Why did you write a fantasy novel?
Seems a simple question. One (you’d think) a fantasy author ought to be able to answer quickly. And sometimes the answer comes naturally, over beers with friends and neighbors or facing down a few bemused strangers in a bar.
But when it’s just me, asking the question of the stillness in my office or the darkness before sleep, I find it’s not so simple.
Why did I write a fantasy novel?
Partly, I am what I ate. I’ve read fantasy for most of my life. From Animorphs to Arabian Nights, Goosebumps to Green Angel Tower, my blood has always stirred at the fantastic: Brian Jacques, Carol Berg, RA Salvatore, Jim Butcher, Patrick Rothfuss, Scott Lynch, Tad Williams, Robin Hobb, Ursula K. Le Guin – these names are electrodes on a battery that powered me through life.
Partly, I thought it would be easy: I’d knock out a simple story about pirates, secret treasures, and leviathans before moving on to more challenging fiction. One page a day for a year, and I’d have a 365-page banger I could toss up for a sail and let it carry me to greater things.
Fifteen years and five books later, I have a 488-page banger that burned every preconceived notion of ease on a pyre of humility.
But to take the question through its heart and pin it to the board…I write fantasy because it fits. It was our first voice – our earliest forebears crowded in the dirt around a fire, telling stories to help them understand the world through which they passed. They called the sun an eye because they couldn’t comprehend the atom. The wind was a sigh and the sea a fickle mistress. There was no veil between fact and fantasy—and who’s to say they were wrong? Take a good look at the proton and tell me you understand exactly how it works. Lie beneath the stars, stare into the infinite space between them, and explain the concept of forever. Walk the old forests at night, and see if you take comfort from that textbook explaining there are no gods or monsters.
There’s a common stigma attached to fantasy literature, that it is all escapism and foolishness. I’ve often found it to be the opposite; that in stories outlandish, whimsical, or impossible can be found some of the brightest and most imperishable truths.
During World War II, Tolkein and Lewis lectured regularly at Oxford on their works; an attendee named Helen Terrel Wheeler said of one afterward, “What happened in the great books was of equal significance to what happened in life. Indeed, that they were the same.”
Stories are lives, distilled.
And a life without imagination is no life at all.
So why did I write a fantasy novel? Today, the answer is simple.
Because it was fun.
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