What Makes and Excellent Fantasy Novel? Part 5 of 5: Evil We Can Believe In

Spoiler Alert: I'm using JK Rowling's Harry Potter series as an example of a great work of fantasy.  If you haven't read the books, there are major spoilers ahead!

Part 1: Making the Intangible Concrete

Part 2: There's No Free Lunch

Part 3: Villains We Can Relate To

Part 4: Measured World-Building

And today, Part 5!

“...as Dorothy L. Sayers once pointed out about the mystery genre, fantasy is one of the last bastions of “moral fiction.”  By this she meant that in mystery—and in fantasy—good triumphs over evil, the wrongdoers get their just deserts, and all ends, if not always strictly happily, at least well.  This is the definition of “moral fiction”: something that shows the world, perhaps not as it is, but certainly as it could and should be.”

-Mercedes Lackey

There’s a depressing amount of tragedy in the world.  And most of it, unfortunately, is complicated.  The more closely you look at an issue—any issue—the more complicated it gets, and intelligent, well-meaning people can disagree on the best approach to dealing with it.  Solutions aren’t just difficult to accomplish; they’re difficult to find in the first place.

In a fantasy world, things can be simpler.  In the Harry Potter series, taking out Voldemort and his Death Eaters is the clear, universally-agreed upon solution to stopping the wizarding war.  Don’t get me wrong, any good book, fantasy included, needs to be nuanced about its conflict or we’ll all get quickly bored.  There are plenty of cowardly, selfish and power-hungry characters in the series doing their part to make the world worse for complicated reasons.  But having that central, unequivocal evil to fix our sights on is satisfying.  We know who we’re fighting. 

Not only is the evil in fantasy easy to identify, it can form a “universal well” for sub-conflicts.  In Harry Potter, the mistreatment of house elves and muggle-baiting are tied to Voldemort’s pure-blood wizard fanaticism.  Barty Crouch senior, who sent his own son to prison, was driven to by fear of the escalating violence of the Death Eaters.  Even Dolores Umbridge, the power hungry over-zealous Hogwarts disciplinarian originally tied to the Minister of Magic, goes over to the dark side once the war begins.  I’m not suggesting that these people wouldn’t have found other ways to go bad in the absence of Voldemort, but even Harry recognizes that Voldemort is at the root of it all.  While recalling the fate the Neville Longbottom’s tortured parents and Barty Crouch’s imprisoned son, he thinks, “…it all came back to Voldemort….He was the one who had torn these families apart, who had ruined all these lives….”*

For the reader, this sort of convergence is, strangely, relieving.  The more closely we look at real world problems, the more complicated and nuanced they get.  The more closely we look at the problems in a fantasy universe, the more they all seem to lead back to the same place.  Just like I love a good romance novel for the guaranteed Happily-Ever-After at the end, I love a good fantasy novel for the guarantee that the Bad-Guys-Get-It-In-The-End.  What’s more, getting the bad guys actually gets something done.  It’s a respite to sink into a world where people can figure out the problems and then solve them.

That’s it for my “Elements of Fantasy” series.  What do you think?  Did I leave out one of your favorites?

*Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, p. 607

What Makes and Excellent Fantasy Novel? Part 4 of 5: Measured World-Building

Spoiler Alert: I'm using JK Rowling's Harry Potter series as an example of a great work of fantasy.  If your haven't read the books, there are major spoilers ahead!

Part 1: Making the Intangible Concrete

Part 2: There's No Free Lunch

Part 3: Villains We Can Relate To

One of my favorite parts of reading fantasy is slowly discovering the world of the book.  Sinking into a well-crafted world is the ultimate escape, and it adds tension and mystery to the story, keeping me guessing about what new aspect of the fictional universe I’ll discover next.  That’s why I think measured world-building—in any kind of novel—is so important.  How the secrets of the setting are revealed is just as important as what they are, and from what I can tell, there are three ways to build a fictional world: just do it, hint at the secrets and then fill in the gaps, or add complexity to previously-revealed details.

The easiest way to build a world is to just throw stuff out there.  J.K. Rowling does this with prophecies in The Order of the Phoenix.  Before the showdown in the Department of Mysteries, we don’t have much reason to suspect that prophecies exist.  Divination class is ridiculed by Harry and his friends, and the death omen Harry sees in The Prisoner of Azkaban turns out to be his godfather checking up on him.   All in all, omens and future-telling seem to be bogus, so when the existence of prophecies pops up on page 782, we’re just as surprised as the characters are.  The prophecies are a big deal, but I think this method actually works better with small stuff, things that add texture without impacting the plot overmuch. 

Of course, there are ways to hint at important information before revealing it, and this sort of “filling in the gaps” method of world-building can be very satisfying from the reader’s perspective.  We still get that delicious thrill of finding out something new, but because the author has been hinting at it, making a space for it, the reveal seems natural, almost inevitable.  Rowling does this sort of world-building with Horcruxes.

We know from Harry’s conversation with Hagrid in The Sorcerer’s Stone that Voldemort wasn’t killed by his rebounding curse, even though he should have been.  Hagrid says, “Dunno if he had enough human left in him to die.”*  Throughout the series, this ability of Voldemort to escape death is repeatedly alluded to.  Dumbledore says that Voldemort is not truly alive, and therefore cannot be killed.**  Voldemort himself refers to the steps he took to “guard [him]self against mortal death.”***  So, when we finally learn what a Horcrux is, it’s both surprising and not surprising at all.  We knew all along that something like this must exist, but there’s a lot of satisfaction in finally learning what it is. 

A much more difficult but highly satisfying way to build a world is to introduce a detail or aspect early on, and then have that aspect of the world build in complexity and importance as the story progresses.  Harry’s ability to speak Parseltongue is a fantastic example of this.  It’s the first magical ability we see Harry display, in Chapter 2 of The Sorcerer’s Stone.   At the zoo with his loathsome cousin, Harry talks to a python.  Rowling could have chosen anther way to introduce Harry’s magical abilities, but that fact that she chose Parseltongue is genius.

Harry’s ability to speak Parseltongue isn’t just a fun, texturizing detail.  It’s crucial.  He uses it again to uncover the Chamber of Secrets in book two, and at the end of that book, we learn that it is the result of Harry’s connection to Voldemort.  This connection takes on even more significance in The Order of the Phoenix, when Harry finds he is able to spy on Voldemort through the link.  In the final book, Harry uses Parseltongue to open and destroy the locket Horcrux, and he uses his window into Voldemort’s mind to find the remaining Horcruxes.  Something we starting out thinking was a funny magical talent turns out to be the result of a complex and dangerous magical connection, one that has huge implications for Harry’s ability to triumph.  A simple detail becomes more and more complicated—and important—as the narrative unfolds.

So, there they are, my three Ways of Worldbuilding: Just Do It, Build in Hints, and Build in Complexity.  What are your favorite ways to learn about a new world in a novel?

 

* Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, p. 57

** Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, p. 298

*** Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, p. 648

What Makes an Excellent Fantasy Novel? Part 3 of 5: Villains We Can Relate to

Part 1: Making the Intangible Concrete

Part 2: There’s No Free Lunch

Fantasy may be one of the few genres in which a true arch-villain is possible, someone who is purely evil and bent on the destruction of the world.  Political thrillers aside, not many other types of fiction can pull this off.  It’s one reason why I think fantasy remains popular: it’s comforting to step into a world where the bad guy is easy to identify.  There’s no grey area or nuance: Sauron is evil incarnate, and we’d better find a way to stop him.

That said, I’ve never been a fan of the “serial killer villain.”  You know the type, the villain with no motivation other than destruction and pain for its own sake.  It can be done well (Iago?), but more often than not, this kind of bad guy is just boring.  Far more interesting is the villain who wants something, whether it’s a candy bar or eternal life, and even more powerful is when that villain wants something I might want myself.  In other words, what makes a great villain is also what makes a great hero: relatability.

In Harry Potter, Voldemort is a compelling villain because even though he’s as evil as it gets, his desires are the dark side of our own.  He fears death—who doesn’t?  He wants power and control, the same thing every politician strives for.  Of course, unlike us normal folks, Voldemort has let his fears and desires control him, and he’s developed the resources to act on those desires.  He’s a rare and stunning example of a truly evil villain who maintains believable motivations.

I don’t think the series would work half so well, though, if it didn’t include such a rich array of sub-villains.  Rowling weaves in a ton of them, and not all of them want the same thing as the arch-villain.  They aren’t quite as evil, but they are more accessible.  If heroes exemplify what we most admire in ourselves, villains are reflections of the qualities we detest, and Rowling’s sub-villains do this beautifully, even going so far as to reflect the flaws of the heroes we’ve grown to love.  

For example, Dolores Umbrige’s controlling authoritarianism is Hermoine’s respect for rules gone terribly, horribly wrong.  Lockheart’s childish avarice for recognition echoes Ron’s dissatisfaction living in shadow of Harry and his brothers.  And the disrespectful Mundungus, who's not quite a villain, is a sad shadow of the rebellious Sirius Black, who's not quite a hero.  In the heroes, these character traits are mixed with courage and goodness, and so they lead to good things: Hermoine’s sense of justice, Ron’s loyalty, Sirius’s fearlessness in the face of danger.  In the villains, they become coldness, vanity, and selfishness.  Part of what makes these villains so powerful is that they reflect the ways we could go wrong, just like the heroes show us how to go right.

What do you think makes a good villain?

What Makes an Excellent Fantasy Novel? Part 2 of 5: There's No Free Lunch

∆E = 0

The law of conservation of energy.  It’s the first law of thermodynamics, one of the most important physical laws of the universe.   And just because there’s magic involved doesn’t mean we have to break it.

In a nutshell, the first law means that you have to end up with the same amount of energy you started out with—no more, no less.  If you burn a tank of gas, for example, the chemical energy in the liquid fuel is converted to kinetic energy (the motion of your car) and heat.  The energy contained in your sandwich might get turned into you running a marathon.  (Or, in my case, just sitting on the couch, but for longer.)

I’m not going to argue for total scientific realism in fantasy fiction (where’s the fun in that?), but I do think we can stick to the spirit of the law.  Supernatural powers ought to come at a price.  For example, in the first book of Stacia Kane’s Downside series, the price of summoning and controlling a particularly powerful ghost is a human soul.  Doesn’t get much creepier than that.  Even in the teen drama The Vampire Diaries, vampires who don’t drink human blood are weaker than their murderous counterparts. 

The price doesn’t have to be a human sacrifice: it can be something as simple as time.  In Harry Potter, just because the kids have magical abilities doesn’t mean they can snap their fingers and get whatever they want.  It takes years of study and practice before they can accomplish spells.  And there are limits.  Wizards can’t create food they don’t already have.

Supernatural powers get a little boring if they come too easily.  It's one reason I'm not a big fan of day-walking vampires.  When the bloodsuckers are confined to the dark and can't enter your home without invitation, it makes their creepiness more visceral, and their gift of immortality more limited. A paranormal gift feels more precious when it comes at a cost, whether it’s a character’s personal energy, the time it takes them to study and perfect their art, or some sort of sacrifice.  The alternative is too God-like to be interesting.

What's your favorite price for supernatural power?  

(P.S.  You can check out Part One of this series here.)

What Makes an Excellent Fantasy Novel? Part 1 of 5: Making the Intangible Concrete

What makes a work of fantasy excellent?

Unsurprisingly, this is something I think about a lot.  Over the past few years of writing (and the past twenty years of reading) fantasy, I've come up with the following list, and over the next month or so, I'm going to devote a post to each of the points.  I’ll use the Harry Potter books as examples in a lot of cases, because I assume everybody’s read them, because I’ve read each of them at least twice (usually more; I'm not kidding), and because I think they're masterpieces of fantasy literature.  (I could nerd out on why for an entire post, but I’ll save that for later).  In any case, here they are, The Elements of Excellent Fantasy:

1) Makes Concrete the Intangible Intrinsic

2) No Free Lunch

3) A Complex Villain

4) Measured World-Building

5) Taps the Well of Universal Conflict

Today, I'm going to talk about point number one:   Excellent fantasy takes something intrinsic to being human and moves it from the intangible realm to the tangible.

This is really just a fancy way of saying that fantasy functions as myth.  For the purposes of this discussion, I'll define a myth as a symbolic story used to express some deeper cultural meaning.  I don’t mean to suggest that fantasies ARE myths.  A true myth, like, say, the story of Prometheus, is purely symbolic in addition to being purely story, and most modern fantasy doesn’t quite meet the “purely symbolic” requirement.  Still, a good fantasy novel will tap into something we already experience, usually something slippery and confusing, and give us a means to look at it, understand it, and deal with it in a way we never, in reality, could.

Here's a very simple example of how the wizarding world of Harry Potter externalizes something intangible.  In Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, Mr. Weasley tells Harry about spells some unscrupulous wizards use to bewitch Muggles' keys:  

"...Muggle-baiting," sighed Mr. Weasley.  "Sell them a key that keeps shrinking to nothing so they can never find it when they need it....Of course, it's very hard to convict anyone because no Muggle would admit their key keeps shrinking--they'll insist they just keep losing it.  Bless them, they'll go to any lengths ignore magic, even if it's staring them in the face...."*

It’s funny, right?  Everyone's misplaced a key at some point, and we can nudge each other and laugh and say, “Oh, so THAT’s why I couldn't find it!”  The Muggle-baiting wizard's spell is an externalization of something internal:  human absentmindedness.   It’s a silly example.  But fantasy—good fantasy—is rich with big, important examples, too.  Take Horcruxes.

As a culture, we've agreed upon the idea that murder is a bad thing, and not just in the sense that it deprives another person of life.  It does something to the murderer, too, something irreparable.  Rowling made this idea concrete in the form of Horcruxes.  Not only does murder tear your soul, it enables you to remove it from your body.  In Voldemort's case, his soul is so little a part of his self that he doesn’t even realize it when one of the pieces is destroyed.  His actions have corrupted him past all human feeling; he has become soulless.  There are echoes of The Picture of Dorian Gray in this transformation, and in the gradual dehumanization of Voldemort’s appearance.  We can easily acknowledge that committing an evil act has consequences, but in a work of fantasy, those consequences can be felt and seen; they become a painting or an enchanted locket.  We get an object at which to direct our fear and confusion.

I've heard it argued that fantasy continues to be popular because it's escapist.  I don't think that's untrue--not exactly.  Escapism is great.  But we wouldn't keep reading fantasy to escape if it didn't also grab us in a deeper way.  Fantasy gives us a handle to help us understand ourselves and our world, in big ways and in little ones.  

Next week, I'll talk about another important aspect of fantasy fiction: There's No Free Lunch!

*from Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, by J.K. Rowling, p. 38.