When I published my first novel, Haweswater, about the effects of dam-building in England, nature writing was different. Back then, books about climate collapse were bleak and bizarre—filled with mutant viruses and nuclear disasters. While these stories resonated, they didn’t seem urgent. Everyone knew about climate issues, yet the focus was on separate problems, like ozone depletion or desertification, rather than on a complete breakdown. Climate change felt more like a distant rumor than a pressing reality.
Fast forward to the 2000s. As scientists fought against disinformation, a wave of alarming nonfiction books emerged. Works like Six Degrees by Mark Lynas highlighted the grim future waiting for us if we continued with fossil fuels and deforestation. This made me reevaluate how I approached storytelling. I wrote The Carhullan Army, imagining a dystopia where society crumbles under ecological disaster. The intensity of fear drove my writing. It was a way to warn readers about the possible future.
As fiction writers delved into these dire landscapes, stories like Cormac McCarthy’s The Road depicted the grim consequences of environmental collapse. Surprisingly, the environment’s threat seemed too big to grasp. Meanwhile, novels like Gold Fame Citrus explored life in a drought-stricken America, illustrating how the climate crisis affects daily life.
Today’s climate narratives aren’t just imaginative tales; they reflect real struggles people face around the globe. Books like Goliath by Tochi Onyebuchi examine how different communities will bear the brunt of ecological disasters. It raises questions about who will suffer and how they’ll find hope amidst despair.
The genre known as cli-fi has emerged, showcasing narratives about our deteriorating planet. Yet, is darkness the only theme writers should explore? George Orwell once said that trying to imagine perfection reveals emptiness. The allure of dystopia can be entertaining, but does it also paralyze us, keeping solutions at bay?
Interestingly, many writers find ways to propose positive visions. Octavia Butler’s stories, for example, challenge the idea that humanity is doomed. They explore themes of resilience and evolution, offering new ways to imagine the future. In contrast, my journey has been more challenging. With a new novel, Helm, I wanted to shift toward hope rather than despair. Shouldn’t fiction also create avenues for change?
Authors like Rachel Carson made real impacts with their works, such as Silent Spring, which promoted environmental protection. Fiction, while more complex, can still inspire action. George Monbiot’s writings confront industrialism’s damage while suggesting alternatives, showing the power of narratives to foster change.
Today, we have many works celebrating the bond between humanity and nature. Remembering our connection with the natural world is crucial, especially as awareness grows about human impact on the environment. The Overstory by Richard Powers illustrates how collective action can protect nature, while Barbara Kingsolver’s Flight Behavior finds beauty even in environmental upheaval.
In Helm, I explore a unique phenomenon—the Helm wind. My novel highlights humanity’s relationship with nature, focusing on the whims of air and weather. It threads together stories of human control over nature with narratives of living in harmony with it. The characters, especially women, challenge negative outlooks and promote connectivity.
This book isn’t an eco-utopia, but I hope it offers a fresh perspective amid current challenges. Fiction can help readers envision alternative futures, fostering a sense of agency. After all, understanding different versions of the world may encourage a healthier relationship with our environment.
In summary, while the past has been focused on ecological doom, the future can be about resilience and connection. It’s time to imagine a better world, both on the page and beyond.