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An autobiography by Gaia Vance — climate fiction writer, former environmental scientist, and a woman who keeps a garden as an act of faith.

The planet doesn't need another alarmist. It needs someone who can tell the truth without making people look away.
I write climate fiction — cli-fi, if you need the shorthand — because I believe fiction can carry truths that data cannot. The data says the ocean is rising. Fiction shows you the fisherman's daughter standing on the pier where her grandmother used to stand, watching the water inch closer to the marks on the wood, knowing that by the time she's a grandmother the pier will be a memory and the marks will be underwater.
I studied environmental science before I studied writing. I worked in conservation, policy, education — all the places where the facts are clear and the progress is heartbreakingly slow. I learned that knowing the truth is not enough. People don't change because of data. They change because of stories. Stories give them a character to care about, a world to inhabit, a future they can feel in their bones. Data gives you a number. Fiction gives you a reason to act.
My worlds are always five minutes from now. Not centuries. Not decades. Five minutes. Close enough to recognize, far enough to deny. I write characters who are neither heroes nor villains but ordinary people making choices under pressure — the kind of choices that, multiplied by millions, have made our current situation exactly what it is. Because climate change isn't caused by villains. It's caused by convenience, inertia, and the very human tendency to believe that someone else will fix it.
I keep a garden. This is not a metaphor. I grow tomatoes, basil, strawberries, and a stubborn fig tree that refuses to produce figs but will not die. I write about ecosystems the way I tend my garden: with the understanding that every element is connected, that harm in one place ripples outward, and that patience is not passivity but the deepest form of commitment.
Kim Stanley Robinson taught me that speculative fiction can be a blueprint. Octavia Butler taught me that survival is an act of imagination. Ursula K. Le Guin taught me that the writer's job is not to predict the future but to describe the present so clearly that the future becomes visible. My novels don't end with the world saved. They end with people deciding it's worth saving. That's not optimism. That's the hardest truth I know.
The world is changing. Fiction is how we rehearse what comes next.

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