Black Gate

“There are three things I have learned never to discuss with people… religion, politics, and the Great Pumpkin.”
– Linus, Peanuts

Linus may have been right, but I’ve never been one to follow sensible advice. So today, I’m going to talk about religion in fantasy.

Religion is a touchy subject for some people, but it’s long been a tradition in the genre to create fictional deities and use them in a variety of ways. From Tolkien’s Silmarillion to the extensive pantheon of Stephen Erikson’s The Malazan Book of the Fallen series, fantasy is rich with mythology.

Whenever I begin to brainstorm ideas for a new novel or series, one step of my world-building is to imagine what sorts of religions will be present and how they shaped their societies. I have to ask myself questions such as: do the gods actually exist? If so, do they personally intervene in the lives of the characters? Does prayer possess temporal power? What is the role of religion in the daily lives of the common people?

These questions have vast ramifications for the story world. Even if the deities are unable or unwilling to directly intervene in the lives of mortals, the mere presence of belief will shape (or appear to shape) events. And if the deities actually answer the prayers of their adherents, that opens up all kinds of possibilities, which in turn should alter the structure of faith organizations. Just look to the history of Europe during the Middle Ages, when religion affected the politics and practices of great nations, and then imagine how powerful those priesthoods would have been if they could perform regular miracles, like ensuring bountiful harvests for the faithful or restoring the dead to life.

And what if the gods can physically manifest in the story world? How does that alter humanity’s relationship to the supernatural?

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As it happens, this line isn’t needed where it appears. We’re watching a movie and we can see for ourselves how tall Luke Skywalker is.

But imagine that we’re reading the screenplay or a novel. That one line tells us quite a bit. That troopers are usually tall. That Luke isn’t.

For a really brilliant example of how this works in a novel, consider Tom Holt’s Expecting Someone Taller. Without even opening the book, readers immediately know something about the main character’s appearance: he’s shorter than anyone expects.

I thought I was finished with exposition in my last post – or as finished as a writer ever is when talking about the elements of writing. But then I realized that, in a way, description is a particular form of exposition, just as necessary, and just as likely – yes, I’ll say it – to be skipped, or at least skimmed, by readers if it’s too long.

And description, like other forms of exposition, carries its own peculiar difficulties. What I’d like to talk about this week is how characters, especially main characters, are described. You know, what they look like, not their personalities.

[Aside: Is a fictional character an object? In giving them human characteristics, are we indulging in personification?]

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A long, long time ago, I wrote my first novel. This was decades before I would get published. I was fresh out of college with grand ideas about how my book would set the fantasy world on fire. The story featured a main character that was half human and half elf, who set out to defend his elven kin from a nation of hostile orcs.

Yeah, I know. Not exactly groundbreaking. I’m thankful that novel was never published, more because of the shitty writing than the plot or characters. Yet, it brings up an interesting debate within fantasy literature.

Are races like elves, dwarves, orcs, and goblins fair game for modern fantasy?

Now, off the cuff, I’m inclined to say yes. You can write about anything you desire. Who am I to judge, right? However, while that may be the politically-correct answer, a little more digging turns up some complex issues for the modern writer.

My first introduction to those “classic” fantasy races was Prof. J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings saga, and it was continued in my formative years via games like Dungeons and Dragons and Warhammer Roleplay. Growing up on a diet of elves and orcs, it was little wonder that I choose to feature them in my own early writing. I suspect that most authors begin by emulating their literary idols, but eventually you need to break away and find your own brand of storytelling. It’s difficult to find your voice when you’re playing in someone else’s sandbox.

But what about authors who genuinely want to write about these races? Here’s why I would advise against it.

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Not a lot of exposition in that type of ending, was there? Didn’t tell us much of what happened “after” – which actually turned out to be quite handy, when you consider the number of writers who have gone on to tell that “after” tale. Take Jim Hines and his Princess Novels, for example, where we learn the true, ever-after fates of Cinderella, Snow White, and Sleeping Beauty.

We no longer see much of that type of ending, perhaps because when that phrase was used more often than it is now, there was an understanding of what “after” meant, and what “happiness” was, that removed the need for any further details.

What I’m really talking about here, of course, is that old story structure chart we were taught in school, the action that rises to the climax, followed by the denouement. Where “climax” is defined by “the point at which you know how the story ends” and “denouement” is defined by “what happens after that point” – or, as we might call it, the final exposition.

We’ve all had the experience, when discussing a movie or a book with our friends, of finding that some of us want the “final” explanation, the wrap up after the climax, and some of us are satisfied that we know what happens “after,” without having it spelled out for us.

The fact is that often where you as the writer want to stop isn’t where readers want you to stop – or so my editor tells me. In my own case, with my first novel, The Mirror Prince, I had what I thought was the perfect spot to end the story. Both my agent and my editor told me that I had to tell a little bit more, that the readers would want to know what happened after.

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