Tag: J.R.R. Tolkien

Fantasy from A to Z: C is for Conan

Before there was J.R.R. Tolkien, there was Robert E. Howard. And before there was Middle Earth, there was Conan the Barbarian and the Hyborian Age.

Robert E. Howard had an amazingly prolific writing career, cut tragically short by his suicide. When I think of all the books and stories we could have had if Howard had not shot himself in grief after the death of his mother, it fills me with a profound sense of loss (and makes me want to rewatch the excellent biopic about him—or more accurately, his girlfriend—The Whole Wide World). I love Howard’s fantasy stories—not just the ones about Conan and his adventures, but the ones about Bran Mak Morn, Kull of Atlantis, Solomon Kane… honestly, he wrote so many stories that I have yet to exhaust them all. 

But my favorite are the stories about Conan the Barbarian, who is undoubtedly his most famous literary creation. Over the course of the last century, Conan the Barbarian has taken on a life of his own, with dozens of writers taking a stab at writing stories in the Cimmerian’s world. My favorite of these is probably John Maddox Roberts, though I have a soft spot for L. Sprague de Camp. Harry Turtledove also wrote an excellent Conan novel, Conan of Venarium. 

In a lot of ways, Robert E. Howard’s Conan stories set the standard for modern fantasy—or at least for the sword & sorcery strain for it. Tolkien later established the epic fantasy strain, and you can make a solid argument that every other successful fantasy book is derivative of one or the other (or both). Where the epic fantasy strain tends run super long, with novels in the 200k word to 400k word range, the sword & sorcery strain tends to run much shorter, with many of the original Conan stories clocking in at under 10k words. In fact, from what I’ve gathered, until Lord of the Rings became popular in the 60s and 70s, most readers thought that the natural length of a fantasy story was under 10k words.

For the Conan stories, that’s probably true—or at least, under 40k words, since many of Howard’s original novellas are quite good. My favorite of his is probably either “The Tower of the Elephant” (perhaps the most classic Conan story) or “The Black Stranger,” which had a very interesting Mexican standoff between three stranded pirate captains that Conan totally blows up. I also really enjoyed “Iron Shadows in the Moon,” mostly because the female love interest gets an interesting and satisfying character arc. The crucifixion scene from “A Witch Shall Be Born” was really great, too, and of course, the brutal savagery of “Red Nails” made a really big impact—though since that was the last Conan story Howard wrote before he shot himself, it has a very dark edge to it.

Howard only wrote one Conan novel, and to tell the truth, I wasn’t particularly impressed by it—it just felt like a generic Conan story, padded with a bunch of filler to increase the length. But I did really love Conan the Marauder by John Maddox Roberts, where Conan rises through the ranks of a horde of nomadic tribesmen, starting as their slave and eventually becoming the right-hand man of the Hyborian age’s Genghis Khan. The two major villains of that book had exceptionally satisfying deaths, and the writing was almost as pulpy and glorious as Howard’s writing itself.

After you’ve read all the original Conan stories, you really should watch The Whole Wide World. It’s a wonderful film about the only woman Howard ever loved, his on-again off-again girlfriend Novalyne Price, and their turbulent relationship. As a writer, I really appreciated the glimpse that the movie gives into the life of the author himself—and on how some of his eccentricities as a writer mirror my own. Thankfully, though, my family life has been much more stable. I don’t blame Novalyne Price for rejecting Howard, but I am very thankful for my own wife and children. My own writing changed dramatically when I became a husband and father. I can only imagine what wonderful stories we would have had if Robert E. Howard’s life had taken a similar path.

The book I’ve written that comes closest to matching the mood, theme, and action of a typical Conan story is probably The Riches of Xulthar. It isn’t nearly as good as the original Conan stories, but I do think it compares favorably against some of the later knock-offs. The idea for it came when I was playing around with ChatGPT and asked it to write me a fantasy adventure story in the style of Robert E. Howard. Things took off from there. Riches of Xulthar was my first AI-assisted novel, though after using AI to generate the rough draft, I rewrote the whole book to put it in my own words, which is the process I use for all of my AI-assisted books. If you’re interested, you can do a side-by-side comparison between the AI draft and the human draft on my blog. 

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Fantasy from A to Z: B is for Battles

One of the things about fantasy that I love the most are the epic battle scenes, where the good guys and the bad guys face off across the field of battle in a conflict that will determine the fate of everything they hold dear. My favorite scene in the Lord of the Rings movie trilogy is the ride of the Rohirrim, where Theoden comes to the aid of Gondor and gives his rousing speech before his men charge into the fray, shouting the battle cry “death!”

I feel like the big set-piece battles are more common in older fantasy, which drew a lot more from J.R.R. Tolkien and Robert E. Howard. Many of these older fantasy writers, including C.S. Lewis and Lord Dunsaney, were drawing from history as they told their stories and created their worlds—specifically, the old-fashioned understanding of history, where the things that mattered most were the clash of civilizations and the great men at the head of those civilizations. 

In some ways, it’s good that we’ve moved to a much more holistic view of history, but there really is something to be said about those battles where everything stood on the edge of a knife, and the course of the next thousand years was decided in a single day. When I read about the numerous times the Muslim invaders were turned back by the Theodosian land walls of Constantinople, it takes me back to the siege of Minas Tirith and the Battle of Pelennor Fields. When I rewatch the scene from Gettysburg where Lawrence Chamberlain leads the charge of the 20th Maine, it stirs something deep within me that, outside of historical military fiction, I have only ever found in fantasy.

Tolkien and Howard were both really great at writing epic battle scenes, but the best, in my opinion, is David Gemmell. His debut novel /Legend/ is one of the most soul-stirring depictions of war that I have ever read. More than anything else, it captures the deep sense of meaning, purpose, and love that comes from staring death and the face and deciding which things (or which people) are worth dying for. In the words of Mel Gibson from Braveheart: everybody dies, but not everybody really lives.

The military aspect of fantasy tends to appeal more to male readers, which is probably why it’s more common in old-fashioned fantasy. Some subgenres like grimdark have preserved it, but with the rise of subgenres like romantasy and the increasing gender divide within publishing, it’s been dying out (not the least because of all the other baggage that grimdark brings, which I will discuss in G is for Grimdark vs. Noblebright). 

Call me old-fashioned, but I much prefer the rousing battle scenes from Tolkien, Howard, and Gemmell to much of the stuff that is coming out today. Will the market swing back? If and when it does, I hope to be a part of that. I don’t always put epic battle scenes in my books, but when I do, those are the authors who inspire me.

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Fantasy from A to Z: A is for Archetypes

I love fantasy books. I love the sense of adventure and possibility that I feel from reading a good fantasy story. I love how the best ones transport me to worlds untainted and unpolluted by modernity, rich in their own history and culture. I especially love it when these worlds are populated with characters who I feel could be my friends, their stories told in such a way that I almost feel I know them better than I know myself. 

Every literary genre is defined by the primary emotions they are supposed to evoke in the reader. Thus, romance is all about the emotions associated with love and longing, horror is all about the emotions associated with fear and dread, mystery is all about the emotions associated with discovery and making sense of the world, etc. 

Fantasy and science fiction are the two major divisions of the speculative fiction genre. The way I like to think of them is like two sides of the same coin. Both are defined by the sense of wonder they evoke, but where science fiction tends to be oriented toward the future, fantasy is oriented toward the past. 

To me, this is the biggest thing that distinguishes fantasy from science fiction: the deep, almost nostalgic yearning for a long-forgotten past. This goes much deeper than superficial aesthetic details, such as the idea that if your story has trees, it must be fantasy, but if it has rivets it must be science fiction. Trees hearken back to a world before the modern era, when we lived much closer to the rhythms of nature. Rivets, on the other hand, hearken to a world utterly reshaped by human technology and engineering.

But if this is the case—if fantasy is all about a nostalgic yearning for a lost, pre-modern age—why does so much fantasy take place in a world that is not our own? Yes, if you read the lore for J.R.R. Tolkien’s Middle Earth and Robert E. Howard’s Hyborean age, you eventually learn that these worlds are supposed to be far ancient versions of Earth—but no one thinks or cares about that when they’re reading the stories. And these days, most fantasy worlds don’t even try to pretend that they have a connection with Earth. So how can they possibly channel that sense of nostalgic yearning?

Through archetypes.

“Type” is another word for symbol, and “arch-” is a prefix meaning the chief or principle thing. Thus, an “archetype” is the chief or principal symbol of a thing, such that every real-world example of that thing is a manifestation of its archetype. 

It’s kind of like the inverse of a stereotype. When we stereotype someone, we mentally categorize them based on superficial characteristics like race, gender, age, etc, purposefully ignoring the things that make them different from other people. We start broad and go narrow. Archetypes, on the other hand, start narrow and go broad. The archetype of a hero slaying a dragon can be taken to represent anything from confronting childhood trauma to overcoming a deep-seated addiction—or something completely different. 

The dragon starts off small, hatching from an egg, but if it is not slain when it is young and non-threatening, it grows into something huge and fearsome and almost impossible to slay. It also guards a horde of treasure, which can only be won by slaying it. Does that remind you of anything in your own life? If the story is told well enough, it should, because of how it points to certain universal truths. A problem that isn’t solved when it is small will often grow until it is almost impossible to solve. The greatest reward can often only be gained by doing the most difficult thing.

The best fantasy books use archetypes to evoke that sense of wonder that defines the genre—and because these archetypes are so timeless, they often evoke a sense of familiarity and nostalgia. In the best books, they also imbue the surface-level story with deep layers of meaning, making it a rewarding experience to come back and reread it again.

I love stories that are full of meaning. But in order to be truly meaningful, a book shouldn’t set out with a specific message in mind. Rather, the best books use well-constructed archetypes to resonate with the ideas that the author wants to explore—and often, the readers will draw conclusions that the author never consciously intended. To me, this is the hallmark of the best kind of fantasy book—and of archetypes done well.

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Short-form vs. long-form fantasy

For the last month, I’ve been doing a lot of research into the fantasy genre, rereading all of the original Conan the Barbarian stories by Robert E. Howard and a bunch of the other ones too, by authors like L. Sprague De Camp, Lin Carter, Bjorn Nyberg, Robert Jordan, etc. I’ve also been reading a lot of epic fantasy, like the Wheel of Time series by Robert Jordan and the Stormlight Archive by Brandon Sanderson. And I’ve also read some essays on the genre, most notably “The Critics, the Monsters, and the Fantasists” by Ursula K. Le Guin, and “The Making of the American Fantasy Genre” by David Hartwell. Oh, and opening a bunch of chats with ChatGPT, though those are of limited usefulness (for some reason, ChatGPT hallucinates like crazy when you ask it to recommend any noblebright fantasy that isn’t more than two or three decades old).

From what I’ve gathered, there are basically two camps or schools within secondary-world fantasy: the heroic / sword & sorcery camp, based off of Howard’s Conan the Barbarian, and the epic fantasy camp, based off of Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings. According to David Hartwell, those are the only two franchises to achieve breakout success: everything else has either achieved only moderate commercial success in its time before petering out, or gained only a niche audience. Apart from Conan, the fantasy genre as a whole didn’t really take off until Terry Brooks immitated Tolkien with his Shannara series, thus launching a wave of Tolkienesque epic fantasy in the 70s and 80s that morphed into Grimdark in the 90s, 00s, and 10s.

So for a while, I was looking into all the various tropes and archetypes that make Conan and LOTR tick, and trying to use those to differentiate the two. But lately, I’ve been wondering if maybe I’ve been overthinking all of this, and the real difference between the two is that Tolkien mastered long-form fantasy, and Howard mastered short-form fantasy. In other words, what if the defining difference between the two camps doesn’t have to do with tropes so much as with the length of the actual story?

I suspect that short-form fantasy is poised to make a resurgence, especially with all of the challenges associated with writing and selling long-form fantasy in the 2020s. Larry Correia is right: Rothfuss and Martin have ruined the epic fantasy field for new authors by failing to finish their series in a reasonable timeframe. Unless you are independently wealthy or already have a large and loyal following of readers, it just doesn’t make commercial sense to write a lengthy series of +200k-word fantasy epics. Better to write shortier, punchier 40k-word novels instead, especially if you can churn them out every other month or so. That seems to be the model that works best for indies, at least in adjacent genres like urban fantasy and paranormal.

Anyway, that’s my current thinking on the subject. What’s your take on it?

Chat GPT Writes Fantasy in Various Authors’ Styles

Generic (no author style specified):

Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, there was a brave knight named Sir William. He was renowned throughout the kingdom for his valor, loyalty, and unwavering sense of justice. One day, a dreadful dragon named Gorthor, known to terrorize the kingdom, descended upon the land, spreading fear and destruction wherever it went.

Princess Elara, the fair and kind-hearted daughter of King Roland, was taken captive by the fearsome dragon and locked away in a tower atop a treacherous mountain. The king was devastated, and his subjects lived in fear of the dragon’s wrath. But Sir William, hearing of the plight of the princess and the suffering of the kingdom, knew that he had to act.

With his sword in hand and armor gleaming in the sunlight, Sir William set off on his quest to slay the dragon and rescue Princess Elara. He journeyed through thick forests, crossed raging rivers, and traversed treacherous mountains, facing numerous challenges along the way. But he was undeterred, for his determination and bravery were unmatched.

As Sir William approached the dragon’s lair, he could feel the scorching heat of its breath and hear its monstrous roars echoing in the distance. Undeterred, he marched forward, steeling himself for the battle ahead. The dragon emerged from its lair, its scales gleaming with malice, and attacked with its fiery breath and razor-sharp claws.

Sir William fought with all his might, dodging the dragon’s flames and striking with his sword. The battle was fierce and intense, with the ground trembling from the dragon’s fury. But Sir William refused to back down, fueled by his desire to save the princess and free the kingdom from the dragon’s tyranny.

With a mighty swing of his sword, Sir William struck a fatal blow to the dragon, piercing its heart. The dragon let out a deafening roar before collapsing, defeated. The kingdom rejoiced as the news spread that the dragon had been slain.

Sir William ascended the mountain and unlocked the tower where Princess Elara was held captive. She greeted him with tears of joy, thanking him for his heroism. Sir William was captivated by her beauty and grace, and he knew that she was worth every battle he had fought. They descended the mountain together, hand in hand, as the kingdom welcomed them with open arms.

King Roland was overjoyed to be reunited with his daughter, and he honored Sir William for his selfless bravery. The princess and the knight fell in love, and they were wed in a grand ceremony attended by the entire kingdom. Sir William became a legend, with songs and tales of his courage and valor echoing throughout the land.

And so, Sir William and Princess Elara ruled the kingdom with wisdom, fairness, and compassion. They lived happily ever after, and the dragon Gorthor became a distant memory, a tale of a brave knight who slayed the beast and rescued the princess, eternally cherished in the hearts of the people.

In the style of Brandon Sanderson:

Sir William, a knight hailing from the planet Scadrial in the cosmere, embarked on a perilous quest to defeat the dreaded dragon Gorthor and rescue Princess Elara, daughter of King Roland of Alderia. Armed with an Allomantic steel spike, Sir William utilized his enhanced physical abilities to navigate through the treacherous terrain and fend off beasts of the wilds.

As he journeyed through the dense forests of Alderia, Sir William encountered a mysterious old woman who revealed herself to be a Feruchemist. She gifted him with a metalmind that stored strength, fortifying his resolve for the challenges ahead. With newfound determination, he traversed raging rivers and scaled towering peaks, all while tapping into the stored strength in his metalmind to push beyond his physical limits.

Upon reaching the dragon’s lair, Sir William faced Gorthor in an epic battle of steel and flame. His Allomantic steel enhanced his agility, allowing him to dodge the dragon’s fiery breath, while his Feruchemical strength empowered him to wield his sword with unmatched prowess. The battle was fierce, and Sir William drew upon every ounce of his Allomantic and Feruchemical powers to gain the upper hand.

As the fight reached its climax, Sir William tapped into his metalmind to deliver a devastating blow, piercing Gorthor’s heart and vanquishing the dragon. But the victory came at a cost, as Sir William’s metalmind was depleted, leaving him weakened and vulnerable.

Princess Elara, who had witnessed the battle from her prison in the tower, rushed to Sir William’s side, tending to his wounds with her Healing powers as a Lightweaver from Roshar. Her radiant abilities mended his injuries, and their connection grew stronger as they bonded over their shared experiences.

With Gorthor defeated and Princess Elara freed, Sir William’s deeds spread across the cosmere, earning him the admiration of other Knights Radiant from different planets. He and Princess Elara returned to Scadrial, where they were wed in a grand ceremony attended by representatives from various worlds in the cosmere.

Together, they ruled Alderia with wisdom, fairness, and compassion, drawing upon their combined knowledge and abilities. Under their leadership, the kingdom flourished, and the people hailed them as legends in their own right. Sir William’s tale of courage and sacrifice spread far and wide, becoming a part of the cosmere’s history and inspiring future generations of Knights Radiant to rise up and protect the realms from the forces of darkness.

Little did Sir William know that his encounter with Gorthor was not a mere coincidence, but a ripple in the greater tapestry of the cosmere’s interconnected realms. The dragon’s appearance was but a symptom of a greater threat looming in the shadows, a threat that would require Sir William and Princess Elara, along with their newfound allies from across the cosmere, to join forces and face the challenges that lay ahead in order to safeguard all of creation.

In the style of George R.R. Martin:

In the grim realm of knights and dragons, where honor and loyalty were scarce commodities, Sir William’s tale took a darker turn. As he battled the dragon Gorthor, the creature’s claws tore through his armor, leaving him with grievous wounds that festered with infection. Princess Elara’s efforts to nurse him back to health were valiant, but the scars that marred Sir William’s body were a constant reminder of the brutal reality of their world.

As they returned to King Roland’s castle, they found themselves embroiled in a web of political intrigue. King Roland, swayed by the whispers of cunning advisers, questioned Sir William’s motives and cast doubt on his intentions. Rumors spread like wildfire, painting Sir William as a threat to the kingdom rather than a hero. Princess Elara, torn between her love for Sir William and her loyalty to her father, found herself caught in the crossfire.

In the shadows, enemies lurked, seeking to undermine Sir William and seize power for themselves. Betrayal came from unexpected quarters, as allies turned against him, driven by their own ambitions and greed. Sir William’s once staunch allies dwindled, leaving him isolated and vulnerable. He realized that the dragon’s defeat was only the beginning of his struggles.

Princess Elara, torn between her duty to her father and her love for Sir William, faced her own battles. Her father’s health deteriorated, and his advisers vied for influence, manipulating her at every turn. She learned that the dragon’s capture had been part of a larger conspiracy, and she had to navigate a treacherous path to uncover the truth and protect her kingdom.

As tensions mounted, Sir William and Princess Elara found themselves at odds, torn apart by conflicting loyalties and the machinations of those who sought to undermine them. The kingdom descended into chaos, and war loomed on the horizon. Sir William, once a celebrated hero, became a hunted man, forced to go into hiding as he sought to clear his name and unravel the web of deceit that threatened to tear the kingdom apart.

With each step, Sir William faced new dangers and encountered foes both familiar and unexpected. His once noble cause had become a desperate fight for survival, as he struggled to stay one step ahead of those who sought his downfall. Princess Elara, torn between her love for Sir William and her duty to her kingdom, had to make impossible choices that would forever change the course of their lives.

In the end, Sir William’s fate was tragic. Betrayed by those he trusted, he fell in a final, desperate battle, his legacy tarnished and his name forgotten. Princess Elara, heartbroken, was forced to pick up the pieces and carry on, forever haunted by the choices she had made and the cost of power and politics.

And so, in the realm of knights and dragons, where honor and treachery walked hand in hand, Sir William’s story became a cautionary tale of the perils of ambition, the fleeting nature of glory, and the harsh realities of a world where even the bravest of knights could fall victim to the darkness that lurked in the hearts of men. The dragon’s defeat had been but a fleeting moment of triumph, swallowed by the relentless tide of intrigue and betrayal that plagued the kingdom.

In the style of Robert E. Howard:

The sun sank low, casting shadows that seemed to crawl across the rugged terrain as Sir William ascended the perilous mountain path. His armor weighed heavy, but his resolve burned hotter than the dragon’s breath that he knew awaited him at the peak. Legends of the fearsome beast, Gorthor, had spread like wildfire, and the princess, Elara, held captive in its lair, was in dire need of rescue.

Sir William’s sword gleamed with deadly intent, the only companion he needed as he pressed on, his mind focused on the task at hand. His steps were measured, his senses keen, as he navigated the treacherous trail that wound higher into the mountains. The dragon’s roars grew louder, a savage symphony of primal rage that set Sir William’s blood boiling.

Finally, he reached the dragon’s lair, and the beast emerged in all its terrifying glory. Its scales glinted with malice, its breath a searing inferno that scorched the air. Sir William met the creature head-on, his sword slicing through the air with the precision of a seasoned warrior.

The battle was brutal, a clash of steel and flame that shook the very foundation of the mountain. Sir William’s sword danced with deadly grace, finding its mark again and again, but the dragon was a formidable foe. Its claws slashed through the air, and its fiery breath threatened to consume Sir William. Yet he fought on, his eyes blazing with determination.

With a mighty swing of his sword, Sir William struck a fatal blow, piercing the dragon’s heart. The beast let out a monstrous roar, its lifeblood staining the ground. Sir William stood victorious, his chest heaving with exertion, his armor spattered with dragon’s blood.

He made his way to the tower where Princess Elara was held captive, the door creaking open to reveal her tear-streaked face. She rushed into his arms, and Sir William held her close, their relief palpable. The princess’s gratitude shone in her eyes, and Sir William’s heart swelled with a sense of accomplishment.

As they descended the mountain together, they were met with cheers from the kingdom. King Roland embraced his daughter, and Sir William was hailed as a hero. He and Princess Elara ruled the kingdom with wisdom and courage, their bond deepening with each passing day. Sir William’s name became a legend, spoken in awe by those who heard the tale of the knight who had slain the dragon and rescued the princess from its clutches.

The dragon Gorthor was vanquished, but Sir William knew that danger lurked in every shadow, and that new adventures awaited. He would forever be remembered as the hero who had stared death in the face and emerged victorious, his legend destined to live on in the annals of history as a testament to the indomitable spirit of a true warrior.

In the style of Ursula K. Le Guin:

Once upon a time, in a world shrouded in mystery and magic, Sir William, a knight of noble birth, heeded the call of duty and embarked on a quest to confront a fearsome dragon named Gorthor. Clad in his armor of polished steel, he rode forth with his sword gleaming in the pale moonlight, driven by a sense of purpose that burned like a fire within him.

As he journeyed through the wilderness, Sir William beheld the beauty of the land he swore to protect. The ancient trees whispered ancient wisdom, and the rivers sang melodies that echoed through his soul. He encountered creatures both fantastical and fearsome, yet he remained steadfast, for his heart was set on saving Princess Elara, the beloved jewel of the realm.

At last, Sir William reached the foot of the mountain where the dragon’s lair was said to be hidden. The air crackled with an otherworldly energy, and the mountain loomed ominously, as if guarding a secret known only to the stars. With measured steps, Sir William ascended the treacherous path, his senses heightened, his sword at the ready.

The dragon Gorthor, with scales that shimmered like midnight stars, emerged from the shadows, its fiery breath casting an eerie glow in the darkness. The battle that ensued was a dance of danger, a symphony of steel and flame. Sir William moved with grace and skill, dodging the dragon’s onslaught while striking with precision, his heart pounding with every swing of his sword.

But the dragon was cunning, its movements as swift as the wind, and it tested Sir William’s resolve. The knight faltered, feeling the weight of the challenge before him. Yet, in that moment of doubt, he found strength in the memory of the princess he sought to rescue, and he pressed on, determined to prevail.

With a final, mighty swing, Sir William’s sword found its mark, piercing the dragon’s heart. Gorthor let out a mournful cry and crumbled to the ground, its once fearsome form reduced to mere ashes. Sir William stood victorious, but his heart was heavy with the weight of the battle.

He ascended the mountain to the tower where Princess Elara was held captive. As he opened the door, he beheld her, a vision of grace and courage. Her eyes shone with gratitude as she embraced him, and Sir William felt a warmth spread through his chest, a feeling he had never experienced before.

Together, they descended the mountain, hand in hand, their hearts intertwined. The kingdom rejoiced at their return, and King Roland greeted them with tears of joy. Sir William and Princess Elara wed in a ceremony that united the realm, their love a beacon of hope in a world often fraught with darkness.

They ruled with wisdom and compassion, their reign marked by fairness and justice. The memory of the dragon Gorthor faded into legend, a cautionary tale of the consequences of greed and tyranny. Sir William and Princess Elara’s legacy lived on, a tale of valor and love that inspired generations to come.

And so, in the annals of history, the tale of Sir William and Princess Elara, a knight and his beloved, passed into legend. Their names were spoken in hushed whispers, their deeds woven into the tapestry of folklore. For in a world where darkness lurks, the light of courage and love will always shine, a testament to the enduring power of the human spirit.

In the style of J.R.R. Tolkien:

In the time of yore, when shadows loomed and darkness encroached upon the realm, there arose a valiant knight known as Sir William of the House of Evergreen. Clad in armor that bore the markings of ancient lore, and wielding a sword forged in the fires of the dwarves, he set forth on a perilous quest to vanquish the dragon that had plunged the land into fear.

Through ancient forests and across mist-shrouded moors, Sir William journeyed, guided by a vision of a fair princess, Elara, whose heart was pure and whose soul shone like a star in the night sky. He faced daunting challenges along the way, from foul creatures that lurked in the shadows to enchanted barriers that sought to impede his progress. But his resolve remained unshaken, for he bore in his heart a sense of duty and a steadfast determination to set things right.

At last, Sir William reached the dragon’s lair, a desolate peak shrouded in darkness and wreathed in smoke. The dragon, known as Gorthor the Dread, emerged from the shadows, its scales glinting with malevolence, and unleashed a torrent of fire. Sir William stood firm, his shield raised, and his sword gleaming with the light of the stars.

A battle of epic proportions ensued, as Sir William faced the dragon with unwavering courage. He danced and dodged, his sword slashing through the air with the precision of an elven blade. The dragon’s fiery breath and mighty talons tested his mettle, but he fought on, his eyes fixed on the dragon’s heart, the only vulnerable spot.

With a resolute swing, Sir William struck a decisive blow, piercing the dragon’s heart and bringing it down with a roar that echoed across the land. The dragon’s flames faded, and Gorthor the Dread fell, defeated. The realm rejoiced as news of the dragon’s demise spread far and wide.

Sir William ascended the towering peak where Princess Elara was held captive, her beauty shining like a beacon in the darkness. Her eyes were filled with tears of gratitude as she embraced him, and Sir William’s heart swelled with joy. Together, they descended the mountain, hand in hand, amidst cheers and celebrations from the grateful people.

King Roland, overjoyed at the safe return of his daughter, bestowed upon Sir William the highest honors, and the knight was hailed as a hero throughout the realm. He and Princess Elara were wed in a grand ceremony that united the kingdom in jubilation.

Sir William and Princess Elara ruled with wisdom and compassion, bringing a new era of peace and prosperity to the land. Their story was woven into the tapestry of legends, a tale of valor, love, and sacrifice that echoed through the ages. And so, the name of Sir William of the House of Evergreen, the dragon slayer, and his beloved Princess Elara, the fair and kind-hearted, were revered in the annals of history, a beacon of hope for all who heard their tale.

…and as a poem in the style of J.R.R. Tolkien:

In the days of yore, when shadows fell,
And dragons roamed o’er hill and dell,
A knight of noble heart and might,
Set forth to face a fearsome plight.

Sir William, with his sword so bright,
And armor gleaming in the light,
Embarked upon a perilous quest,
To slay the dragon, cursed and blessed.

Through darkened woods and mountains high,
He traveled with a steadfast eye,
His heart filled with a solemn vow,
To save the princess, here and now.

With each step, danger lurked near,
As whispers echoed in his ear,
And shadows danced with eerie grace,
Testing his courage in that dark place.

But onward he pressed, undeterred,
His sword at hand, his soul unblurred,
For he was driven by a dream,
Of a princess fair, and her heart’s gleam.

At last, he reached the dragon’s lair,
A cavern filled with smoke and glare,
And there he stood, so brave and bold,
Facing the dragon, fierce and cold.

Gorthor, the beast with scales of fire,
Roared and breathed a seething pyre,
But Sir William stood firm and strong,
And sang a song, a valiant song.

With blade and shield, he fought the fight,
As sparks and flames lit up the night,
His sword struck true, his aim was keen,
As he battled the dragon, fearsome and mean.

And then, with one final strike,
He pierced the dragon’s heart alike,
Gorthor fell, defeated and still,
His fiery breath no longer ill.

With victory won, Sir William climbed,
The tower where the princess chimed,
Elara, fair as morning light,
Embraced him, tears of joy so bright.

Together, they descended down,
To a kingdom that had lost its frown,
King Roland and his people cheered,
As the dragon’s threat had disappeared.

In wedded bliss, Sir William and Elara,
Ruled with wisdom, fair and clear,
Their love a beacon, a guiding star,
For all who sought hope, far and near.

And so, their tale was passed along,
In songs and stories, old and strong,
Of a knight who slayed a dragon dire,
And a princess whose heart was pure fire.

In the style of Terry Pratchett:

Once upon a time, in a land that had an unusually high number of hills, but a suspiciously low number of dragons, there lived a knight named Sir William. He was known far and wide for his impressive mustache, which was as bushy as a hedgehog and just as prickly, and his uncanny ability to always find the silver lining in the darkest clouds.

One day, the peaceful kingdom was thrown into turmoil when a fearsome dragon named Gorthor decided to drop by for an extended vacation. The dragon’s arrival was met with panic and chaos, as it had a penchant for hoarding treasure and breathing fire on anyone who dared to challenge it. Princess Elara, who had a knack for getting into trouble, found herself captured by the dragon and locked away in a tower that had seen better days.

Sir William, armed with his trusty sword, which he had affectionately named “Whisker,” knew that he couldn’t let the kingdom fall into chaos. With a determined gleam in his eye and a flask of tea at his side, he set off to rescue Princess Elara and rid the kingdom of the dragon’s fiery antics.

As he made his way to the dragon’s lair, Sir William encountered all sorts of peculiar creatures, from talking trees who dispensed cryptic advice to mischievous fairies who played pranks on him. He even had a humorous exchange with a grumpy troll who demanded a toll for crossing a bridge that was barely held together with twigs and string.

When he finally reached the dragon’s lair, Sir William was met with a blast of scorching flames and an impressive display of tail-whipping. But he didn’t let that dampen his spirits. With a quick thinking and a little help from a magically enchanted umbrella that he had acquired from a whimsical wizard, Sir William managed to outwit the dragon and land a well-aimed strike with his trusty sword.

The dragon, startled by the unexpected turn of events, let out a surprised yelp and flew off into the sunset, leaving a trail of glittering treasure in its wake. Sir William wasted no time in rescuing Princess Elara, who was delighted to see him and grateful for his heroic efforts.

As they made their way back to the kingdom, Sir William and Princess Elara were met with jubilant cheers from the kingdom’s inhabitants. King Roland, relieved to have his daughter back safe and sound, bestowed upon Sir William the title of “Chief Dragon Trouncer” and declared a day of feasting and celebration in his honor.

Sir William and Princess Elara, who had developed a mutual admiration for each other’s wit and bravery, fell in love over cups of tea and their shared love for a good pun. They got married in a ceremony that was as joyous as it was hilarious, with the kingdom’s inhabitants regaling each other with tales of Sir William’s daring exploits and clever comebacks.

From that day on, dragons thought twice before venturing into that kingdom, for they knew that they would be met with a knight whose sword was sharp, and whose wit was even sharper. Sir William and Princess Elara ruled the kingdom with kindness, humor, and an unwavering sense of justice, and they lived happily ever after, with plenty of tea and puns to keep them entertained for the rest of their days. And the dragon Gorthor? Well, it decided to take up a career in stand-up comedy, regaling audiences with tales of the knight who had managed to outwit it with an umbrella.

The Generational Cycles of Grimdark vs. Noblebright

A couple of months ago, I was discussing genre trends with my indie publishing mastermind group where we drew some fascinating connections between grimdark fantasy, noblebright fantasy, and Strauss-Howe generational theory. In that discussion, we came up with a theory that predicts when each type of fantasy (grimdark, nobledark, noblebright, and grimbright) will be ascendant, and explains exactly why. According to this theory, grimdark is currently in the beginning phase of a multi-generational decline, and will be replaced by noblebright as the ascendant form of fantasy by about the mid-2030s.

To start, we need to understand the difference between grimdark and noblebright. Both forms of fantasy exist on a field with two axes: noble vs. grim and bright vs. dark.

The bright vs. dark axis describes whether the fantasy takes place in a world where good usually triumphs over evil (bright), or a world where evil usually triumphs over good (dark).

The noble vs. grim axis describes whether the characters have the power to change the world (noble), or whether they do not (grim).

Thus, with these two axes, we get the following combinations:

  • Noblebright: A fantasy world where good usually triumphs over evil and the characters have the power to save it.
  • Grimbright: A fantasy world where good usually triumphs over evil, but the characters aren’t on a quest to save it and are usually preoccupied with smaller concerns.
  • Grimdark: A fantasy world full of moral shades of gray, where evil usually triumphs over good and the characters are either anti-heroes or otherwise fail to save the world.
  • Nobledark: A fantasy world where evil usually triumphs over good, but the characters are empowered to change it.

These categories are subjective to some degree, and fans will often disagree about which category to put each book/series. However, I think that most fans will agree on the following examples:

  • Noblebright: The Chronicles of Narnia by C.S. Lewis
  • Grimbright: The Princess Bride by William Goldman
  • Grimdark: A Song of Ice and Fire by George R.R. Martin
  • Nobledark: Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien

Next, let’s review in the broadest possible terms William Strauss and Neil Howe’s generational theory. To really understand their work, I highly recommend that you read The Fourth Turning. I have some criticisms of the finer nuances of that book, but their ideas are really excellent, and their predictions hold up surprisingly well three decades later.

If I had to boil their theory down to one simple, easy-to-understand statement, it would be this:

Strong men create good times.

Good times create weak men.

Weak men create hard times.

Hard times create strong men.

Thus, our society and culture passes through a secular cycle that takes about 80-100 years to complete (or in other words, the length of a long human life). The cycle has four seasons, or turnings, each one corresponding to a generational archetype (since it takes about 20-25 years for people born in the one turning to start having children of their own, thus moving us into the next generational turning).

The first turning happens when the society comes together after resolving a major crisis (eg the Revolutionary War, the Civil War, World War 2) and builds a new, stable order. The second turning happens when their kids rebel against that order, seeking freedom (eg the First and Second Great Awakenings, and the various counterculture movements of the 60s). The third turning happens when the order breaks down completely and everyone goes their own way (eg World War I, the Roaring Twenties, and the culture wars of the 90s). Finally, the fourth turning happens when the society faces a major existential crisis that totally reshapes it.

According to the theory, each axis of the grimdark/noblebright field corresponds to a different generational turning. Thus, stories that are noble have the most resonance in a first turning, stories that are bright have the most resonance in a second turning, grim stories resonate most in a third turning, and dark stories resonate most in a fourth turning.

In other words, the generation that comes of age during a major existential crisis will tend to gravitate more toward fantasy where evil typically triumphs over good, whereas the generation that comes of age during a period of rebuilding will tend to gravitate more toward fantasy where the characters have the power to change the world. And so on for bright and grim stories: the generation that comes of age during a spiritual awakening will gravitate more toward stories that take place in a world where good usually triumphs over evil, and the generation that comes of age in a declining and/or decadent society will gravitate more toward fantasy where the characters are relatively powerless.

Another way of thinking about it is to consider what each generation is not going to be drawn to, or which stories are not going to resonate well. An American who came of age in the 40s and 50s, when US power was on the rise and the Pax Americana was reshaping the world, isn’t going to resonate well with grim stories about powerless characters. Likewise, a boomer who came of age during the counterculture movements of the 60s and 70s isn’t going to resonate well with a dark fantasy world where evil usually triumphs, because (as much as they hate to admit it) they grew up in a very sheltered world that generally made sense—so much so, in fact, that they couldn’t help but rebel against it.

According to this theory, the next generational turning begins when one of the four forms of fantasy (noblebright, grimbright, grimdark, or nobledark) is at a peak. Over the course of the turning, that fantasy form declines until the next form in the cycle becomes ascendant, at which point the next generational turning begins.

Thus, at the start of a first turning, nobledark stories are typically ascendant, where the fantasy worlds are dark and morally gray, but the characters are empowered to save the world. As that generation successfully establishes a new order, the culture’s taste in fantasy shifts away from dark stories and toward noblebright stories, where the characters are still empowered but the world is more ordered and stable.

At the start of the spiritual awakening that characterizes a second turning, noblebright fantasy is ascendant: stories with an optimistic outlook on the world where the characters are larger than life. But as the awakening progresses, people in the society care more about freedom and individuality and less about the group, so stories about characters who sacrifice everything to save their world resonate less with them. Thus, by the end of the second turning, the ascendant form of fantasy is grimbright, which is really more of a slice-of-life fantasy about beloved characters having fun (but not world-altering) adventures.

At the start of a third turning, where the social order has started to break down and corruption begins to permeate all levels of the society, these grimbright stories start to take a darker tone. Readers find it too “unrealistic” to believe that good always triumphs over evil, and they certainly do not believe that good people have the power to change the world—at least, not the “smells like teen spirit” world that they inhabit. Their tastes shift away from the fun, adventurous slice-of-life of grimbright, and toward the dark and gritty anti-heroes of grimdark.

Finally, at the start of the fourth turning, grimdark is ascendant, but readers are starting to lose patience with it. As each new crisis in the real world compounds with all the others, they find it unbearable to read about characters that don’t have the power to change the fantasy worlds they inhabit. At the height of the fourth turning, society reaches an existential breaking point where, in the words of Strauss and Howe, “all of [our] lesser problems will combine into one giant problem, [and] the very survival of the society will feel at stake.” (The Fourth Turning, p277) At this point, readers are ravenous for books about characters who are empowered to fight back against the tides of evil and darkness. Grimdark fantasy declines and nobledark fantasy ascends.

I haven’t read all of the series in the diagram above, but I do have a pretty good sense of most of them, and I put the diagram together with the help of my mastermind group. The key thing about it is that each fantasy series came out in roughly the generational turning that corresponds with each quadrant.

Now, it’s worth pointing out that these trends aren’t absolute. In each of the secular seasons, you can find examples of contemporary fantasy that runs counter to trend. For example, David Gemmell’s Drenai Saga came out in the 80s, at the start of the last third turning when grimbright should have been ascendant, and yet the Drenai Saga is solidly nobledark. Terry Pratchett’s Discworld books had their heyday in the 90s, 00s, and arguably 10s, but they probably fall into grimbright (though you could make the argument that, as absurdist fantasy, they are more similar to grimdark: stories where good and evil really doesn’t matter, and the characters are just doing their best to go along).

But the theory doesn’t state that each fantasy form’s antithesis dies completely when that form is ascendant: only that it reaches a nadir of decline in its resonance with the culture. But without sufficient contrast, the ascendant form cannot stand out. Thus, there still has to be some noblebright Paolini to provide sufficient contrast with the grimdark of Abercrombie and Martin, some low fantasy slice-of-life Legends and Lattes grimbright to make the epic nobledark high fantasy of Sanderson stand out stronger.

According to this theory, as we continue to muddle our way through this present fourth turning, the decline of grimdark fantasy will accelerate, and the bestselling fantasy books of the 2020s will mostly be nobledark. And indeed, we can already see that happening with the meteoric rise of Brandon Sanderson (especially his Stormlight Archive series), the popular enthusiasm surrounding Larry Correia (whose Saga of the Forgotten Warrior falls squarely into nobledark), and the enduring anticipation of Patrick Rothfuss’s fans for the conclusion to the Kingkiller Chronicle. Meanwhile, enthusiasm for George R.R. Martin has waned significantly with the train wreck of Game of Thrones, and Abercrombie, though still quite popular, seems to be testing the nobledark waters with his YA books.

It would really be interesting to do a deep dive on the generational archetypes and make a study of how that affects the fantasy forms that run counter to the cycle. But that’s beyond the scope of this blog post, and frankly I need to get back to writing my own books. But what do you think of this theory? Does it resonate with you, or is there something that we missed?

Tolkien the movie

Future Mrs. Vasicek and I saw this movie over the weekend, and it was fantastic. Ten out of ten. It really hit home for me, not only as a Tolkien fan, but as a writer too.

A few of the critics are panning this movie, but pay no attention to them. They’re probably just upset that they didn’t receive any bribes to give it a positive review. That seems to be the pattern these days: glowing reviews from the critics, but a terrible audience score. With this one, it’s the exact reverse.

I’m not sure which part I liked the most, since there was so much to enjoy, but I really liked how the movie went in and out of Tolkien’s experiences in World War I, and used that to tie everything together. It was a really different world before that war, and the generation that fought it also accomplished a lot of remarkable stuff. You can also really see how it influenced his stories.

I also really liked how for most of his life—indeed, perhaps for all of it—Tolkien was a really unassuming guy. He didn’t know that he was going to write the seminal fantasy epic of the modern era. For years, he just made stuff up for himself, and only shared it with his closest friends.

The friendship he developed with his prep school buddies was one of the best parts, definitely. And the romance between him and Edith was also really well done. I also liked how his benefactor, the Catholic priest, wasn’t portrayed as a straight up bad guy, as Hollywood so often portrays religious people these days. They had their clashes, but you did get the sense that he genuinely wanted the best for Tolkien all throughout it.

So yeah, fantastic movie! Screw the critics and go see it for yourself!

Will A Song of Ice and Fire stand the test of time?

A while ago, I wrote a blog post titled Why I don’t like George R.R. Martin, in which I laid out some of the issues I had with the Song of Ice and Fire series, and why I decided not to read past the first book. That post has been getting a lot of traffic lately, probably because the last season of Game of Thrones is coming out and there’s a lot of hype right now about it.

At FanX a couple of weeks ago, I attended an interesting panel with Steve Grad from Pawn Stars on the do’s and don’ts of collecting. On that panel, he expressed some skepticism that Game of Thrones signatures and collectibles would hold their value over time. This made me wonder: will the books this TV series is based on stand the test of time?

Full disclosure: I have only read the first book, A Game of Thrones, and have not watched any episodes of the miniseries. I’ve watched a few of the more important scenes on YouTube and occasionally follow discussions about it on online forums. After reading the first book, I decided that this series was not the sort of thing I wanted to watch or read. See the blog post linked above.

People have been calling George R.R. Martin the American Tolkien for years now, but I’ve always been skeptical of that claim. Tolkien’s books are timeless because they are so archetypal, with the classic struggle of good vs. evil permeating every page. In contrast, Martin rejects the archtypes of good and evil for a nihilistic black-and-gray morality, where there are no heroes, only victimizers and victims.

Why, then, is A Song of Ice and Fire so popular? First of all, because the writing and storytelling really are top notch. For all my criticism of George R.R. Martin, I fully recognize that he is a master. But there are a lot of excellent, masterful books that never capture the public imagination quite like Game of Thrones and A Song of Ice and Fire. What, then, makes Martin’s work so different?

I believe it’s because George R.R. Martin has struck a nerve with the current zeitgeist, and scratches a uniquely contemporary itch in a way that none of the great works by the old masters can. What is that zeitgeist? It is spirit of a culture in the late stages of decadence, where wealth disparity, big government, endless wars, easy credit, runaway debt, moral decline, and corruption are the defining aspects of the age.

In a world where, in so many ways, we are shielded from the consequences of our own actions, morality becomes irrelevant and entertainment shifts to serve our basest, most carnal lusts. In such a world, we turn to nihilistic stories like Game of Thrones, which are saturated with sex and violence. They reinforce the view that good and evil don’t exist, that honor and integrity are for fools, and that wealth, power, and sexual indulgence are all ends in themselves. “Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die, and it shall be well with us.”

At the same time, these stories satisfy a deep sense of self-loathing that arises out of the very nihilism that they celebrate. In those few moments when we are honest with ourselves, the decadence of our age profoundly disgusts us. As Haruki Murakami put it, “secretly everyone is waiting for the end of the world.” That is exactly what stories like Game of Thrones give us: gleeful destruction and total collapse, with blood, fire, ice, and steel. No one is safe. Anyone can die, even our most beloved characters. Winter is coming.

Every empire collapses, however, and every age of dedadence comes to an end. The very nihilistic elements that make stories like A Game of Thrones so appealing ultimately cause them to fall away and vanish, along with the culture itself. To stand the test of time, stories must be built upon archetypes that transcend the spirit of the age, rather than indulge it. Does George R.R. Martin do this? I don’t believe that he does.

A Song of Ice and Fire has an added disadvantage in that the TV series has overtaken the books. How many people will simply give up on the books after watching the season 8 finale? A Dance with Dragons averaged a 2.9-star rating on Amazon the year it came out, with thousands of reviews. It takes George R.R. Martin so long to write these books that it’s already become a meme, and his health isn’t all that great.

Personally, I think we’ve already reached peak George R.R. Martin. The season 8 finale will be an enormous affair, but after that the show’s popularity will steadily decline, and the books will not renew the public interest. I still think the books will do well compared to other books in the fantasy genre, but compared to previous installments, I think the Song of Ice and Fire series will go out with a loud and plaintive whimper.

A generation from now, when the current age of decadence is over and our children and grandchildren are rebuilding the world, I believe they will look at these books and scratch their heads—if they even bother to read them at all.

Extra Sci-Fi S3E4: The Return of the King

Okay, I think the folks at Extra Credits got it wrong with this one in a really big way.

Gollum didn’t redeem himself. That’s the entire point. Redemption is an important and very Christian theme of Lord of the Rings, but so is the problem of evil. Several comments on the video point this out:

I disagree about Gollum. He gave into the temptation of the Ring. I think more he is there for how God can turn evil into a good.

MJBull515

Gollum is more a Judas figure. Judas was not redeemed for betraying Jesus, but his evil actions did allow for the salvation of Man through Christ’s sacrifice.

Isacc Avila

“A traitor may betray himself and do good he does not intend.” Judas betraying Jesus was the catalyst that led to salvation. Gollum’s final act of greed was the catalyst that led to the destruction of the Ring.

Jet Tanyag

The thing that really gets to me, though, and the part where I think the folks at Extra Credits really do a disservice to these books, is how they argue, very subtly, that Gollum shouldn’t be held responsible for his own actions, that it wasn’t really his fault that he was addicted to the ring—that he “couldn’t escape his own sin.” (4:50)

No. Just, no.

The entire point of redemption is that we CAN escape from our sins. We see that with Theoden, we see that with the Dead Men of Dunharrow, and we see that in all the other examples of redemption that were not discussed in this video, like Boromir. In fact, Boromir is a far better example of “redemption through a single, all-important act.”

But it goes much deeper than that. In order to be meaningful, sacrifice must be intentional. It’s not just the act that matters, but the intention behind the act.

With that in mind, consider Gollum’s intentions when he bit off Frodo’s finger. The only way you can argue that his intentions weren’t evil is that the Smeagol half of his split-personality overcame the Gollum half, and flung him into the lava. But the support for that reading is ambigous at best. And if that isn’t true, and Gollum simply fell into the lava by accident, then it wasn’t a sacrifice on his part, and therefore there was no redemption.

To say that Gollum made an “accidental” sacrifice is nonsense. And to say that he redeemed himself through that sacrifice is not only a faulty argument—it completely undermines the themes of redemption and sacrifice throughout the entire book.

Gollum was never redeemed. Through him, Middle Earth was saved, but he was never personally redeemed, and that’s the point:

I’ve heard a different interpretation where Gollum’s sacrifice wasn’t an act of redemption, and was never meant to be. In the end, it was the ring’s own power that caused it to be destroyed; not Frodo, not Gollum, it was an accidental suicide. As far as I understand it, the message wasn’t “good triumphs over evil”, instead it was “evil is more powerful than good, but all it can do is destroy; in the end it will always destroy itself”.

EvilBarrels