If science fiction is the metaphorical engine that lets all kinds of clever kids with RSS feeds of New Scientist and BoingBoing write about our glorious nano-pr0ned future as a way to really write about the present, what the hell does that make fantasy?
When I starting writing fiction, if you’d told me that I’d end up writing fantasy and liking it, I would have laughed, punched you in the balls and stolen your lunch money. Partly because I wanted your money, but partly because it was common knowledge that only little girls, mental defectives and Plushie unicorn fuckers got anywhere near fantasy. I was a space age boy who grew up sure and certain that he’d be an astronaut or, at least, the first guy to shoot porn on Mars, probably with the leggy descendants of Valentina Tereshkova.