Tag: myth

Writing About Tricksters

I’ve talked about tricksters before, and nine months later, I realize I have more to say.

Tricksters are fascinating to read about and to write about. They’re the weirdos who exist on the fringes of polite society. They’re the ones who can get away with what other people can’t. They’re stick their tongues out at the world and make the rules work for them, rather than working according to the rules.

Tricksters are fun. They’re fun because, deep down, don’t we all enjoy seeing someone willing to say what we’re all thinking and doing what we wish we could? Tricksters are escapist characters. They pay back the jerks and the bullies, outwit the corrupt authority figures, and flout senseless and silly rules. We all enjoy our Robin Hoods and B’rer Rabbits.

Writing tricksters is fun, too. Writing the character of Hermes for my books has let me see the world from a different point of view. I suppose writing any character gives you such insights, but seeing the world through a trickster’s eyes …

They’re a surprisingly philosophical bunch. As characters whose primary role is to push boundaries and alter the status quo, they are naturally prone to questioning the point of things. Why are things the way they are? Why should (or shouldn’t) they change? Tricksters are the ones who can call out others for their actions and make the rest of the cast pause and think. And that makes for interesting writing. The archetype can fill all sorts of niches, whether the villainous anarchist, the secret mentor, the voice of reason, or the snarky smart aleck who gets all the best lines.

And then, of course, there’s the trickster as protagonist. Tricksters can carry a story all by themselves. By their very nature, they’re proactive. They get things done. The can save the day (or ruin it – protagonist doesn’t mean hero). Since the archetype is almost always transgressive in some way, he or she gets to give society a kick in the pants, usually by acting so outrageously or cunningly that nobody knows what to expect next.

Speaking of cunning, writing tricksters has also taught me a bit about plotting out, well, plots. I sometimes feel like we live in an age of fiction where schemes and trickery must be excessively complex. Writers like to create grand conspiracies, when a trickster is just as likely to tap you on one shoulder while standing on the opposite side. Committing a trickster like Hermes to the page has shown me that deception can be much simpler. Tricking people doesn’t really seem to be that hard. Often, it’s just a matter of reading people and playing up to expectations. Or remembering that most people just want today to be the same as yesterday and aren’t expecting to be hoodwinked. Then again, written characters also behave according to how the author has plotted them to behave, so maybe I’m just blowing smoke.

So, tricksters upend the social order. They slip into different roles with ease. They’re many things to many people. What they aren’t is moral, upstanding role models.

But …

What if a trickster tries to be moral? Is such a thing possible? Trickery is lying, and lying is immoral. Can you reconcile the trickster archetype with the hero archetype? Transgressing social values and upholding them? Can the two be melded? A liar with a moral compass? Can a trickster follow right and reject wrong? Can anything truly good come from trickery?

Very interesting philosophical musings, indeed. I’m still messing about with such notions in my writing. My version of Hermes is developing as I go, revealing new facets of his personality as my works progress. Tricksters aren’t simple characters, after all.

If you just so happen to be enjoying my blog, feel free to subscribe. I post updates on my writing career, I muse over storytelling and fiction, and I reflect on the curious and wonderful things in life.

My first book, A God Walks up to the Bar, is available on Amazon.com. Witness the modern day adventures of the Greek god Hermes in a world much like our own – and with demigods, vampires, nymphs, ogres, and magic. The myths never went away, they just learned to move on with the times. It’s a tough job, being a god!

Delving into the Unreal: Fantasy and Social Commentary … or Lack Thereof

Don’t let the title scare you away. I’m not talking about specific politics or social issues. Rather, this is about how fantasy can be a tool for analyzing society undercover. That is to say, the fantasy genre gives authors a knack for talking about real life without actually talking about real life.

Now, the fantasy genre isn’t real, obviously. That’s kind of the point. However, fantasy’s detachment from reality can give it a very unique perspective on the world we do live in.

This comes, I think, from the fact that the fantasy genre can be used to observe elements of our world by substituting real groups, issues, events, or locations with fictional analogues. These same analogues allow readers to perceive them more objectively than if they were the real thing. Real-life issues tend to get our defenses up, consciously or not, and we let our own biases color our lenses. Fantasy equivalents are, well, fantasy, so we don’t view them in the same way, even if they are equivalent to the same social issues that otherwise get our hackles up. It’s a bit of a literary trick, really.

Whether or not a writer gets their message across to the audience depends on two things: One, whether the readers recognize the subtext, and two, whether they connect the subtext with the correct issue. Yes, we must trust our readers to infer what we want them to infer. And sometimes, alas, they don’t. All writers reach a point where their authority dies, and their readership draws its own conclusions independent of the author’s intent. So, you might very well have been writing a hard-hitting social critique using elves and pixies, but the audience comes away thinking it was about the virtues of natural conservation rather than the consequences of war.

On the other hand, maybe your story has no message. You just wanted to write something fun and light. Yet, for some reason, readers are convinced there’s a hidden meaning buried in your writing. Tell me, dear reader, what is the message of Little Red Riding Hood? Is it just a story about a girl and her grandma who are eaten by a wolf, then saved by a woodsman, end of story? Or is it about:

The dangers of nature

Man’s triumph over nature

Listen to your parents

Pay attention to the task at hand

Don’t trust strangers

Rebirth from death into a better person

A metaphor for puberty

A metaphor for sexual predators

A metaphor for rape

A metaphor for how people read sex into everything

Axes are useful for killing animals

If you think a wolf looks like your grandmother, you really should buy glasses

And so forth.

Maybe we don’t really know for sure? Maybe there is no analogy, but there is applicability. Applicability is a very different animal. It is the reader’s independence of the writer and ability to view the story through their own lives and beliefs. In short, they see the story as matching their own notions.

Or maybe, we’re just thinking too hard about it all.

If you just so happen to be enjoying my blog, feel free to subscribe. I post updates on my writing career, I muse over storytelling and fiction, and I reflect on the curious and wonderful things in life.

My first book, A God Walks up to the Bar, is available on Amazon.com. Witness the modern day adventures of the Greek god Hermes in a world much like our own – and with demigods, vampires, nymphs, ogres, and magic. The myths never went away, they just learned to move on with the times. It’s a tough job, being a god!

Image: “Dave Checking out the Perseid Meteor Shower at 10,000 feet“; Dave Dugdale; Licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0.

Myths in the Modern Day

Myths have been around a long time. They’re old. Really, really old. Like, carved-onto-stone-walls-inside-pharaohs’-tombs old. Or even, predates-written-language-altogether old. But if they are so old, why do we still study them? Heck, why can any movie aficionado and bookworm recognize characters like Heracles, Apollo, Thor, Osiris, Gilgamesh, and Amaterasu? And why do we still enjoy them even if we know how the story ends?

After all, we know Heracles will slay the Hydra. And we know for a fact that most of the Norse gods will die in the world-ending event known as Ragnarök. Osiris is killed and cut to pieces by his traitorous brother Set, but no worries, because Isis will put him back together and bring him back from the dead. And here’s one you may have heard before: Saint George slays the dragon and rescues the fair princess. Sound familiar?

Every culture, every nation, every people share something in common, and that is the archetype. Every nation throughout history has a Hero, the valiant warrior who slays the monster, saves the city, rescues the princess, defeats evil, etc. Often with enchanted weapons and other gifts from the gods and/or other supernatural forces. That Hero almost always has a Mentor who guides them along the way. The Mentor’s death is an optional bonus (the world “mentor” is an interesting case of word evolution. It originated from Homer’s Odyssey, where Odysseus’ son Telemachus receives advice as he grows into a young man from a trusted old friend whose name is – Mentor).

And there’s the Trickster, the Lover, the War God, the Love Goddess, the Hunter, the Dragon, the King, the Queen, the Rival, the Fool, the Prophet … Yup, they’ve all been around since roughly the same time that dirt was invented. Stories are repeating patterns being retold over and over and over.

Doesn’t mean they aren’t fun, though. After all, we wouldn’t tell the same story if it didn’t entertain us. Or affect us in some special way that breaks through language and culture. We identify with archetypes. We’re brought up to recognize the patterns and know what sort of story we’re being told. We know who to root for, who to boo at, and how the story is supposed to end. We know that Perseus will slay the monstrous Medusa, whose gaze can kill, and that Susanoo will slay the great eight-headed serpent Yamata no Orochi, but we’re still on the edge of our seats with anticipation. We know that the Trickster will, through bumbling and cunning, give humankind something that will benefit it: Maui fishes the islands of Hawaii out of the sea, Hermes invents the lyre and gifts it to his brother Apollo, Robin Hood always steals from the rich to give to the poor.

These stories are universal. They speak to basic needs and wants. The dragons of our lives can be defeated. Justice can be obtained. There is a reason why things are the way they are. Mythology is universal, and therefore, it withstands the tests of time. We are still enamored with the ancient tales of the Greeks, the Norse, the Japanese, the Egyptians, the Native Americans, and many more.

That’s not to say that stories are static. They don’t freeze and refuse to change. Sensibilities and cultural mores are constantly shifting, and archetypes are reinvented to suit the times. Heracles was a buffoon and hedonist in the old stories, did you know that? A bit of an idiot, and a hotheaded one, too. He killed his music instructor in a fit of rage. Not very heroic, eh? But take a look at Disney’s animated film, and see a hero who is much more ideal for our modern times. Here is a Heracles (or Hercules, his Roman name) who is gentlemanly, selfless, and clear-cut good. A far cry from his original incarnation, but it’s still recognizably the same character.

But let’s go a bit further. Heracles the super-strong, who slays monsters and thus protects civilization from their predations. Give him a desire for justice and peace, evolve him a bit. He’s a demigod, right? He’s otherworldly, part of something beyond normal human experience. Maybe he’s from another world altogether? An alien, but one who is on humanity’s side. Unstoppable, invincible, and one who represents the values of the culture that tells his stories. Give him a new name. Let’s call him – Superman!

I may be reaching with that last paragraph, but you can see where I’m coming from, right? Superheroes are modern myths. Or, perhaps, just the old myths with a new coat of paint. The Flash wears a winged helmet and is a swift runner – not unlike Hermes. Green Arrow is an expert archer – Robin Hood? Or perhaps a male Artemis. Batman is flat-out called the Dark Knight, and the black knight motif is very old, indeed. And what better villain for a noble knight who upholds social order than a maddened jester who calls himself the Joker? And the Mighty Thor is, well, Thor.

The old formula gets tweaked constantly. The myths endure, the basic structure is always the same, and on some level, from years of exposure to the stories in one shape or another, we recognize the underlying patterns. But that doesn’t stop storytellers from playing with the formula. In point of fact, taking apart an archetype to see what really makes it tick, or just disassembling them to bare all the flaws, is as much a part of modern storytelling as the straightforward “hero slays the dragon” gimmick. Maybe we like to question the status quo. Maybe the Hero isn’t so heroic. Maybe the Trickster is just an idiot who got lucky. Or maybe the world has just gotten cynical and doesn’t believe in heroes anymore.

But that’s okay, because eventually we’ll get tired of cynicism. We’ll get tired of heroes who aren’t heroic and evil triumphing over good. It doesn’t sit well, does it? People want someone they can trust to destroy the big bad evil. So, we get tired of having our favorite characters deconstructed and start crying out for the old stories to be played straight again. Played by the book, just like the stories we learned as kids. And eventually, after a couple generations, we’ll get tired of the same old, same old, and want to see someone mess with the pattern again. And so on and so forth.

Archetypes are resilient. They withstand all this reinvention and deconstruction. Take a god like Hermes and put him in the modern world, and he’ll thrive. Oh, sure, his fashion sense will be different, and he’ll be a little more savvy with modern tech, and he’ll be carrying a lot more experience and maybe a tad more maturity (maaaaybe…), but he’s still Hermes the Olympian god, the Trickster. He knows who he is. And we do, too. We know him down to a tee. His face is plastered on pottery, and his biography is thousands of years old. We know the pattern of his story. If there’s one thing humanity has become an expert in, it’s understanding the patterns of archetypes. Their stories aren’t going away anytime soon.

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