Nothing much happened today, and nothing has sparked any interesting thoughts, so I'm digging back into the archives again, for this, which was originally posted to rec.arts.sf.written 10/20/04:
I've got two small children (born 1998 and 2000), so, when I'm reading a near-future SF book, I try to work out what they could plausibly be doing in this world. (A book gets bonus points if I can imagine myself still alive and productive in that world, though I don't really expect it in a story set in, say, 2200.) If a book is set in 2030, and the mid-thirties hero is obsessed with the Grateful Dead, I try to picture my son Alex, or one of his class-mates, fitting that description. This works with any SF work set up to about fifty years in the future, though it does help if you know a couple of kids. (My younger son won't hit current retirement age until 2065, and I'm sure he'll have a flying car by then.)
Somewhat related to this is my major unreasoning prejudice, which I'm sure I've mentioned here before: I really take a dislike to books that kill me and/or my family. Additional points are subtracted if the mega-death I'm presumably part of is merely so the author can clear the slate for his hairy-chested he-men to do their mightily-thewed thing without having so many civilians to stand in the way of the broadsword's back-stroke. I know I'm supposed to identify with the thick-headed oaf, but I'm not that stupid -- I live 25 miles from New York City, am currently dependent on heart medication, and am responsible for a wife and the aforementioned two young children. If the balloon goes up, I'm toast -- and so I resent stories in which balloons are let free gleefully.
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