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Finding the North Star: fantasy writing

Fantasy is a unique genre, but not for the reason that many people assume.

There’s an idea that fantasy is exemplified by Tolkien, or George R. R. Martin – by dragons, chilly European castles, knights in plate armour and – let’s face it – white men on quests of derring do. That it’s all about the trappings. About what is generally called ‘world-building’.

This, to put it mildly, is not the case. It’s rather like saying that all crime fiction is about little old ladies solving murders in cosy village settings, or that all novels with a romance element are about haughty rich men and spirited heroines in the Regency era. Fantasy is as diverse as any other genre. In fact, it is perhaps the most diverse genre. World-building is a very important part of that, but it is not the North Star by which all fantasy authors must navigate.

If you pick up a novel marked ‘detective’ or ‘crime’, you’ll know that someone – or many someones – are going to die or go missing, or, perhaps, that something valuable will be stolen. One or more of the characters must solve this mystery and set the world back to its proper order. In any romance novel a couple will meet, undergo separation through internal or external forces, and eventually be reunited or parted forever. But what if I tell you I’m writing a fantasy novel?

The possibilities are infinite. You simply can’t know what’s in there. An apocalypse? A road trip? Magic? Religion? Grand battles or domestic drama? The plot of a fantasy may focus on romance, history, war, on personal transformation or a detective story of its own. Or none of these. What is unique about fantasy is that if an author applies this label to their work, then the world accepts it as such. And that means you can write nearly anything you want.

This is as exhilarating as it is terrifying.

I believe it is also the reason that, despite its long and noble lineage, dating as far back as humanity’s very first stories – such as the Epic of Gilgamesh, the story of the founding of China’s first dynasty, Greek and Norse myths – many people scorn the genre. A historical novelist once sniffed at me: ‘I have no interest in fantasy. When anything is possible I find everything boring’.

The writer had forgotten that even though each novel begins with nearly limitless possibilities, any single story within it must take, as its very first task, the definition of limits. This goes for historical novels as much as fantasy. It’s always the writer’s primary job to discover what their story is truly about.

So how do I come up with a setting, with magic, with conflict and with characters for my fantasy worlds, where there are so many limitless possibilities confusing and tempting me?

For me, all stories are about characters. This isn’t the case for every writer, of course: some are primarily motivated to write by settings or cultures they wish to invent or explore, or by a plot or a central dilemma they want to play with, by some detail of history. But for me, writing begins when a few of the myriad of character traits which are always floating around in my head collide in an unexpected way and fusion occurs. A new character flares to life, steps forward and speaks:

‘There is a monster in the forest.’

‘I never knew my mother’s name.’

‘In my dreams, the wolves come for me.’

The first line that a new character speaks in my head nearly always becomes the first line of the work in progress and eventually the book, although there have been exceptions.

This part always feels quite magical to me, and I tend to believe that the price for it is the next part, which is not at all magical. This, returning to my earlier point, is figuring out what the story is actually about. Of course it will be about my character, in the sense that it will describe the events involving them — but what I actually mean here is something broader.

The thesis.

There’s a notion that themes, messages, theses — are bad for fiction. The overarching ideals contained in a story are things for readers to work out. Artists should write what’s in their heart and let the world decide later what they actually meant by it. But I find I can’t get anywhere with a story, let alone produce a beginning, middle and ending amounting to 100,000 words, unless I have some idea what the point of it all is. And there’s always the danger that if you don’t actually know what you’re trying to say, you might say something you didn’t mean to.

But first I need to understand my protagonist’s lie. The fatal flaw within them that will be central to their arc of evolution within the story. Why? Because it will tell me the story’s truth. The central idea I need to help my character – and my readers – understand before the end. This is, you’ve guessed it, what I mean by ‘thesis’.

Let’s say that the partially developed character who presents themselves to me is dreaming about running from wolves. In the dream, the landscape they flee across is one of ice and snow. The dream is the key to them. They are ragged with fear and weariness. They never settle in one place for long. They have no one. They’re searching — but for what, they don’t know.

The character’s lie is: I don’t belong anywhere and I don’t deserve a family. So the story’s thesis must be: you can find a place to belong and a family, if you have the courage to stand and fight for them.

It’s a moment of much internal rejoicing for me, because now those infinite possibilities are beginning to flicker and fade in the distance, and I’ve glimpsed the North Star. The character’s life so far has been defined by running away from their fear, and their lie.

I must take away this character’s ability to run.

And now is when the glory of fantasy writing really illuminates the heavens of my imagination. Because I have the power to create the exact setting which will do this job. I begin rifling through my internal Rolodex of settings that I have loved, and then dive into my collection of nonfiction books on geography, and my large pile of BBC documentaries on various interesting settings in the real world. I begin to study geological features which can be used to build the sort of settings I require. Settings which make it perilous or impossible to run.

How about hills? Forested hillsides filled with leopards and bears. Slopes so steep that in order to be farmed they must be terraced. Deep gorges with fast moving rivers at their bottoms. And above, snowy, treacherous mountains. Now my character is going to find it extremely hard to run without falling to their death or tripping over a nasty hazard which may eat them.

This part – constructing a landscape, naming rivers, cities, mountains and nations – is the kind of world-building that many people immediately imagine when they hear ‘fantasy’. But this is still all in service of character, and so rather than get too carried away with my imaginary landscapes, I remind myself that there needs to be more happening in the book than just a fantasy setting. Because you can still run even at a walk.

I need to imagine other external forces which could prevent them – prevent her – from following her lifetime habit of disappearing at the first sign of trouble or conflict.

I look again at my character. I begin to get an inkling that this heroine is fighting an internal battle between the two sides of her nature – who she really is, and who she thinks she is. A battle between her perception of herself as cowardly and unworthy and the reality that she is brave and kind. I like this theme: a theme of contrasts, opposing sides that constantly seek to destroy each other. Like a war. A civil war.

Here’s where the plot begins to take shape. When my heroine enters this new and unfamiliar landscape which forces her to slow to a walk for the first time, she will stumble into a civil war. She will be caught again between the two sides. She can’t escape, so she must either pick a side – stand and fight – or watch the people involved be destroyed.

My setting and my main character are taking shape, and I need to begin to imagine and construct the two sides in my civil war, taking care to illustrate points of commonality and divergence between them. I also need to come up with specific plot events that will allow these two sides to clash again and again, nearly dashing my character to pieces between them.

But while I’m doing all this I’m still fleshing out the character, learning more about her and bringing in more influences to give her depth. As a folklore and fairytale enthusiast, this means archetypes. And this story seems to draw quite a lot to mind. I think about Cuchulainn and Beowulf, heroes with a dual nature — a civilised side and a bestial one. What if my main character’s personal struggle were similar to this? What if she was unable to control a berserker rage that was in direct opposition to her true nature?

In many versions of Cuchulainn’s story, he is torn between two great loves — his wife, and a queen of the fairies, or a wild warrior maiden. Perhaps my heroine, too, could be torn between two great loves, one who is grounded in her past, and the other who beckons her toward a different future?

Now she will be caught in the middle emotionally and physically. But, once again, because this is a fantasy it’s possible to go further. And there’s a niggling in the back of my mind that tells me it should.

Most of the great heroes with dual natures owed some part of that dual nature to the intervention of uncanny forces, fairies or old gods. And as soon as I think this, I realise that in a story about opposing sides it would add the perfect final layer to make the heroine’s soul a battleground between old gods and new. What if her berserker rage came from an ancient god, a dark god of ice and snow, a god of wolves — and in entering the conflict in this new country, the heroine has drawn the attention of a newer god, a goddess of warmth, wisdom and fire? They both want her for their own, and they might rip her apart between them if she doesn’t choose.

By this point the setting, situation, relationships and archetypes are all set to drive my protagonist to her breaking point, forcing her to grow and change. To reject the lie and learn the story’s truth. And because she’s tangled up with other people as part of that journey, her transformation will change them too. And if a lot of people in the middle of a battle are changed, then the course of the fight will be. And when the course of a civil war is changed, so is the entire country.

When other people read this book they may say that it’s about racial oppression, war, courage, a love triangle, or a berserker. And it is. But it is the North Star – the notion of a character who must be to taught to stop running, to stand and fight in order to find a family and a place to belong – which has guided me faithfully through all the teeming possibilities of my story to a place where, at last, I’m ready to begin writing.

This is how writing fantasy works for me. I discover – or am discovered by – a character, and then construct everything around my understanding of the journey they need to undergo. But I believe that this process works no matter what motivates you to begin work. Simply discover your North Star, the one thing you are utterly invested in exploring – whether that is a character, a dilemma, a plot twist, a world or a culture – and use that to navigate through all the limitless possibilities presented to you by your imagination.

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