They Call Me Mad
I mean, given the whole "geek hierarchy" Scott Westerfeld linked to in the comments section, you know, undertandably there might well be some shaking of heads over at the furry convention, FC2006, which (weirdly, coincidentally, as I found out from one of those LJ links) is running right now (It's a sign, a sign, I tell you, a propitious synchronicity; the gods want me to write this book). I imagine it could be a bit like an SF reader/writer hearing that some poncy middle-brow contemporary realist is going to set a novel around an SF convention -- yes, it'll be all Spock and Kirk and adults obsessing over Star Wars toys, and, oh, look at all the freaks in silly costumes! Smashing, we'd think. An outsider doing a hatchet job without even knowing it. Yes, I remember the headlines during WorldCon 1995: Sci-Fi Fans Beam Down To Glasgow.
So, I'm probably doubly bonkers, I realise. Most non-furries will think I'm utterly insane to write about furries. Most furries, on the other hand, will expect me to be crassly exploitative, capitalising on the superficial and sensationalist potentials of the scene. Non-furries will raise their eyebrows in incredulous amusement because of their preconceptions. Furries, on the other hand, will furrow their brows in suspicious consternation because of their expectations.
I can't really blame them.
But fuck it. I don't care it. I'll prove them both wrong or explode my mind trying. Because I do honestly think there's a fucking monster of a book in this idea, a book about humanity as flesh and humanity as mind, about death and life, with a healthy helping of sex and drugs and rock'n'roll. And bio-engineered monkey-tail body-modifications! I mean, come on. Monkey tail body modifications -- how cool would that be? You know you want one.
They call me mad, you know, mad!