Tag: storytelling

Urban Fantasy is … What, Exactly?

Urban fantasy is a hot genre right now. You see works labeled as such in stores, sold on Amazon, talked about in online forums. But what IS it, anyway? Well, as someone who is writing a book that falls under the urban fantasy genre, I thought maybe I should dedicate some time to explaining my take on things. After all, words are just words until they’re explained, and genre names get bandied about too casually as it is.

You got two words, urban and fantasy. Okay, let’s break that down. “Fantasy” is magic and the supernatural and things that can’t be explained by science. Dragons and wizards and monsters and such. “Urban” is cities and industrialization and modern technology. So, urban fantasy is … fantasy in a city?

Merriam-Webster.com defines urban fantasy as follows: A genre of imaginative fiction featuring supernatural characters or elements in an urban setting.

So, fantasy in a city.

That seems a wee bit limiting, don’t you think?

In my humble opinion, the name is a misnomer. “Urban” is misleading. This is a genre that encompasses far more than just metropolises and towns. What about fantasy stories in a tiny hamlet in midwestern America or rural England? What about a story that takes place on a ship at sea, or in a forest cottage? I propose my own revised definition, because as an aspiring writer who hasn’t even been published yet, I’m TOTALLY qualified to do that, heh, heh.

Urban Fantasy: Any work of imaginative fiction featuring supernatural characters or elements in the modern day.

That’s a good start. It’s broader, but still succinct. But it’s missing something. It’s still not quite right.

There are plenty of fantasy works that take place in modern day that aren’t technically urban fantasy. Take Harry Potter, for example. Sure, the series takes place in the modern era, but its primary setting is so far removed from our mundane existence that it could be mistaken for a straight fantasy. Rarely do the supernatural elements interact with the “real” world. Sometimes, sure, but it’s not the core of the setting. Compare this to, say, The Dresden Files, which features the supernatural interacting with real life on a more consistent basis. In a pure urban fantasy, the magical and mundane collide regularly.

That’s the fun of the genre. Two disparate worlds clashing and coexisting. Goblins and fairies living alongside soccer moms and salarymen. The contrast is the striking and memorable part of urban fantasy. It’s like driving down a busy street and seeing uniformed men on horseback trotting past you.

“Queen’s Guard | Changing of the guard on horseback” by jikatu is licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0.

So, here’s a revised definition. Urban Fantasy: Any work of fiction that features supernatural and magical elements juxtaposed with real life in the modern day.

That sounds a bit better, doesn’t it? We’re getting at the themes of the genre. How does magic exist alongside the real world? Does the fantastical hide itself, or does it live alongside what the readers recognize as normal? How do the two sides interact?

“Urban” fantasy covers a far broader range than its name suggests. My hope is that anyone who decides to pursue this genre, either for consumption or to create their own stories, won’t feel constrained by the label.

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My Characters are Alive and Won’t Listen to What I Tell Them

Me when I start a writing session, ignorant of the defiance I am about to face Image by mohamed mahmouse hassan licensed under CC0
Me when I start a writing session, cocky and ignorant of the defiance I am about to face …
Image is licensed under CC0

So, I sit down, turn on my computer, pull up my story file, and start writing. All is well. What will I have my characters do today? Dialogue. Action. Characterization. Building a world from words. I’m king of this world. Everyone has to do what I say. Right?

Hang on. Why did Bob say that? I didn’t tell him to say that! Who does Bob think he is? I didn’t write him to be such a jerk!

And why is Tiffany suddenly a lot snarkier than I imagined her? And since when was Arnold so philosophical? I’m writing a thrilling adventure, not an excuse to sit around and contemplate our navels!

It’s happening again. My story is coming alive before my very eyes. And it does not recognize my authority.

It happens to the best of us. We outline our work, we prepare, we research, then we sit down and actually start writing – and it all gets away from us. Scenes don’t play out the way we planned them. Characters put words in our mouths, rather than the other way around. The story shifts and rumbles, it wakes up, and our creation becomes a living thing. IT’S ALIVE!

But how can this be? How can the imaginary have a will of its own?

Don’t look at me. All I know is that I had no idea Hermes liked tequila when I started writing A God Walks Up to the Bar.

They start talking to you, these characters. They start telling you their likes and dislikes, their hopes and fears. And when you acknowledge that they are real people, or as close to real as is possible, you reach an epiphany. Your story is better for it. Like the journalist who sits down for an interview with questions prepared and is sidetracked by the subject’s fascinating anecdotes, the population of your created universe reveals new and tantalizing quirks that flesh it out.

And lo, the author is revealed to not be master of his creations, but a mutt tailing behind their antics
fox writing with a quill pen by 50 Watts is licensed under CC BY 2.0.

Still, it is somewhat bewildering when your story gets away from you. Even when your cast deigns to submit control back to you, you can’t always shake the feeling that you’re just along for the ride. You’re graciously being allowed to witness events as they unfold. A giddy experience, to be sure. I don’t entirely know what to expect when I begin a writing session. But doggone it, these folks need to have some respect! Stop pulling me off-track. We have a story to write! We have deadlines! I can’t be distracted by Alice’s unfolding tragic backstory and face the temptation of adding another 3,000 words! I’m writing genre fiction, not Les Misérables!

And so it goes. The writer lays the foundation, the characters give their input, I tell them what I want them to do, they push back, I push back, and somehow, out of this beautiful mess, a story is born.

I love being a writer.

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Finding Humanity in Greek Myth

Achilles was a paragon of ancient Greek heroes. He was nigh-unkillable, an unstoppable juggernaut on the battlefield, bloodthirsty, battle-hungry, feared and respected in equal measure. So, what did this warrior do when he ended up on the losing side of a quarrel with the Mycenaean king Agamemnon during the Trojan War?

He ran to his mommy to cry on her shoulder.

Yes, really.

For all its larger-than-life characters and some truly surreal stories, there is a basic spark of humanity in Greek myth. That’s why people love it, I think. Heroes fight and conquer, sure, but they also cry, get frustrated, get tired, and pine for their loved ones. They feel anger, joy, regret, fear, love, pride, and just about everything else. At their core they are, in fact, people. Just people. Like you and me.

Why do old myths endure? I believe it is because they share universal human themes that we empathize with, even when we’re looking at them from atop our perch in the 21st century. Who hasn’t wanted to find a shoulder to cry on after losing a bitter argument, like Achilles did? How can we not feel a twinge of sorrow for Orpheus, who, after journeying into the underworld to retrieve his beloved Eurydice, felt just that slightest bit of doubt on whether she would follow him back and risked a glance over his shoulder, dooming himself to lose her forever?

Beneath the layers of the fantastic are stories that are very much human. People experiencing the hard knocks of life. And like in real life, sometimes they triumph over adversity … and sometimes they don’t.

The funny thing is, the Greek gods have as much humanity in them as the humans they rule. Perhaps a bit too much, even. It make sense, because to the ancient Greeks, the gods were just people with special powers and their foibles and strengths cranked up till the knob broke off. When they get angry, they get VERY angry. When they are generous, they are VERY generous. They flit between emotions with ping-pong frenzy, changing moods in an eyeblink. Unpredictable? Yes. Cruel? Absolutely? Relatable? Well, just maybe.

Are you familiar with the smith god Hephaestus? He’s famous for being lame and crippled. Do you know how he was crippled? When his mother Hera and Zeus got into a fierce argument, he tried to intervene on her behalf. Zeus angrily tossed him out a window and off Mount Olympos. He fell a whole day before hitting the ground.

Well, that’s one version anyway.

A single story filled with things we can all relate to: parental love, anger, good intentions gone awry, even the specter of domestic abuse.

Maybe the Olympians really are too much like humanity.

They certainly are subject to quite a bit of criticism by today’s standards, and for good reason . The gods of Olympos are a bunch of arrogant, vindictive, oversexed, brutal, vengeful jerks. Get on their good side, and they’re your best friend. Get on their bad side – and there are oh-so-many ways to do that – and they’ll make you suffer.

And yet, don’t we see shades of ourselves in them? Maybe our dubious opinions of the Olympians come from seeing all-too human qualities in them. Maybe we get nervous at the thought of what we would do if we had absolute power and few restraints. Were the ancient Greeks projecting their own worst and best traits onto Zeus and company? Were they trying to craft an ideal, one that was blurred by shifting moral mores and the clashing of many different city-states with their own opinions on what constituted a “correct” society. Or did they witness a thunderstorm, imagine Zeus throwing his lightning bolts, and imagine that a god must be like them but just a bit MORE in every way?

On a sidenote, did you know that the human brain is trained to recognize the basic features of the human face? Look at a cloud or a rock or a splash of spilled soda on the sidewalk. Look hard, and your mind will find some way to see eyes, a nose, and a mouth.

How is that relevant? It’s what the Greeks did to nature. They gave it a face. They gave it humanity. Zeus is the storm and the sky. Hephaestus is the fire of the forge. Poseidon is the ocean and the earthquake. And that is barely scratching the surface. Every natural element and abstract concept you can imagine had a personified figure. It made them easier to understand and relate to. It probably made them easier to worship, too, when you knew that the object of your devotion was more than a vague, amorphous divine glob. And what we relate to, we empathize with.

Empathy is a natural building block of storytelling. We don’t tell stories about things we don’t care about. This mythology that endured from the Bronze Age all the way into the 21st century is one that resonates with us. It carries the spark of universal appeal.

Greek myths speak to us. They stir up emotions in ourselves because those are the emotions the characters feel. Their experiences are our experiences. Heroes and gods overcoming monsters. The triumph of overcoming great challenges. Going to war. Family drama. Romance. Tragedy. Comedy. Life.

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