I dance around the edges of genre and what is conventionally termed “literary” writing, although that distinction is increasingly meaningless. “Literature” tends to follow the Virginia Woolf mode: the ordinary mind on an ordinary day. It’s about depicting the human experience with as little in the way of distraction as possible. Sometimes you can even see the layers of life being peeled away to expose the essence of humanity. And, with the greatest of respect, that is a mystical perspective on what it means to be a person, which belongs to another century. It’s an inheritance of Romanticism.
Humans exist in the interaction of the interior and the exterior worlds. Technology and science and fantasy and possibility and so on are all part of that. Stripping them away is a delusion, a quest for an authenticity which does not exist. Any writing which refuses to engage with science and technology runs the risk of exiling itself to a fictional 1992. Look: if you live in a world where you can print human organs on a polymer frame but you won’t acknowledge the existence of email in your fiction, what are you really doing? You’re not talking about the ordinary day. And someone who doesn’t use email in professional life is not an ordinary person any more.