It’s 11pm in Taipei but 10am in Chicago, where the award-winning author Wesley Chu (朱恆昱) is as usual in his “cave,” looking a little frayed around the edges. It’s not just the bathrobe, which has been ripped at the elbow by his dog. Handsome enough to have modeled and been cast in minor Hollywood movie roles, Chu has bed hair, a full beard and that dazed look of someone who has just woken up — or worked all night.
Framed by groaning bookshelves and sitting in his comfy chair, it would appear that the life of a science fiction writer is about letting go, being free to imagine time-bending scenarios and characters that crisscross the universe in search of derring-do. But it’s not quite that simple.
We have been emailing back and forth for weeks and after text messaging on Google Hangouts we agree to a “face-to-face” interview. If it was the 20th century, this would not be happening. In fact, it would be thought of as science fiction.
Photo courtesy of Wesley Chu
Born in mid-1970s Taipei, Chu was initially brought up in Chiayi by his grandparents because his father was studying in the US. He recalls the convenience store his grandfather owned, a chicken coop, an out-house and “biting the nose of the principal’s son because he took my toy.” At the tender age of five he joined his parents in Nebraska, but still considers himself Taiwanese, and Taiwanese-American.
Fast forward to the tail end of the 1990s and Chu had graduated from the University of Illinois with a degree in management information systems. He would go on to work as a consultant and software engineer before joining Bank of America and becoming an associate vice president.
Comfortable. Yes. Successful. Yes. But it wasn’t the life Chu wanted. In fact, he hated it. His original plan was to be a writer but his father dissuaded him, worried he would “suffer” financially as an artist. The filial son suspects that even now his father would prefer that he was working at JPMorgan rather than on fiction. Odd for an English professor to think this, you might say, but entirely in character for a “Tiger Dad.”
Photo courtesy of Wesley Chu
To get the ball rolling during our face-to-face, I point out the obvious and ask: “It really is true then that authors roll around in a bathrobe all day and essentially think great thoughts?”
“Yes, it’s fantastic. Going to work is a walk of 40 steps,” Chu says.
“Well, those 40 steps can be a challenge, I’m sure, but don’t you miss the cut and thrust of cubicle politics, the rustle of spreadsheets and the endless meetings?” I ask.
Photo courtesy of Wesley Chu
“Not one red second. It’s a different politics now, there’s publishing politics. If anything, it’s sometimes worse,” Chu says.
“You’re dealing with people who are very close to their work. In business and corporations, at least in business it’s just business. In publishing, especially for the writers, their books are like children,” he adds.
Chu is technically a SFF (science fiction and fantasy) author, and a “high concept” or “big idea” writer, meaning he comes up with plausible alternate realities, particularly those in which some kind of compelling innovation has taken place. His characters are strong and full of personality. They clash, strive and evolve according to how events play out in the novel.
His prose has a cinematic style, meaning while reading you can imagine how it would play in the movie theater. He is quite insistent that his writing style is natural rather than the result of having one eye on a big payday, saying, “It’s just the way my voice comes out.”
He’s also rather modest about his English skills, claiming his wife will divorce him if she has to do another editing job for him. Another plus is he has a globalized outlook, incorporating Asian concepts and geographical locations in his novels. His second book, The Deaths of Tao takes place in Taipei and Kaohsiung.
His literary coming out party was The Lives of Tao, which I read as having a Buddhist worldview, but Chu puts me straight on that one: “I didn’t have Asian spiritualism in mind when I was world-building the novel. I was actually more focused on writing a very personal story that reflected what I was going through at the time. The Lives of Tao, in essence, is a coming-of-age story.”
The protagonist works a dead-end job, has low self esteem and in the end finds purpose in life. While that may sound familiar, the alien that inhabits the protagonist and helps him become the person he wants to be, is of course, pure fiction. The Lives of Tao won an Alex Award and spawned a trilogy, which isn’t a bad start to a literary career.
“I’ve won a few awards,” he says. “Nothing really changes. You get a bump in sales for sure but other than that, you keep on writing. Even making the New York Times bestseller list doesn’t change your life.”
For me, his second book, Time Salvager, the first installment of another planned trilogy, is more cogent, muscular and confident. It’s set 400 years in the future and the hero is a jaundiced, addicted individual whose job is to go back in time, steal energy and not get caught. It’s strong enough to have been optioned by Paramount, with Michael Bay slated to direct.
Chu’s books have been translated into Russian, German, Hebrew and Hungarian, while Time Salvager will be published by Nautilus in Taiwan and People’s Literature in China. He says he would “love to work with Asian filmmakers on a film/television adaptation.”
Some people don’t think about the future and are not interested in books on this subject. But a grounded reality and history is also important to Chu, and it’s what makes his stories appealing.
“If you think about it, 400 years ago, we weren’t even in the steam age yet. It was horses, swords and wooden ships,” he says.
“If you bring someone from the 17th century to the present, they would probably swear we’re wielding magic. Technology advances at a curve. We’ve had more advancements in the past 50 years than in the past 500.”
As I might have intimated, Chu is really understated — from his bed hair down to the four bathrobes he wears out in a year. He claims to do nothing but write in his “cave” and occasionally get walked by his dog. He doesn’t mention his acting, modeling, nerd credentials, business and banking experience, the fact he’s a gymnast and martial artist, though he does note that “just this year, I went to Tanzania in Africa to summit Kilimanjaro.”
If the boy in Chiayi could see his future life with all the compelling innovations that have taken place, I guess it would look a bit like the science fiction/urban fantasy Chu writes.
1 OH 1, can refer to Taipei 101; an introductory course or analysis; One uh One, a spare male at a party, or a useless person — always male; there are about 1.01 men for every 1 woman, thus, every one hundred and first male is not going to find a partner-; a one-on-one interview
Feb. 9 to Feb.15 Growing up in the 1980s, Pan Wen-li (潘文立) was repeatedly told in elementary school that his family could not have originated in Taipei. At the time, there was a lack of understanding of Pingpu (plains Indigenous) peoples, who had mostly assimilated to Han-Taiwanese society and had no official recognition. Students were required to list their ancestral homes then, and when Pan wrote “Taipei,” his teacher rejected it as impossible. His father, an elder of the Ketagalan-founded Independence Presbyterian Church in Xinbeitou (自立長老會新北投教會), insisted that their family had always lived in the area. But under postwar
The term “pirates” as used in Asia was a European term that, as scholar of Asian pirate history Robert J. Antony has observed, became globalized during the European colonial era. Indeed, European colonial administrators often contemptuously dismissed entire Asian peoples or polities as “pirates,” a term that in practice meant raiders not sanctioned by any European state. For example, an image of the American punitive action against the indigenous people in 1867 was styled in Harper’s Weekly as “Attack of United States Marines and Sailors on the pirates of the island of Formosa, East Indies.” The status of such raiders in
On paper, the Democratic Progressive Party (DPP) enters this year’s nine-in-one elections with almost nowhere to go but up. Yet, there are fears in the pan-green camp that they may not do much better then they did in 2022. Though the DPP did somewhat better at the city and county councillor level in 2022, at the “big six” municipality mayoral and county commissioner level, it was a disaster for the party. Then-president and party chairwoman Tsai Ing-wen (蔡英文) made a string of serious strategic miscalculations that led to the party’s worst-ever result at the top executive level. That year, the party
As much as I’m a mountain person, I have to admit that the ocean has a singular power to clear my head. The rhythmic push and pull of the waves is profoundly restorative. I’ve found that fixing my gaze on the horizon quickly shifts my mental gearbox into neutral. I’m not alone in savoring this kind of natural therapy, of course. Several locations along Taiwan’s coast — Shalun Beach (沙崙海水浴場) near Tamsui and Cisingtan (七星潭) in Hualien are two of the most famous — regularly draw crowds of sightseers. If you want to contemplate the vastness of the ocean in true
RSS