When I started writing my novel, I knew I wanted to explore the effect of an apparent challenge to the Big Bang theory upon an individual character as well as the astronomical community as a whole. But what form could this challenge take? The theory is based on several well-established pieces of observational evidence, principally the uniform nature of the cosmic microwave background, the relative abundances of the primordial elements such as hydrogen and helium, the global evolution of galaxies, and finally the one-to-one relationship between recessional velocity of the Universe (i.e. redshift) and the distance to galaxies. I ended up choosing the last of these. In the book it is challenged when Jeanette and her colleague find an apparent physical link between galaxies at different redshifts.

Why did I decide on this particular aspect of the Big Bang? Because it was relatively straightforward to explain, and I hoped to build a visual picture in readers’ minds of these galaxies the way that Jeanette and others might see them on the computer screen, two blobs with a string of ‘something’ between them. And as Jeanette struggles with connecting and communicating with other people in her life, and has done since her difficult childhood it seemed to me to be an inevitable metaphor for her isolation. Perhaps that’s why she’s so keen to ‘see’ this connection. It may console her for the lack of connnections around her.

I’m wary of books that use science simply as metaphor for characters’ feelings, because science is more than that. It offers us a way of seeing the external physical world; it doesn’t solely exist to reflect our own desires and needs back at us. This (mis)use of science as metaphor seems to me to be fundamentally pre-Copernican.

In spite of that, I used the image of connected galaxies as a way of exploring Jeanette’s view of life. But I hope I explored it for its own sake, and showed that the connected galaxies resonate with Jeanette because of the emotions she’s invested in her understanding of the Big Bang theory. I think any metaphor needs to be earned, you can’t string together two unconnected ideas or images just for the sake of pretty words. It needs to be somehow ‘real’.

People have asked me what genre I write, and I’ve often been introduced at events as a science fiction author. It’s not how I see myself, but who’s to say that they’re wrong? The boundary between ‘literary’ fiction (which I think I write) and science fiction is so blurred it may not be a proper boundary at all. And while I like to think of myself as a literary writer I have a horrible feeling this may just be simple snobbishness.

The ‘establishment’ argument for the supremacy of literary fiction over other types of expression is that the former is simply better written; it’s more closely concerned with style. Champions of literary genre also argue this form is less likely to be circumscribed by convention, it’s the genre where anything goes.

But even though literary fiction happens to be my favourite genre as a reader, I think this is a false argument for many reasons. Other genres’ lesser concern for language may mean they’re more capable of examining the real world and use their tropes to be more adventurous; crime fiction has shown itself capable of examining power structures and corruption. Science fiction can anticipate scientific developments and their impact on society.

Our desire to categorise writing into genres and sub-genres is a human tendency. It happens elsewhere in life too. I’ve just received an email from a reader who has pointed out a mistake in my novel, and as this reader points out, this sort of mistake would only be made by an astrophysicist trying to pass herself as a ‘proper’ astronomer, i.e. someone who actually knows the night sky and the names of the stars and constellations in it (this tends to be truer of amateur astronomers than professional ones because they spend more time actually looking at the sky).

There’s the apocryphal story of a famous astrophysicist out for a walk one night with a friend who pointed up at the sky and asked ‘What’s the name of that star?’ ‘How should I know?’ Prof answered, ‘I’m an astrophysicist, not a boy scout!’

My first novel ‘The Falling Sky’ is published today by Freight Books. This is the latest stage in a long journey because I started writing it several years ago, and I still can’t quite believe that it actually exists as a book. I wrote it because I wanted to convey what it feels like to be an astronomer, studying unimaginably distant objects but still having to wrestle with the complexities of everyday life.

The protagonist of the book, Jeanette, works on the Big Bang theory which tells us how the Universe was created and developed. She finds this more straightforward than coming to terms with her own history, and a childhood that has been defined by loss and silence. Her attachment to the Big Bang theory is partly due to its appeal as a story of origins; it gives her life structure and order. She doesn’t realise how much she relies on it until she discovers something that may undermine it…

I realised as I was working on this novel, that writing fiction can be similar to doing science. I had set up the premise, or the initial conditions for the experiment, and I had to fulfil the premise or conduct that experiment by writing the novel. There was only one way of writing it that was right. Several plot developments had to be axed because they felt wrong. Even though fiction is not real, it still has to be true in both the writer’s and the readers’ heads.

There’s already been one very nice review in the Daily Mail, and I’ll be talking about the book, at a couple of events this month:

Sunday 14^th April, with Tendai Huchu at Aye Write! in Glasgow

Wednesday 24^th April at Looking Glass Books in Edinburgh

Now that my novel is done and dusted I’ve been concentrating on writing a collection of short stories inspired by science. One of the stories is about Brecht writing, and then rewriting, his play ‘Life of Galileo’ (Timely, because there’s a new production by the RSC).

Brecht wrote the first version of this play in Norway in 1938. In this version he’s a cunning man, publicly telling the Catholic Church and its inquisitors what they want to hear, but only as a strategy for survival so that he can secretly carry on with his work. He’s a typical Brechtian anti-hero, fully able to subvert the power of the authorities for his own purposes.

Partly prompted by the use of atom bombs at the end of the second World War Brecht did a major rewrite of the play, when he was living in the USA in 1947. This version shows Galileo as someone who recants his life work, simply out of fear of the Inquisition. Even when other characters in the play attempt to put a better gloss on his actions, he corrects them and says he was afraid of being tortured, and that is why he gave in. In this version Galileo has a long speech at the end of the play in which he says;

‘Science’s sole aim must be to lighten the burden of human existence. If the scientists, brought to heel by self-interested rulers, limit themselves to piling up knowledge for knowledge’s sake then science can be crippled and your new machines will lead to nothing but new impositions. Your cry of triumph at some new achievement will be echoed by a universal cry of horror. As a scientist I had a unique opportunity. Had I stood firm the scientists could have developed something like the doctors’ Hippocratic oath, a vow to use their knowledge exclusively for mankind’s benefit.’

So the moral of the story has completely changed, from ‘subvert the authorities in any way possible; the ends justify the means’ to ‘behave in such a way as to set an example to others; the means are all-important’.

Brecht portrayed Galileo as the first of modern scientists, someone who had a responsibility to set an example of how scientists should engage with the authorities. He saw a link between Galileo failing to stand up to the Inquisition and the scientists in the Manhattan project agreeing to develop a nuclear bomb for the US Government, and he meant Galileo’s despairing speech to be taken as a cry of warning to twentieth century scientists.

But the reality of the interaction between scientists and the authorities (whether they’re the Church or a democratically elected Government) is rather more complex, and perhaps Brecht knew this. At the same time as Galileo denies that he has done anything to undermine the authorities, he is giving a copy of his forbidden manuscript to a friend so it can be smuggled out of Italy. His actions challenge any simplistic interpretation of his words.

And Brecht’s own actions somewhat complicate his interpretation of how scientists should behave.  Shortly after ‘Life of Galileo’ was given its first English performance in Los Angeles, Brecht was summoned to give evidence to the House Committee on Un-American Activities (HUAC), which was just beginning to consider the influence of organised Communist activities in the USA. Brecht was one of the very first people required to give evidence and initially decided against doing so. However he then changed his mind, gave evidence and left the USA for good the next day.

As ever with Brecht, there is more than one interpretation of his actions. By appearing at HUAC, he helped to validate the process and this was explicitly acknowledged by the Chairman who thanked him for setting a good example to the other witnesses. But if you watch his testimony, it becomes apparent that he was also mocking the whole set-up, and his performance made the onlookers laugh. So again, he undermines his own text and reminds us that we are more complex  than any single belief system can account for.

My friend and great writer Roy Gill tagged me in his blog last week as part of an ongoing chain of book/writer recommendations asking and answering questions about their work. This week I’m in the sticky black leather seat answering the questions and passing the baton onto some more great writers.

• What is the working title of your next book?

It’s shuttling backwards and forwards between two titles at the moment – ‘Wider than the Sky’ or ‘The Falling Sky’.

• Where did the idea come from for the book?

I really wanted to write a novel about astronomy – and about what it’s actually like to be a scientist, excited about trying to understand the Universe and getting things wrong.

• What genre does your book fall under?

Generally, literary fiction. More precisely, ‘lablit’ which is literature about real science, not made up stuff. See www.lablit.com for more examples.

• What actors would you choose to play the part of your characters in a movie rendition?

I can’t yet visualise any actors inhabiting my characters.  Apart from maybe Michael Gambon as the Death Star, the boss of the main character.

• What is the one sentence synopsis of your book?

Jeanette finds evidence that contradicts the Big Bang theory. Will this make her career or destroy her universe? (whoops – two sentences)

• Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?

It’ll be published by Freight, who have already published an excerpt from it in Gutter.

• How long did it take you to write the first draft of the manuscript?

I wrote it on and off over a period of about two years. Currently on the fourth and hopefully final draft.

• What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?

‘Intuition’ by Allegra Goodman, or ‘Brazzaville Beach’ by William Boyd. Two of my favourite books; both are complex tales about scientists’ lives.

• Who or what inspired you to write this book?

I was partly inspired by a fantastic book by Jane Gardam called ‘A Long Way from Verona’, about a twelve year old girl who realises she is a writer. I read this when I was the same age as the protagonist and it made me think about becoming a writer. I’ve tried to emulate its freshness and wit in my book.  Also, I wanted to write a book that I wanted to read, about science.

• What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?

It’s set in Edinburgh at the real-life Royal Observatory, a fabulous Victorian gothic pile where I did my PhD. And also partly in Chile – one of the best countries in the world for astronomy.

That’s it from me! I’m handing over to the next bunch of writers, who’ll be answering these questions on their sites next week:

Zoe Venditozzi whose darkly funny debut novel, Anywhere’s Better Than Here, has been described as “an understated literary champ” and “funny, believable and all too human”.

John Ward is the author of 4 books of young adult fantasy fiction, and is currently working on an adult novel (but not an ‘adult’ one – no shades of grey, just black & white)

Anne Strathie is the biographer of Henry ‘Birdie’ Bowers, one of the five men who reached the South Pole with Captain Scott in 1912. I’ll be hosting Anne’s Next Big Thing on my blog next week.

Russell Jones is a poet and editor of Where Rockets Burn Through: Contemporary Science Fiction Poems from the UK, which is out 15th November 2012.

Kate Tough’s latest short story is on exhibit in London. She’s working with Ayrshire teens on sea-themed poetry and thereafter will be submerged in editing her first novel (due out in 2013).

Tracey S. Rosenberg is the author of the forthcoming chapbook  ‘Lipstick is always a plus’; a poetry collection tracing a path from emptiness to joy, with stops along the way for hot chocolate and lipstick. “Through varied subject matter and fresh perspective, Rosenberg’s crystalline poems confront and entertain readers with the unexpected.” – Sarah Ream, editor of poetryinternational.org.

I’ve been the writer-in-residence at Wigtown Book Festival and amongst other activities, I’ve been blogging on their Dark Skies theme. You can find the blogs here

I’m blogging on the Edinburgh Book Festival over at Genotype.

A lot has been written about Alan Turing this year; 23 June 2012 is the centenary of his birth. During his life, much of his work was secret and it’s only in the past few years that we’ve been able to appreciate fully the breadth of his contributions to mathematics, computer science, philosophy, and biology.

One of his achievements was to devise the Turing Test, a way of deciding if a computer could imitate human intelligence. In his test, a judge has a conversation with both a computer and a human, without knowing which is which. If the judge can’t distinguish between the computer and the human, then the computer is said to have passed the test.

This may have been the first time that the hard-edged objectivity of computers crashed up against our definition of humainty. The test relies on a rather subjective and individual judgment, perhaps different judges would arrive at different conclusions depending on their understanding and use of language.

And what happens to the human participant, how do they feel if they are accused of being a computer? Is a person’s sense of humanity sufficiently strong to not be undermined by a judgment passed on their behaviour in comparison to a bit of code?

Actually Turing first described the test as a sort of parlour game called the ‘Imitation Game’. This is carried out in two phases; in the first phase a man and a woman each try and convince the judge that they are female and the judge must choose who is right and who is wrong. Then a computer takes the place of the man and the test is repeated. So the test becomes a challenge to see whether a man or a computer can better imitate a woman. It’s bizarre to think that this could be a viable test of artificial intelligence, what does it mean to behave like a woman or imitate one in this sort of situation? Why should a man imitate a woman better than a computer? And given Turing’s own complicated (and ultimately tragic) personal life I can’t help reading into this theoretical test some sort of subtext about a wish to assume different sexual identities.

The test has been criticised on the basis that it turns on the imitation of behaviour rather than behaviour itself. I don’t know if this is a real concern, surely it’s possible for imitated behaviour to shade into learned or assimilated behaviour?

At one extreme you can have a ‘Chinese room’ type of imitated behaviour where the computer programme undergoing the test is merely following instructions without understanding them or having to adapt or change its responses according to the circumstances. But if the programme makes decisions in real time, or learns from previous circumstances, it’s hard not to see similarities with the way that humans learn behaviours.

I certainly feel like that about trying to write well, much of the impetus to write comes from reading other literature and trying to imitate what I like about it. In fact, when I was immersed in writing my novel, I had to stop myself from reading my favourite authors in case I started to mimic their traits in my own writing. There’s a fine line between imitation and forgery. What I read percolates slowly around my mind and through the unthought-thoughts.

And following on from my last blog post about Alan Garner, I was thrilled to find out that he thought of Alan Turing as his hero.

The recent experimental result showing that one type of neutrino can apparently travel faster than light is looking rather dubious. The result was first reported in September from the Gran Sasso lab in Italy, which claimed to have detected neutrinos from CERN a few billionths of a second quicker than was predicted. It’s fair to say there’s a lot of scepticism in the physics community about the result (Professor Jim Al-Khalili offered to eat his boxer shorts on live TV if the result is correct), and the researchers at Gran Sasso are being suitably cautious about it all. Even other teams working out of the same lab disagree with the result.

If the result stands, then Einstein’s theory of special relativity with its prohibition on faster-than-light travel, will need to be reworked. The theory states that nothing can be accelerated beyond the speed of light. And because of the absolute and constant value of this speed, it is intimately connected with the nature of space and time itself. As the speed of an object increases and approaches the speed of light, time slows down. At the speed of light itself, time stops. So photons, or light particles, live in an eternal present moment with no past or future. Theoretical particles such as tachyons which travel faster than the speed of light, travel backwards through time. So, to break through this barrier could mean that time travel into the past is possible; which means curtains for causality. Hence the fascination and concern around Gran Sasso’s result.

How will we know for sure whether this result is correct? The only way is to repeat it, using different experimental set-ups, at different times and in different locations. Why is this repetition so important? Because it’s the best way we know of trying to understand the hidden errors that may have affected the outcome. Scientists are good at measuring random errors that impact upon the (un)certainty of their results. What is much more difficult is identifying and quantifying systematic problems – things that may have gone wrong in the design and execution of the experiment. For example, this experiment relies on measuring the speed of the neutrinos to a certain accuracy. To measure a speed, you need to measure both the time taken and distance travelled. The team at Gran Sasso cannot rule out the possibility that the clocks measuring the start and end of the neutrinos’ journey are not properly synchronised. It’s not trivial to measure the distance (about 730 km) to the required accuracy of a few centimetres either.

Repetition is essential to establishing a scientific reality, then. Yet we don’t give repetition much thought in other areas of our lives. For example, apart from a nice column in the Guardian, rereading books seems to be an unremarked-on activity. Alan Garner is one of my favourite authors and when I was about 11 or 12, I must have reread his book ‘The Owl Service’ about thirty times. It’s based on a story in the Mabinogion, about two men and a woman who is created out of flowers to satisfy their desires, and whose infidelity leads to the downfall of all three. ‘The Owl Service’ takes this tale and turns it into a cyclical event that must be repeated by subsequent generations of a family. The novel cleverly layers events happening at different times, so that the reader realises just how vivid the past is in the minds of the people in the present. Time is not uniform in this book. The past and present happen at the same time and are all muddled up. The inevitability of the repeating events implies an apparent lack of free will in this universe, at least until the characters learn to abandon their prejudices and fears and break the cycle.

I reread it now to learn from it, and to try and understand how Garner tells such a complex, sophisticated story so succinctly (it’s only about 150 pages long). But every time I read it I get lost on a Welsh mountain, frightened of the woman who has turned into an owl.