The Myth of the Lone Genius: How Three Minds Built a Living Story
The experiment was the writing itself
When I set out to write On the Wings of a Pig, I didn’t expect to end up writing it with anyone else. The core idea was mine, born from years spent straddling the line between bioengineering and policy, steeped in existential frustration at how little attention we give to the collapse of the living world around us, and how much a lot of my conversations felt like science fiction. I had the science. I had the stakes. I had the vision. What I didn’t have was the patience—or the talent—for solo storytelling. At least, not for a novel of this scale.
Science fiction, as a genre, is often glorified as the domain of the singular genius. But in reality—just like science itself—it’s rarely done alone.
In research, we know this. Academic papers don’t have a single name on the byline; they have many. Whole sections are dedicated to acknowledgments. Credit, while still imperfect, is a discipline unto itself. In science, no one pretends to have done it all themselves.
But in fiction? That’s a different story.
Co-authorship is still viewed as a curiosity in the literary world, especially in the realm of “serious” novels. And editors, the invisible co-creators of everything you love to read, rarely get public credit beyond a thank-you note in the back. The myth of the lone author, pounding away in a cabin until genius arrives, is as persistent as it is false.
So here’s the truth: this novel would not exist without Sean Platt and Bonnie Johnston.
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Science Meets Story
When I first met Sean, I knew instantly that he was the right person to help bring this novel to life. He wasn’t just a prolific science fiction writer—he was someone who understood the kind of book I wanted to write before I even had the words for it. A story that wasn’t just speculative, but emotional. Not just futuristic, but familiar in the ways that make you uncomfortable. A book that would open the bioethical box—and force the reader to live in it. And when I pitched the idea to him, he immediately said:
Hell yeah, let’s do this!
We began with the premise—ecological collapse, genetic engineering, moral reckoning—and then built out the structure the way any great lab would run a new experiment: collaboratively.
Together with our editor, Bonnie, we worked on a detailed, chapter-by-chapter outline that mapped not just plot beats but emotional shifts. Worldbuilding wasn’t decoration—it was part of the thesis. Each setting, each piece of technology, each cultural fragment had to feel real enough to carry the weight of what we were trying to say. My role was to make sure the science worked. Sean’s was to make sure it felt like a story you couldn’t look away from.
Where I brought the raw science—the wet lab precision, the geopolitical stakes, the biological plausibility—Sean brought voice, character, and narrative propulsion. His instincts about pacing and tone kept the story from becoming a manifesto. My instincts about plausibility and consequence kept it from becoming pure fantasy.
But the secret weapon in the whole process? Bonnie.
The Editor as Ethicist
Bonnie Johnston is the kind of editor who elevates a project not by softening it, but by sharpening it. If Sean and I were the idea generators, the narrative tinkerers, Bonnie was the one constantly asking, “Do we really need to say this?” and, more importantly, “Are you saying what you think you’re saying?”
It takes humility to let someone hold up a mirror to your ideas and say, “This part rings hollow,” or “This character’s motivations don’t land.” But it takes even more skill to be the person who does it with clarity, consistency, and care.
Bonnie’s vision and edits didn’t just improve the book—they kept it honest made it shine. When we slipped too far into exposition, she reeled us back into character. When we waxed too long on policy or theory, she asked us what the people in the world would feel, not just what they would do.
And in that way, the editing process mirrored scientific peer review more than most people would imagine. Not adversarial, not bureaucratic—rigorous. Purposeful. Built on the belief that the idea is worth perfecting.
Science Is Storytelling
One of the most surprising things about this entire process is how similar it felt to the scientific method.
Start with an idea. Define your hypothesis. Build a structure to test it. Run the experiment (write the draft). Revise based on what didn’t work. Refine until it reveals something new. Publish.
There’s even data to support this. When I was in graduate school, I read a fascinating study showing that scientific papers written with strong narrative elements—clear stakes, narrative arc, emotional framing—were cited more often and had higher impact factors. Because here’s the secret most scientists won’t say out loud:
We’re human too. And no one likes reading boring stuff.
That’s why I reject the artificial divide between science and art. It’s a false dichotomy that limits what either domain can become. Science tells us what is. Art lets us imagine what could be. And when we do both together—honestly, with craft and curiosity—we get work that might actually change something.
Why It Matters
So much of our current moment is defined by polarization, not just politically but intellectually. We’re expected to pick a lane: scientist or storyteller, technologist or ethicist, innovator or skeptic, doomer or accelerationist. But the world isn’t divided that way, and neither are we.
This book is my attempt to collapse those walls. To show that you can be both rigorous and imaginative. That you can work in the Pentagon and write fiction about moral collapse. That you can build CRISPR models and still cry over a fictional character’s impossible decision.
And most of all, that you don’t have to do it alone.
The magic of On the Wings of a Pig came from the collaboration. From the willingness to say, “I don’t know how to do this part—can you help?” From the choice to build something together, rather than polish something in isolation.
That, too, is a kind of science. A social science of trust, humility, and co-creation.
And it’s the only reason this book exists.
See you next Friday.
—Titus