The Science of Fiction
I might be the only WPI physics graduate who became an English professor. I know I was the only member of my English department with a physics degree. And I’m eternally grateful for my career shift, since I spent 50 years at Northeastern University (NU) teaching science fiction and writing medical thrillers.
My physics background gave me a leg up on the “what-if” science in science fiction. I could explain where stories were scientifically accurate and where they shaded into make-believe, such as time travel and warp drive. I could also address the dangers and moral dilemmas of advanced technology, such as cloning and artificial intelligence.
I always wanted to write my own science fiction book, but after writing one with a medical slant, my publisher charged me with penning biomedical thrillers. The problem was that I had never taken a biology course and didn’t know a zygote from a kumquat. But my physics background taught me to think analytically and, thus, to understand esoteric biomedical concepts. I also learned how to do research and ask halfway-intelligent questions about unfamiliar matters.
My physics background taught me to think analytically and, thus, to understand esoteric biomedical concepts. I also learned how to do research and ask halfway-intelligent questions about unfamiliar matters.
My first medical thriller was a cautionary novel, Rough Beast. My idea was to explore the impact of a long-abandoned military dump where toxins leached into the well water of an unsuspecting family, turning a 12-year-old child feral. I wanted the story to be scientifically credible and not a supernatural wolfboy tale.
As was the case in all my books, the first step was determining if the “science” was credible. So, I asked my primary care physician how to medically explain the transformation of a nice kid into an angry, muscular, and hirsute creature given to violent outbursts. He sent me to an endocrinologist who described “precocious puberty.” Suddenly, I was researching hormones, pituitary glands, testosterone, and genetics, feeling as if I were back in Daniels Hall laboring over my thesis.
Thankfully, the book got rave reviews. Suddenly my publisher named me the medical-thriller guy, charged with writing cautionary tales about high-concept biomedical breakthroughs that tapped into the fantasies and fears of a wide readership.
After brain-racking weeks, I hit upon the biggest fantasy ever: prolongevity—the holy grail of medical science.
On a trip to Papua New Guinea, I had learned how Western pharmaceutical reps bartered with tribal shaman for medicinal rainforest plants—like quinine from Chinchona trees and vincristine from rosy periwinkles. That gave me the idea for Elixir. What if a rare orchid contained compounds that prolonged life indefinitely? A provocative idea, but I was faced with learning about plant biology, chemical syntheses, and cell science.
My old courses in physical chemistry, thermodynamics, and nuclear physics had afforded me an understanding of molecular interactions that allowed me to craft scientifically accurate scenarios. Where I needed to stretch nature’s laws, I could always fall back on fancy jargon to cover the cracks.
A colleague in NU’s biology department and an expert on rainforest flora suggested my orchid contain a steroid. That’s where Professor Robert Plumb’s Physical Chemistry helped me understand how such hormones affect human metabolism. Another NU colleague explained that the only immortal mechanism known in biology is cancer, a disease whose cells continually replicate until the host dies. That was just the model I needed: My orchid’s steroid would trigger normal cells to replicate without end, keeping the host forever young. Embellished with ancillary details, I had my “science.” Next was determining a well-wrought storyline to lace all that into. Eighteen months later, the book came out to rave reviews, became a bestseller, and was optioned for a movie by director Ridley Scott. (Alas, none was made.)
Perhaps the greatest challenge was making credible the “science” in my eighth novel, Tunnel Vision. The story focuses on scientists trying to determine if the afterlife exists. I imagined test subjects being briefly flatlined to determine if their minds separated from their brains and, when awakened from any out-of-body experiences, if they had encountered dead loved ones or religious beings. Toward that end, and with help from a neuro colleague, I imagined a super fMRI machine that viewed individual neurons.
Researching fMRI, I was thrust back to Professor Donald Howe’s Electricity and Magnetism course. Despite the years, I had retained enough basics to extrapolate a fantasy machine of superconducting magnets cooled by liquid helium and insulating vacuums. I couldn’t build one in my garage, but I could on paper.
Once done, the softer background material proved useful. Researching near-death experiences (NDEs), I landed on the novel’s contentious factions: Religious backers who hoped flatlined subjects reported visions of God versus dangerous extremists who viewed NDEs as the work of Satan. Enough conflict to charge a decent sci-fi thriller.
The book, thankfully, won critical praise. As with my others, some of that success was made possible by the four years I spent in Olin Hall. Thank you, WPI.
Gary Goshgarian, pen name Gary Braver, is the author of 10 critically acclaimed medical thrillers and mysteries. He is professor emeritus at Northeastern University and continues to teach fiction writing at various venues.
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