Fictionalizing

 I WROTE A SCIENCE FICTION  novel in which October in Iowa had temperatures in October of eighty five degrees for two weeks, temperatures in November consistently above seventy five, no snow in the winter, and the weather alternated between extreme drought and drenching tornadic downpours. Spring began in late February, and summer extended through October. A deadly epidemic sweeps across the land and engulfs the world, killing hundreds of thousands then millions of people, man y of whom refuse to accept the reality of the plague and take protective action  Cures become available, and are ignored.Desperate for a great leader, the American people elect a raving demagogue as president, and when he takes office immediately begins to assume tyrannical control of the country.He constantly lies to the people, and attacks his enemies.When he is finally voted out of office he refuses to leave, claiming that the election was stolen from by by massive election fraud, when in fact it is he who is trying to over turn the results of a free and fair election. I liked my dystopian science fiction novel. I  thought it highly creative and imaginative.I would publish it, it would sell like a virus, I would have my fame and fortune, and would appear on Oprah.I had begun to reinvent my wardrobe and improve the legibility of my signature, when disaster struck. It struck gently, if a bit sarcastically, but nonetheless, it struck.  She sat me down, took my hand, looked at me warmly, kissed me gently, and said: "My darling, what you have written is not a dystopian science fiction novel,but rather, an accurate, concise description of reality, of the real world in which we live and struggle, a description whose accuracy would do justice to the very best historian or professional journalist." I recoiled in horror, horrified. I hadn't realized that. Her startling revelation did in fact explain much. I had vaguely wondered where exactly my idea had come from.It had all seemed, somehow, vaguely, disconcertingly familiar. I thought about it, and realized that, yes, indeed, I was merely fictionalizing my perception of the current state of the world, without realizing it. Like Einstein said, years ago: "The world is a madhouse", by which he maybe meant that the world in reality resembles a de facto dystopian science fiction novel. My plans have now changed. I am now resolved to either pursue a career in history writing, or in journalism, or perhaps pursue my dream of writing a novel, this one pure fiction, a novel in which the president is sane and honest, the major health concern is the common cold, and it is hot in the summer and cold in the winter, without crazy, violent weather swings. I wonder if it would sell....