Using an old beer bottle cap as a plectrum, I raked the steel strings of my Laser Banjo back and forth. Ear-lacerating feedback is the usual trick to focus attention on the stage at the Moon Saloon, but tonight I had chosen stomach-churning power chords instead. It was that sort of crowd: lonely lunar pioneers, boozing like gloomy Russian cosmonauts, as fat as Jove and already murderously bored after the evening's first act, an unfunny Martian comedian who delivered a series of nonsensical knock-knock jokes through a faulty voice translation box. I stepped up to the mic, best Elvis sneer on my lips, still violently slashing at the banjo strings like Jimi Hendrix looking for a fight. "This one's called I Lost My Heart In Zero Gravity," I growled. "It's about a little lady I left behind on Alpha Centauri and goes something like this ..."
The above is the opening paragraph of a science fiction novel I was writing about a washed-up – aren't they all? – Country and Western singer, who makes a living gigging around the rundown planets of the known universe. I say "was writing" because I've recently decided to set my story in Ancient Rome instead of outer space. Nevertheless, I'll still keep the C&W singer character. He will now be a time-traveling unreliable narrator; unreliable because I'm far too lazy to do any actual research about Ancient Rome. This way, if the story contains glaring historical inaccuracies, as it undoubtedly will, I can claim such errors are character-driven and thematic. Furthermore, I know absolutely nothing about Country and Western music beyond the infamously corny song titles. And I'm definitely not doing any research into stetson hats, cowboy boots, or elaborate line dancing steps. I'd rather turn my hero into a reggae artiste and embark upon a week long fact finding mission to Kingston, Jamaica. Although I'd probably be accused of cultural appropriation if I went that route.
Still, come to think of it, the idea of a Rastafarian time-traveler joining forces with Julius Caesar is tempting. But it would surely work better as a movie than a novel. Imagine the epic sweep of Caesar crossing the Rubicon in widescreen while his dreadlocked friend belts out Many Rivers To Cross on the soundtrack. I can see myself accepting the Oscar for best screenplay as I type. But I need to learn to walk to the bookstore before I can run down the Hollywood red carpet. So for now I'll concentrate on the Honky Tonk gladiator from the twenty-first century who loves a Vestal Virgin from the first. I just need a title corny enough to appeal to the kind of people who sign-up for ghost tours of Nashville recording studios. Then I can make my C&W Sci-Fi Fantasy pitch to the publishers. I Left My Hearth In The Temple of Vesta? No, perhaps not. I'll have to put my ten gallon thinking cap on.
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