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As England basks in a pleasantly warm 30C it makes me think of the late great Isaac Asimov. I have shelves full of his books upstairs: many classics of the sci-fi genre; others more obscure.

My favourites, however, are the collections of short stories. Asimov used to have a habit of writing author’s notes in his anthologies: telling about the genesis of the tales, or simply regaling people with anecdotes about his life. This were invariably written with great wit and charm.

In one of these anecdodes, Asimov told of his disdain for sunny weather: when it was gloomy, he said, people would leave him to his writing; when it was sunny, they would try to drag him from his typewriter and into the sun. His response to this was, perhaps, one of his most uncharacteristic short stories, a tongue-in-cheek fantasy where a family, all of whom exhibit his attitude to the sun, catch the attention of their neighbours, who take it upon themselves to bring them out. Resisting all attempts, they are eventually caught in the weather by accident, at which point they melt because - and here’s the twist - they’re made of sugar. Asimov wasn’t saying that he was himself so constructed, but the idea he might have good reason to stay out of the sun was there.

And perhaps, in terms of being a dilligent writer, Asimov had a point. Writers, or at least successful writers, are generally self-employed. I haven’t been a successful writer (yet) but in my earlier career as a shareware developer I have been self-employed and I can quite understand the pressure you feel sitting at a computer keyboard whilst the sun is streaming in from outside. It’s easy to think nobody will mind if you go out - even for ten minutes. Having developed the disciple, I resisted, but then I had to work - I wasn’t a particularly successful shareware developer either.

Asimov had no such excuse. As the author of some five hundred books, many of them bestsellers, he wasn’t engaged in a continual struggle with the wolves at the door. He could, had he chose, have taken entire days away from the typewriter. Under those circumstances, I’d like to think I’d make some allowance. After all, pleasurable job though writing is, it is still a job, and as with any job it’s important to strike a balance - one is better working to live than living to work. Perhaps that philosophy explains why I am not yet successful, but I doubt it. In the end we all need a little time in the sun. So go out and get yourself some. Not too much, of course - you don’t want to melt.

Inspiration’s a funny beast. Back in 2003 I was writing a book called Bandwagon - a comedy-drama based around a band of whom all the members bar one were robots. I was writing a scene where one of the robots came up with their first song and the first thought to occur to me was an analysis of Paul Simon’s Sounds of Silence, a song which encapsulates youthful alienation in a strange, almost science-fiction image of people staring silently at a giant television. What if, I thought, I reversed the idea - a song which sounds deep and meaningful, but which is actually about something more mundane?

‘Have a listen to this,’ Keys called from the other side of the room. They turned to look at him as he stood in his little nest of keyboards. ‘It’s just a little something Ive been working on.’
He began to play a simple arpeggio with his left hand on one of the keyboards. Then, as he brought in a more complex string sound with his right he began to sing. Ben had never heard a robot sing before - he’d always assumed that they would sound like one of the heavily synthesised robot voices that had been popular with human bands some years earlier, but Keys’ voice was pure and clear, with only a slight ring on the sibilants betraying its robotic origins.
It was, however, the lyrics that caught his attention. Singing in mournful tones, Keys speculated about standing around, listening to nothing and wondering what was out there. The song caught something in Ben. He didn’t know what it was, but the notion of what it meant to be heard and not to be seen seemed somehow to resonate with him. Was there, he found himself wondering, really a difference within or without? Keys sang a second verse and closed with a gentle reprise of the opening arpeggio, then waited expectantly for comment.
The band stood in awed silence. Eventually, Riff spoke.
‘Deep,’ he said.
‘Almost bottomless,’ said Vid.
Keys nodded appreciatively. ‘Just something I came up with today,’ he said. ‘I call it Listening to Nothing. It needs a couple more verses, really.’
Ben managed to gather his thoughts together to add his opinion ‘It’s amazing,’ he said
‘You think so?’
‘Totally. I mean… its like the most amazing portrayal of human isolation Ive ever heard.’
‘Isolation?’
‘All that stuff about standing alone in your own world. Anyone would think youd been human in a previous life.’
Keys looked at him blankly. ‘Is that what you thought it was about?’
‘You mean it wasnt?’
Keys shook his head. ‘No.’
Ben looked suddenly concerned. ‘It wasnt? What was it about, then?’
‘Packing cases.’
‘Packing cases?’
Riff nodded. ‘I get it,’ he said.
‘I don’t,’ said Ben.
Vid’s face displayed a smile as he turned to the human. ‘You remember what we were saying about robot brains?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, when they make robots, they go through certain elementary learning procedures before theyre shipped to a buyer. Since switching the robot off would erase all that learning, the robots are left on when theyre in transit.’
‘And that’s what its like,’ said Keys. ‘You just stand in your packing case and think. I started to wonder if there were other robots out there doing the same thing.’
‘Same here,’ said Riff.

As I wrote this, inspiration was touching me in more than one way. As I finished the end of the writing session, I found myself reaching for a guitar. The song came more or less in one rush. This recording from 2008 changes very little from the original, if a little from the song as described in the book…

Just a quick hello to whoever is listening (nobody yet, I’m sure). Visit regularly or subscribe to the RSS feed for news about author Andrew Fish, the Erasmus Hobart books and other literary projects.