attitude of exploring, experimenting, and iterating that has proved most useful in my authorial pursuits.
Experiment. Smash ideas together. Look to the natural world. Set ridiculous age-based goals for no reason and leverage every useful acronym you can find.
Avoid murder hornets, when possible.
Check out Lauren Stienstra's The Beauty of the End here:
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