But myth and legend are not the only influences I believe shape The Heir of Night’s style of epic fantasy. History also tends to be a major driver, with the classic model for epic worlds, from Middle Earth to Westeros, being primarily medieval. Although there are exceptions, such as the Troy of Marion Zimmer Bradley’s Firebrand or the Greece of David Gemmell’s Lion of Macedon, the worlds, their politics and players, as well as weapons and technology are still historically based. The Heir of Night is set in an alternate world, one where the technology and society are fundamentally pre-industrial, although with hints that this might once have been otherwise. Culturally, the basic concept is western European—and other elements from history have definitely informed the story. These include the initial age of the central protagonists as discussed in my recent “The Evolution of Character” post, to the Derai people’s elitism and militarism (think of the Spartans) and the civil strife and prejudice against elements within their own society that has characterised their recent history. (You may take your historical pick of civil wars, from the Roman to the Spanish, as well as a plethora of religious and racial conflicts and discrimination, for source material here!)

But although historical understanding has undoubtedly shaped The Heir of Night story, it is not based on one period or incident in history—although I very much enjoy fantasies such as Lion of Macedon that are strongly tied to a particular historical character and period. I may even write one myself ‘one day.’ But the closer one comes to real history, the more historically accurate the elements within the story have to be—and often the magical and sense of the fantastic are correspondingly harder to sustain. I believe there is a place for both kinds of storytelling in epic fantasy—but The Heir of Night belongs more in the realm of myth and legend (albeit not retelling any particular one) and is imbued with the deep magic that resides there.

 ***

Helen Lowe is a novelist, poet, and interviewer. Her latest novel, The Heir of Night, the first of THE WALL OF NIGHT quartet, is published in the USA and now the UK. Helen has twice won New Zealand’s Sir Julius Vogel Award, for Thornspell (Knopf) in 2009 and The Heir of Night in 2011—and The Heir of Night has just been nominated for the Gemmell Awards, in both the Legend and Morningstar categories. Helen posts every day on her Helen Lowe on Anything, Really blog and you can also follow her on Twitter: @helenl0we

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But a big reason this story was so much fun is that it’s set in Borealis, Illinois.

Now, that probably means nothing to you, and if you’ve made the mistake of Googling it, you’ll discover Borealis does not exist. But Aurora, Illinois, does, and savvy readers may know that Aurora is where I grew up.

They’ll also notice that Borealis very, very closely resembles Aurora.

So why did I not call it Aurora? For me it was important to get a little psychic distance, both as a writer and as an urban fantasist. As a writer, I’m not recreating Aurora. If anything, I’m using Aurora as a vehicle for fantasy, which, as an urban fantasist, has to come first.

That said, rooting Borealis in Aurora gave me a firm grip on reality. After all, I know Aurora so well, and it was a very unique place to grow up. Racially, Aurora’s very diverse, and economically, it ranges from solidly working to middle class.

All of this made Borealis a perfect place to set the kind of fiction I wanted to write after Jane. First off, I wanted to show people that were like the people I grew up with, which means characters that aren’t all white. So I wanted to show more diversity in my fiction. And yet, at the same time, I grew up with just such a diverse group of friends, for whom race or class was not a primary issue, at least not as a group dynamic. At the same time, however, issues of gender, race, and class permeate all stratums of culture, simply because that’s what such issues do.

My goal, if I get to write more about these ladies, is to subtly explore some of these issues, under the guise of telling a rousing good story. As a PhD in literature and a professor, I talk and write a lot about these ideas, but my message doesn’t go very far. Meanwhile, “going far” is the real power of popular fiction. We have to tell good stories, but we also have an opportunity to inject those stories with a little bit of what we want to talk about, in terms of social issues. And yeah, those injections might need to be subtle, or slight, but that’s the beauty of pop culture. It’s popular.

Which means a little goes a very long way.

At the end of the day, I’d like to give my readers a little glimpse of the way I grew up–with a diverse group of friends who came together because we shared interests, and humor, and a certain bizarre sensibility. Our relationships, however, weren’t some made for TV movie, with a rousing message of racial and social equality. We were just people who liked each other, and didn’t let anything detract from that fact.

I think there’s power in that idea, and it’s a vision I’d love to share, pop fiction-style.

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Although both the world and the character have evolved considerably from those first principles, the notion that Malian should initially be a youthful protagonist has remained unchanged. In this first book—of four in the series—she is thirteen, while Kalan, the second protagonist, is fourteen. Although this may seem young to us, thirteen and fourteen year olds have been regarded as adult or near adult through much of history (Shakespeare’s Juliet, for example, is fourteen; marriageable age at that time.) The age of these two central characters, at the cusp between childhood and adult responsibility, is one where—although not yet independent agents—most of us are making choices:  about who we are, what beliefs and values we subscribe to, and whether we buy into the status quo or desire change. In the case of Malian and Kalan, these choices are not just personal but reflect the issues at stake in their wider society, known as the Derai—a people who believe they champion good, but are divided by prejudice, suspicion and fear.

A number of elements define Malian’s character. Firstly, she is not a rebel. Many epic heroes begin by either denying or being unaware of their leadership role (i.e, their destiny), whereas Malian has been born and raised as Heir of Night. Rather than rebelling against her responsibilities, or questioning why the hard yards should fall to her, Malian always accepts that they do. One of her primary character drivers, in fact, is her commitment and dedication to the Derai cause. Her rebellion, if you can call it that, arises because she believes the path the Derai are following, and expect her to follow too, no longer serves their cause. This dedication to a higher duty, and to service above self, is an important aspect of what makes a hero in fantasy. Often the hero comes to the moment of acceptance late in the story, rather than early, but there is almost always a point at which that choice is made—like Rek taking on the role of Earl of Bronze and the defence of Dros Delnoch in David Gemmell’s Legend.

In short, Malian’s acceptance of duty is simply the foundation of her character; the story lies in her refusal to blindly accept any or all of the baggage attached to it. Like many other fantasy heroes, she’s brave and powerful—but her superpower is that she is also clever and insightful. She does have mentors and advisers, many of them potent characters in their own right, but still makes her own decisions and is determined to act on events, not just be buffeted by them. The point about Malian is that she doesn’t act on them stupidly. This is a world in which the foolish die quickly, so she has to learn to weigh the odds and take risks—because this is also a world where playing it safe is not an option either.

Committed, responsible, brave, powerful, smart: Malian of Night is a character who stands in the mythic tradition of Beowulf and Mulan, the literary inheritance of Aragorn and Mara of the Acoma. Seen in those terms, perhaps she is not ‘unique’—but through the combined long evolution and ‘great leaps’ of character development, nonetheless speaks with an authentic and distinctive voice. Malian brings two further qualities to the character mix, which although present in the heroic tradition are not universal in epic fantasy. These qualities are a sense of justice and empathy for others. To decide for yourself where she might have learned them in the harsh and narrow Derai world, you may just have to take the plunge and immerse yourself in The Heir of Night.

 —

Helen Lowe is a novelist, poet, and interviewer. Her latest novel, The Heir of Night, the first of THE WALL OF NIGHT quartet, is published in the USA and now the UK. Helen has twice won New Zealand’s Sir Julius Vogel Award, for Thornspell (Knopf) in 2009 and The Heir of Night in 2011—and The Heir of Night has again just been nominated for the Gemmell Awards, in both the Legend and Morningstar categories.

Helen posts every day on her ” … on Anything, Really” blog, on the 1st of every month on the Supernatural Underground, and occasionally on SF Signal. To read more about Helen and her writing, click here. You can also follow her on Twitter: @helenl0we

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I can remember the moment quite clearly: it was late 2008, and I was driving down 15th street here in Austin, talking on the phone with my agent (yes, I was That Guy that day – for some reason most of my important publishing conversations happened to take place while driving back then). I was just in the finishing stages of signing my first contract with Orbit, and the subject of an “option” arose – an “option” being a fancy legal term for “first dibs,” in this case being first dibs on my third novel.

So this begged the question – did I have any ideas for a third novel?

I was completely new to the publishing world then (and I still am, pretty much), but I knew that I did not want to let any important publishing people down, and I definitely knew I didn’t want to look like a chump and say, “No, no, I have no ideas for a third novel, I am completely fresh out and you are all totally hosed and you should have never hitched your wagon to my star.” So, while sitting at a green light, I wondered what to say.

But the odd thing is, I did have an idea for a novel rattling around in my head.

I had read an article just that day about vaudeville. It had made the curious point that vaudeville was one of the first moments of American mass cultural cross-pollination: the rails opened up all theaters all across the country to touring acts, so people had the first chance to see things they’d never seen before.

And I remember thinking, “How interesting. It’d be fun to write about that.” Specifically, I thought it would be fun to write a little fairy story about vaudeville, one about art, creation, and the nature of perception.

And that, more or less, is what I said. (Though I probably had to pause to shift gears now and again.)

Over three years later, and here we are, with THE TROUPE set to come out in February. It has been quite a ride. But I am incredibly grateful that I happened to read that article, and get myself into the situation of choosing vaudeville as a subject for fantasy.

Because, quite frankly, it is the best thing I’ve ever done. I don’t say such things cavalierly – I really mean it. THE TROUPE makes me prouder than anything else I’ve made. And I hope you’ll find out why.

But I am thankful for choosing vaudeville for a few additional reasons. For one thing, it significantly reduced my workload: vaudeville was one of the most bizarre, surreal, and confounding periods in American entertainment. It did not take much chin-tapping and head-scratching to make the subject interesting; it needed no hooks, no spins; I did not have to find any clever, unusual perspectives from which I could explore this business-slash-culture-slash-artform. If anything, I didn’t know where to start. I had somehow tripped and fallen into an abundance of riches.

But I knew that. I grew up on vaudeville, in a way: when I was a kid, on Sunday mornings we watched Laurel and Hardy, and time and again we watched The Marx Brothers – Duck Soup and A Night at the Opera were favorites. I lived off of tapes and tapes of the old Looney Tunes bits, which are, if you didn’t know, about as vaudevillian as it gets. And of course, which child of the 80’s didn’t watch The Muppet Show? Which, well, is a vaudeville show, of a sort.

In a way, nearly everyone in 20^th and 21^st Century America has grown up on vaudeville. Vaudeville shaped our concept of comedy, the very grammatical structure of humor and performance. We wouldn’t have sketch comedy or standup comedy today if vaudeville hadn’t been the medium and form of entertainment, its circuits touching from coast to cast. We definitely wouldn’t have the movies – after all, the first movie theaters were vaudeville theaters.

(A fun bit of trivia – the east coast vaudeville circuits were the Keith-Albee circuits; the west coast, The Orpheum circuits. The two initially fought over bits and territory, but when movies and radio became the dominant form of entertainment, the old enemies merged into Radio-Keith-Orpheum, which later became, of course, RKO Pictures, which would go on to be owned by the likes of David O. Selznick and Howard Hughes. And none other than Joe Kennedy, pater familias to JFK, briefly owned a controlling portion of the stock during the conversion to a movie studio.)

Vaudeville is ingrained in us. It’s in Youtube. It’s in Saturday Night Live. It’s in Bugs Bunny. It is, really, the first modern form of American entertainment, and here’s why:

1.  It was transient. There’s a reason a lot of the great American novels are road stories: the place is big, and a lot of its heart is just in getting from one place to another. But in the mid-late 19^th Century, the world got a lot smaller for the first time: railroads connected every part of the country, from the sticks to the big cities. Suddenly it became a lot more popular, and a lot more lucrative, for the entertainment to come to you rather than for you to go to the entertainment. And speaking of arrivals…
2.  It was for everyone. In the 19^th Century, the immigrant and working-class populations in America exploded. Cities were bursting at the seams with poor, laboring families trying to scrape by and get decent jobs in factories or at the docks. And these people, like any anyone, wanted entertainment. Vaudeville recognized that, and produced a form of entertainment they would find funny along with anyone else. Which meant…
3.  It was definitely Not High Art. Let’s face it – we, as Americans, are suspicious of any form of entertainment that requires a degree or any amount of education to understand. We’re all about egalitarianism here – we shouldn’t have to make ourselves better to understand what you’re doing. Vaudeville understood that feeling. It wasn’t trying to broaden minds or make us think or see the world in a different way – they were just trying to put asses in seats. Which means…
4.  It was mercenary. Money was the one and only god of the circuits. You could make a great living in vaudeville if you played your cards right, and if you got in good with the booking offices, who essentially ran the circuits. The circuits fought one another over territories, and the actors fought one another over bits (For theft was quite common in vaudeville – one actor discovered the old man in the front row of his shows had been telegraphing the successful jokes to his son in California. The jokes he told that night got retold on the other side of the country in less than five hours.) Theater owners communicated successful acts to the booking offices, who decided where best to use them, and where there’d fit in on the bill – but all of it was decided by the bottom line. But they also had to consider…
5. The subject of ethnicity. I will shock you now – people were not racially sensitive in the 19^th and early 20^th Century, even here in America, one of the most diverse countries on Earth. We are not Sweden, nor are we Japan: we have many, many different types of people here. That, naturally, causes divisions. And vaudeville, being so mercenary, as well as so very aware of the blue-collar nature of its audiences, took advantage of that. It pilloried Jews, Italians, Germans, Blacks, the Irish, you name it, they got mocked in some bit or another. But at the same time, each of these peoples were allowed space on the stage, though sometimes they were allowed to be themselves (like mariachi bands), and sometimes they absolutely weren’t – there was a Jewish duo that made a fortune playing buffoonish German immigrants. And when they were at a place with a prominent German culture, they changed it to whatever ethnicity the crowd was game to mock: Greeks, the Chinese, whatever they needed to do. But they never, ever played as Orthodox Jews. I wonder how much they minded, but I think that they, like most vaudevillians, were out to make a buck, not expand minds. Which is, for better or worse, a very American thing to do. Just check out your local box office for confirmation.

The problem with vaudeville, I could tell, was that there was going to be just too much to write about. There were so many weird acts that I knew I couldn’t use them all. My favorite was Hadji Ali, the famous regurgitator – which was a type of act that involved the actor actually, literally vomiting up unusual items in unusual ways. (Like I said, anything to put asses in seats…)

But vaudeville was not all surreal fantasy. It was a business, and it was discriminatory, and many of its acts were quite racist, if not the very definition of racism. It didn’t just start and end at minstrel shows (many of which had almost nothing to do with race at all, and became a bizarre culture in its own right) – look at Chico and Harpo Marx.

Chico, of course, is the Italian buffoon, loud, blustery, and conniving; and Harpo, with his huge red wig, laborer’s overcoat, and tattered pants, was originally the clownish Irishman, probably originally portrayed as a drunken tramp. Whether or not this was harmless fun, well… That’s a matter of some opinion.

Vaudeville was, in short, human – a human culture seeking to meet a human desire. To forget vaudeville, with all its flaws and complications, would be to forget our own history, to forget ourselves.

But THE TROUPE, at heart, is not solely about vaudeville. It is not even about entertainment. Rather, it is about perception – how people see themselves, others, and the world – and it is the matter of perception that all forms of entertainment hinge upon.

What do you see of yourself in an act? What do you see of others? What does your entertainment say about you?

And, if you sing of the world differently – if your art says the world is something that it isn’t – does the world change with it? Or, perhaps more interestingly, will you change yourself?

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 “As a small child, I felt in my heart two contradictory feelings, the horror of life and the ecstasy of life.” — Baudelaire

In today’s world Fantasy fiction is split into many genres: Epic, High, Low, Heroic Urban, Suburban, Historical, Science, Weird, Dark…you’re likely to find any of these words in front of “Fantasy” these days. Many authors enjoy blending and “splicing” genres together, which can often lead to new sub-genres and even anti-genre approaches. There are two enduring genres that have always gone well together, seamlessly blending one into the other, and their combination continues to be a popular pairing.

Often Horror and Fantasy are lumped together like fraternal twins forced to wear the same plaid sweater. Many are the theories defining exactly what each one of the genres actually IS, and the closer you look at either, the more splintering you find, the more sub-genres, the more distinctions being made on the “microcosmic” level. Yet examples of Horror/Fantasy blends continue to amaze and terrify readers. 

One of the most inspired writers ever to blend Horror and Fantasy was H. P. Lovecraft. Even in his Dunsany-inspired “Dreamlands cycle” stories, which are set in a Fantasy realm of mystic felines, enchanted forests, and smoky cities of mystery, he never removes the aura of menace that lies beneath the dreamy fantasy. “The Dream-Quest of Unknown Kadath” and “The Doom That Came to Sarnath” are perfect examples of his facility to blend cosmic horror into a fantasy world that could have been all “sweetness and light.” For Lovecraft, moving from dreams to nightmares was no more than a single step. Or the blink of an eye.

J. R. R. Tolkien evoked his share of horror in the great Fantasy series of the modern age, THE LORD OF THE RINGS, which for better or worse became a type of “blueprint” for much of the Epic Fantasy that would follow. Tolkien’s trilogy would not be the same without the visceral horror of the Orcs, the spectral damnation of the Ringwraiths invading Middle Earth like a virus, the existential horror of poor, mad, selfish Gollum, and the ultimate terror of Mordor and Sauron.

Tolkien’s iconic Dark Lord is such a horrible entity that the author never has to show Sauron to us…the simple fact of his existence is enough to evoke the clutching dread of Frodo’s quest. The inhuman minions of Sauron are only aspects of his bottomless evil. The kind of evil usually found only in the Horror genre, where the same character might well have been known as Satan. In Tolkien’s work, as in most High/Epic Fantasy, the horror is there to remind us that the breathtaking beauty and golden peace of the higher realms is precious, vulnerable, and perhaps ultimately doomed. Unless somebody steps up to oppose that horror.

Horror and Fantasy have blended so often and so well that the term Dark Fantasy eventually came along to characterize the hybrid. But how is Dark Fantasy distinguished from non-Dark Fantasy? It is more important to ask a different question: Can Fantasy really be successful without some measure of Horror?

Horror can definitely succeed without any of the trappings, tropes, or tricks of Fantasy. You’ll find enough real-world, Fantasy-free horror just by reading your daily newspaper. Humans are a constant source of horror to other humans, not to mention the horrors that nature sometimes unleashes on the human race. But when it comes to Fantasy, is the “dark element” essential? What would you have without horrific elements in a work of Fantasy fiction?

The heart of any good story is conflict. Fantasy conflicts most often (too often, if you ask me) involve the classic Good vs. Evil dichotomy. In recent years that trope has been shattered a bit—our society loves its “shades of grey” characters. For some reason we adore anti-heroes, rogues, outlaws, and scrappy survivors far more than simple “heroes.” The example I always give to my students is the Disney PIRATES movies. In the first movie, Will Turner (Orlando Bloom) is obviously the hero; but it’s the anti-hero, the foil, the ne’er-do-well Captain Jack Sparrow (Johnny Depp) who becomes the real star of the movie and all its sequels. It seems that our modern society has decided that “heroes are boring.” Or have we simply matured to the point where we realize that even “heroes” are simply people—and people are never wholly good or evil? We want realistic characters more than we want heroes.

This is where the Horror usually comes in when you’re writing (or reading) a Fantasy. It comes in the form of a conflict that your protagonist must face. (“Protagonist” is a better word than “hero” for reasons stated above.) Certainly this is true of Tolkien’s heroes, bravely sacrificing themselves to face the ultimate evil to save what’s good and decent in the world. It’s true of any Heroic Fantasy protagonists, and most Epic Fantasy protagonists. It may not be so true, however, for protagonists of Dark Fantasy tales. In Lovecraft’s Dreamlands tales, his protagonists usually don’t fare so well. He comes down far more heavily on the “horror” side of things. The evil that infests the universe is never dispelled, only avoided or ignored. Sometimes barely.

The same is true of another classic fantasist, Clark Ashton Smith, a giant of weird fiction. Smith reveled in turning the tropes of Fantasy and Sword-and-Sorcery on their heads. Smith’s fantasies, especially his brilliant Zothique, Hyperborea, and Poseidonis tales, evoke all the glittering wonder of magical, primordial worlds yet are steeped in the dark, demonic presence of a universe where horror reigns above all. Only in a few cases do Smith’s protagonists avoid horrible fates—from swordsmen to wizards to kings and astrologers—the weird and wonderful Fantasy world they inhabit provides their doom. Unlike his friend Robert E. Howard’s Conan and Kull tales, Smith did not care to have ongoing heroes in his tales. One might even argue that there ARE no heroes in Smith’s fantasies. Yet what gorgeous and splendid fantasies they are, albeit of an unforgivingly dark nature. There is beauty in darkness, as in all things. Smith saw it, and showed it to his readers.

Most fantasies offer viewpoint characters that readers “inhabit” as they view the world, and a main character who is relatable on a human level. There are exceptions, but usually if the reader understands, sympathizes with, or relates to your main character they will be drawn into the story and more than likely to finish the book. Viewpoint protagonists (sometimes antagonists) are “fiction suits” that we all wear as we step into these fictional worlds. Reading a book is tech-free virtual reality. Brain-hopping from character to character.

This relationship between the reader and the protagonist(s) of a story explains why Horror is so often a crucial partner to Fantasy. In the guise of our protagonist (or “hero”), we face things that we could never stand, endure, or conquer in the real world. This includes facing the problems, issues, and stark realities that haunt us in our waking moments. From bloodthirsty bullies to vicious predators to the unbridled fury of nature (or supernature), our fictional avatars in the World of the Story face the horrors that we dare not face in real life. And in Fantasy, more often than not, they CONQUER that horror. Or at least hold it at bay. Most protagonists achieve victories that we cannot, they take the risks we would never submit ourselves to, they face the horrors of the universe and say “Here I am. Give me your best shot.”

Many readers prefer Horror over Fantasy. Horror buffs don’t mind a viewpoint protagonist who fails, or ultimately meets a terrible fate. Fantasy buffs often prefer fantasies that provide a more traditional “heroic triumph.” Or not. It’s all a matter of taste, and it accounts for one reason Clark Ashton Smith’s tragic Dark Fantasy will never be as popular as Tolkien’s High Fantasy, wherein the dark elements are banished comfortably into oblivion.

There must be some Horror in any Fantasy setting if the writer wants his imaginary world to reflect the complexities of the real world. Because our world—the one in which we live and breathe and write books and surf the internet—is full of horror. Literary horrors are metaphors and analogies for the actual horrors of human existence. Literature, especially Fantasy, enables us to face those horrors and either succumb to the inevitable doom that it brings, or overcome it with heroic effort. Either way, we survive the experience and bring away some wisdom.

A great Fantasy tale takes you somewhere far away and leaves you with a heightened clarity regarding your own existence. This is the magic of fiction. The truth behind all the narrative lies we tell. The subtle sorcery of the written word, the sound of the Story Well Told, and the transcendent pleasure of reading fiction.

If you take the Horror out of your Fantasy, you’ve taken out much of the relevance (not to mention much of the conflict). The Dark must be present in some form or another, and you need look no farther for it than in the murky depths of the human heart.

SEVEN PRINCES is loaded with horror because it is loaded with humanity. There is blood and betrayal, struggle and sacrifice. Some characters will flee the horror. Some will rage against it. Some will become it.

As the reader, you get to do it all.

Now THAT’s magic.

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I’ve been thinking a lot about this concept lately in regard to my own books. My stories are full of examples of the liminal. I have a soft spot for marginalized characters—mixed-bloods, down-and-out faery drag queens, Recreant mages, dozens of characters struggling to reconcile their desires with duty. These are characters on the fringe of polite society and I go back to them over and over.

I also utilize the concept of liminality in my settings and plots. In SILVER-TONGUED DEVIL (out this week), Sabina Kane goes into a liminal realm—aptly called “The Liminal”– that exists between our mundane reality and the magical underworld to fight her demons, both literal and figurative. It is only through interacting with liminal characters, exploring strange, new settings and being forced to explore the margins of her own psyche that she can truly transform.

Please understand that when I refer to the liminal in my own works, I am not suggesting that my use of the concept is anything revolutionary. Separation from society and its norms is a critical element of most fiction. Joseph Campbell’s lectures on the hero’s journey are chock full of references to characters who are forced to leave the status quo and explore the murky wastelands of the unknown as a requirement for growth.

However, as I thought about my own use of the in-between, I realized that urban fantasy is itself a liminal genre. It exists on the threshold of several other genres, unapologetically taking the beloved conventions of other genres and mixing them in new and unexpected ways. I have yet to attend one conference or convention where a panel I’m on doesn’t devolve into a debate over what qualifies as urban fantasy. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been told that what I write is not “real” urban fantasy, as if it is a genre that anyone has adequately defined and codified.

I believe these arguments about what is or is not UF occur because, as my friend and colleague Nicole Peeler said recently, we are not comfortable with ambiguity as a society. We like everything placed in neat categories (except for ourselves, which is a topic of another post on another blog at some other time). I believe this gets at the heart of why urban fantasy as a genre has been such a polarizing genre. It revels in its liminality, thank you very much.

And therein is the danger of the liminal in general. It’s a place where rules don’t apply and that scares us. Which is also, by the way, why I think urban fantasy has been so popular. Even as the liminal frightens us, it’s incredibly fun to explore through someone else’s eyes. So even though we may avoid going through the looking glass of our own psyches, it’s safe and fun to follow Alexia Tarabotti or Dante Valentine or Jane True or Sabina Kane in there.

I hope the next time you pick up an urban fantasy you’re encouraged to explore the in-between spaces in your own life. But if not, that’s okay—our characters are happy to have you along for the ride. What are some of your favorite uses of the liminal in urban fantasy?

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I also write in the horror and sci-fi genres. Yet fantasy has always been my first love — specifically high fantasy, or epic fantasy, as some folks like to call it. Although the term dark fantasy is also one of which I’m rather fond. A lot of my favorite fantasies are indeed “dark,” and you will find some darkness in every fantasy — if only to provide contrast to the sweetness and light. The murkier the darkness, the brighter the light.

One of the most common questions writers and various “creative types” get asked is: Where do you get your ideas? But what’s really being asked in this old chestnut of a query is: What inspires you? For fantasy authors, one might assume all inspiration comes from existing fantasy fiction. Yet that’s certainly not the case. If it was, the genre would soon atrophy and die from incessant repetition and lack of innovation. Yet the fantasy genre is alive and well . . . and it’s not about to disappear any time soon. It has been said that there are no new stories, only new ways to tell them.

Writers look for inspirado wherever they can . . . and it often finds them when they least expect it.

So what inspires me?

Music. I’m partial to heavy rock and six-string blues, but I like a bit of everything. Early BLACK SABBATH is the bedrock foundation upon which most of my favorite bands have built their music. I adore the music of THE BLACK KEYS, ROB ZOMBIE and QUEENS OF THE STONE AGE . . . and I have literally too many favorite bands to list them all here (or anywhere else). I relish playing MONSTER MAGNET’s “Superjudge” album while I’m writing. I’ve also found THE SWORD’s first two albums conducive to crafting epic fantasy, as well as a host of instrumental soundtracks. (Jerry Goldsmith’s PLANET OF THE APES soundtrack has to be one of the all-time greats.) Music is magic of the utmost potency.

Laughter. Laughing renews and energizes the soul. And the soul is the font of all creativity. Me, I’m partial to TV comedies, from THE OFFICE to BEAVIS & BUTTHEAD (so glad to have them back!) to my brother-from-another-mother CONAN O’BRIEN. I like comedies with heart and soul . . . where the story doesn’t fall apart in favor of idiotic punchlines. I can watch episodes of THE SIMPSONS and SEINFELD a dozen times . . . and I have. With such a taste for comedy, you might think I’d write humorous fantasy . . . but I’ve never been a fan of that particular genre. I love a good comedy, but I’m serious about my fantasy . . .

Books. I’m a book addict. There are books that I keep tucked away like holy relics, usually the ones that have touched my soul in some deep and lasting way. And every now and then I discover a brand new book that does the same thing. Anybody who knows me will tell you I’m practically religious about Tanith Lee’s TALES OF THE FLAT EARTH. The same goes for Lord Dunsany’s story collections, Tolkien’s THE SILMARILLION, William Gibson’s Sprawl and Bridge trilogies, all of Tom Ligotti’s collections, and Schweitzer’s MASK OF THE SORCERER. So many more. For a writer, every story and book you read is an influence — whether you want it to be or not. So I’m very careful about what I read.

Comics. Matt Fraction’s CASANOVA is the latest comic to completely blow my mind. Like Ed Brubaker’s CRIMINAL, it’s a pure manifestation of the creators’ passions. The very best comics defy the corporate stranglehold on characters and concepts. Like the best novels, they invent something new and tell stories that come from the heart, the gut and the spirit. Mignola’s HELLBOY comics are inspiring as hell (pun intended). James Stokoe’s ORC STAIN is another blast of auteur genius and radical style. Bryan Talbot’s enduring masterpiece THE ADVENTURES OF LUTHER ARKWRIGHT was a seminal influence, as was Peter Milligan’s groundbreaking SHADE THE CHANGING MAN. Comics have been a part of my life for as long as I can remember; raw inspiration crackles and burns between the panels of every page.

Art. Frank Frazetta is my personal Art God. Staring at any one of his paintings gives me at least twenty ideas for stories — he is the heart and soul of 20th Century fantasy art. Michael Whelan is another iconic artist whose work has imprinted upon my brain from a young age — from his amazing MARTIAN TALES covers to his 80s LOVECRAFT sequence, to everything he’s painted anywhere, Whelan is a one-of-a-kind experience. Stephen Fabian. Bob Eggleton. Darrell Sweet. Steranko. Richard Corben. Jack Kirby. John Buscema. Gil Kane. Jack Katz. Alex Raymond. So many more . . . a great work of art tells a story, even when it’s no more than a single image.

Drama. Shakespeare. Lynch. Tarantino. The Coens. Kaufman. Scorcese. Jackson. Aronofsky. Hitchcock. Serling. Miyazaki. Yimou. The movies are the myths of our times. The very best films usually don’t come from books; no, they’re conceived and built specifically to exploit the parameters and possibilities of cinema. But stories are stories, and greatness is greatness, no matter the medium. Every time I watch (or re-watch) a David Lynch film, it makes me want to create something new. It taps something deep and bottomless in my psyche. And don’t get me started on Shakespeare . . . massive, unending inspirado. At the heart of every drama are human beings . . . and every person you meet is a font of stories, experiences and contradictions.

History. It is the original source of all the great stories. Early humanity, trading tales around their campfires, knew the crucial importance of the Old Tales and the sacred role of the Storyteller. Without our history Mankind does not truly exist. The fact that we tell stories about things that happened is what makes us civilized. It’s what raised us above the beasts of the field. Telling stories is the oldest art form, and the whole of history is fodder for any writers’ imagination — especially a writer of fantasy. Most fascinating to me are the tales that might have been . . . the lost sagas and the heroes who never returned to tell their tales . . . the dusty pulp of burned libraries, and the obscure lore of fallen civilizations . . . the blurry edges surrounding the solid substance of historical knowledge. And the more you study known history, the more your imagination travels toward those misty regions of the unknown . . . 

Nature. Nothing quite inspires like the beauty and grandeur of the natural world. Whether it’s a trip to the beach (I don’t swim), or a drive through the country, the Earth speaks to us whenever we make ourselves available to listen. There’s a symphony in every rainstorm, an epic in every cloud formation, a masterpiece writ in the veins of every floating leaf. I live in California, one of the most beautiful places in the world. Sometimes the sheer loveliness of the landscape here nearly overwhelms me. There’s gold in “them there hills,” but it ain’t yellow metal. I love rain . . . it makes me happy . . . always has. Sweet, blessed nectar of the stratosphere. Every drop is an ocean of possibility.

I think there may be more of a link between Nature and Fantasy than any other literary genre. Consider Tolkien’s gorgeous, verdant Middle Earth and how it contrasts with the ashy wastelands of Mordor. Or Dunsany’s faerie lands and dreamworld forests. Those imaginary worlds are simply parallel versions of our own little blue-green paradise. There’s a reason most fantasy novels include maps as entry points into these invented worlds that we love so well. Society changes, history rolls on, and humanity evolves, yet the Earth itself remains to whisper its eternal secrets, molding its wisdom into the enchanted shapes of trees and mountains. Fantasy is an extension of this ancient and primordial Earthsong. We listen, and we dream.

Fantasy also links us with our remote past . . . our primal days when the world was full of magic, mystery and adventure. Human lives are composed of stories as much as flesh and blood. Fantasy delivers the timeless stories that are woven into our DNA, our ancestral memory, the immortal spirit that unites us all, even when we refuse to recognize it.

Fantasy fiction nurtures something deep and pure and ancient within us all. And from that same wellspring, inspirado emerges to create everything that thrills, delights, and inspires us.

So where do I find inspiration?

Everywhere . . .

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Something mystical. Something downright magical.

Looking back through history, literature, religion, and philosophy, one can see this number coming up again and again – usually with a significant aspect invoking holiness, mystery, power or prosperity.

A few examples:

- In Buddhist mythology the newborn Buddha took seven steps right after he was born, declaring “I alone am the World-Honored One.”

- In Christian mythology the Walls of Jericho fell seven days after seven priests marched around the city seven times with seven trumpets.

- In Islamic mythology there are seven heavens and seven hells.

- In the ancient Roman Kingdom there were seven kings who ruled before the birth of the Republic. Rome itself is built on seven hills.

- In the folklore of diverse cultures, the seventh son of a seventh son is either a werewolf or a possessor of strange powers that set him apart from humanity.

The more you examine numbers and numerology, and their links with the past, the more you see patterns and powers associated with each number. Among the ranks of numerologists, 7 is generally associated with Thought and Consciousness. For astrologers, 7 is the number of heavenly bodies that influence our earthly life. These are the seven objects visible to the naked eye from our planet, including Sun, Moon and five planets.

Seven has inspired thinkers, dreamers and artists for many ages. In his famous poem William Shakespeare proposed that there were exactly “Seven Ages of Man,” spanning each portion of his life from birth to manhood to death. Neil Gaiman brought to life seven cosmic beings called The Endless in his phenomenal SANDMAN series. In Tolkien’s THE SILMARILLION there are seven Lords of the Valar and seven Ladies of the Valar, who are effectively the “gods” of Middle Earth. In that immortal book (the fertile soil from which LORD OF THE RINGS grew like a mystical tree), the infamous Feanor, King of the Noldor, has seven fated sons.

Seven’s magic is hard to deny. There are seven notes in Western musical scales both major and minor. Now there’s some real magic for you . . . just listen to some Mozart, some Johnny Winter, or some old-school Black Sabbath. You’ll hear and FEEL the magic of the seven notes. (Substitute any of your favorite music here.) Indian music also features seven tones, or “Saptak Swaras.”

There are Seven Gods of Good Fortune in Japanese mythology. Britain’s folk hero Thomas the Rhymer lived in Faerie Land for seven years. The mythical island-nation of Atlantis was rumored to have seven main islands. Spanish conquistadores in the New World tried and failed to find the legendary Seven Cities of Gold.

Akira Kurosawa’s magnificent film SEVEN SAMURAI inspired the American classic THE MAGNIFICENT SEVEN. Both of these films inspired George Lucas to make the original STAR WARS, which changed cinema forever when it was released in 1977.  There are seven deadly sins and seven holy virtues. Seven days in a week. Seven seas. Seven is the winning number in traditional dice-rolling games. Seven is the most common “lucky number.”

SEVEN PRINCES is the first volume in the Books of the Shaper series. There are indeed seven princes in the book, although one of its main characters is not a prince at all. She’s a brave and headstrong young woman. Sharadza is the sister of three princes, all of whom are children born to Vod the Giant-King and his human Queen.

Not all of these seven princes will survive to become the SEVEN KINGS of the sequel. Nor will many of them join the ranks of the SEVEN SORCERERS in the third book. Yet there are several ongoing characters for readers to follow through all three books.

In SEVEN PRINCES the determined Sharadza strives to understand and master the Seven Tenets of Sorcery. It is a task for which she is more suited than anyone suspects.

Seven is more than a simple number. Seven is Power. Enlightenment. Consciousness. Enchantment. Legend. Myth.

All of which you will find in the pages of SEVEN PRINCES.

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Seven Princes - released Jan 2012

So what’s your book about?

Is there any more difficult question for an author to answer? I know I have a hard time with this one. After spending so much time (often years) crafting a novel, living inside the souls of your characters, building the intricate world in which they live, overseeing the progress of an invented history and chronicling the fictional exploits of your literary “children”, it’s hard to encapsulate all the diverse threads of a novel into a single statement.

Yet the market demands a “hook” or “premise” on which any novel can hang its metaphorical hat. After all, if readers don’t know what to expect, why should they even buy the book? Blind faith? Hardly. Word of mouth? Well, that’s the best advertising you can get . . . but consider the irony. If you as the author don’t come up with a satisfying answer to “What’s your book about?” then your early readers and reviewers are going to do it FOR YOU. They’re going to summarize, encapsulate and foreshorten your Massive Undertaking of Artistic Purity to a description worthy of a sound-byte (or at least a Facebook update). So authors are better-off coming up with their own answer to this big question, rather than leaving it up to somebody else to explain.

All of this begs the question: “What is SEVEN PRINCES about?”

If you look at the cover text, SEVEN PRINCES is about war. “An age of legends. An age of heroes. An age of war.” Now that’s a great tag line. It’s engaging, evocative, and it rings with mythic resonance. Ready for more irony?

Here’s the thing: I never considered this book a “war novel” when I was writing it. Yet war itself is definitely one of the themes that drives the characters and the plot. Some characters want to prevent war—they know the red tragedy and the pointless slaughter that it brings—while others actively seek war to prove themselves, to avenge wrongs, or simply as a means of grabbing power. So the concept of war itself is definitely buried in there. There’s even a conversation at one point between two characters who argue about the essential nature of Man as a war-like being. Is Mankind capable of living in peace—true peace—for long? That’s a question that also lies at the heart of SEVEN PRINCES. So yeah, it’s about war. But it’s also about a lot more . . .

SEVEN PRINCES is about family. It’s about sons (and daughters) living in the giant shadows of their fathers. It’s about generational differences, the human drive to change the world to suit our tastes, our desires, and our terrible pride. It’s about people . . . mostly members of various royal families embroiled in a conflict that goes back farther than known history.

SEVEN PRINCES is about sacrifice. It’s also about Wisdom, and the journey from youth to adulthood. It’s about the timeless depths of infinity, and the confining walls humanity builds about itself to avoid staring directly at the Shape of Eternity. It’s about hidden forces that move behind the veils of the known world and drive the currents of history, spinning the tapestry of civilization to suit cosmic ideals, theoretical imperatives, or wicked perversions. It’s about POWER. It’s about the mad fires of Love that burn us hotter than flames, and the killing frost of Hate that chills our beating hearts and splinters our souls.

SEVEN PRINCES is about intriguing characters caught in dire circumstances. The fact that most of them are members of royal families makes them no less human, no less relatable, no less interesting than common folk. In fact, it makes them MORE interesting. In most fantasy worlds the common folk are far too busy herding goats, building roads, tending crops, and generally making a living to explore the great Emotions, Conflicts, and Adventures that make for epic storytelling. And besides, who among us hasn’t wished to be a member of the glorious elite at least once in his or her life? The closest that most of us ever come to being a prince or princess is when we visit Grandma’s house and she spoils us rotten. So this book may also be about the burdens carried by royalty . . . but it’s far more about the burdens of simply being human.

SEVEN PRINCES is about the clash of sword and shield, the fury of unleashed sorceries, the unyielding passions light and dark that drive us to our destinies. It’s about loyalty, friendship, jealousy, rage, vengeance, death, and the overwhelming power of blood. (Both the literal and hereditary kinds.)

This description of the novel may not work too well as a sound-byte, and it’s definitely too long for a Tweet or a status update. But stories are too complex to be completely reduced to a single line or two. So let this piece serve as a brief-yet-comprehensive answer to the most common question I’ve been asked about the First Book of the Shaper.

I can already hear the next question echoing at me from somewhere in the near future: “So what’s the NEXT book about?”

I’ll tell ya later.

Promise.

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Dead…or worse, perhaps.

Of course I had to continue writing to find out what was “worse.” Arquitaine opened around me, and several drafts later (I think this was the book that cemented my faith in my long-suffering beta reader’s patience) I had a novel I was happy with. Well, as much as a writer is ever happy with a draft. We’re inveterate pickers. But I digress.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t the right time to release it. I was hip-deep in other series, and my editor and agent both agreed that dear Hedgie had to wait. I stuck out my lower lip, pouted a bit, and then got over it and cheerfully agreed. Of such moments are a career in publishing made.

Cut to years later, when my editor at Orbit called my agent. “Does Lili still have Hedgewitch? If so, there’s this opportunity. It’s an ebook-only release.”

There are few things as flattering to a writer as an editor remembering your book (in a positive light, mind you) multiple years later. I listened to the terms and asked a few questions. I took a while to think about it. And in the end, I said yes. I am very glad I did, even if it loaded a couple tight deadlines onto an already-massive pile of work.

I’m not a huge fan of ebooks personally. I prefer paper, and will until I die. As a writer, I’m not a giant fan either, because of piracy. I have, in several bitter moments, likened the writer’s experience of ebooks to throwing one’s own baby down a dark well. Those few writers who trumpet that e-piracy “helps” their sales are anomalies; if they do not have the grace to preface their remarks with “results not typical” I find their attitudes disingenuous at best.

So why on earth would I say agree to this?

It’s not because I (or my agent, or my editor) thought the book was substandard or unsellable, as some have openly supposed. (I would invite those who did so to shove their suppository supposition into the proper orifice, but their fat heads are evidently taking up all the room there.) It’s not because there was a monstrous pile of cash involved. (I wish.) It’s not because Orbit just decided to upchuck something all over the Internet and see if some chunks stick. (Ew.)

Quite frankly, I’ve reached a point in my career where I can afford to experiment a tiny bit. I was tremendously pleased my editor remembered the book after multiple years, and honored (and trusted) Orbit would put much effort and care into my book as the flagship offering. I knew plenty of my fans loved e-readers and would enjoy a work in that format. There was the possibility that this release would introduce new readers to my work, even though Hedgewitch is very different from anything else I’ve had published, with the possible exception of Steelflower. Plus, I thought it would be damn well fun, and you need to take your fun where you find it in this career.

There are plenty of other authors who can’t afford to experiment like this, for the simple reason that it’s not cost-effective to have an ebook-only release when they could release in harder-to-steal paper editions. I am among the lucky ones, and I realize my results are not typical. I did this for fun, for experiment, for the chance to work with an editor I love and respect to make the story even better, for the chance to offer something new to my faithful readers and maybe introduce a few new victims into my dark army.

Hey, an evil genius has got to do her recruiting somehow, you know?

I’m waiting to see how this turns out, and I know Orbit is. I’m glad we could take this chance together. Every fan I’ve heard from is excited right along with me. Well, except for those who think I shouldn’t be allowed to write anything but black-leather kickass chicks.

But that’s another story.

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