Amanda McCrina

Author of Historical Fiction & Fantasy

Category: Fantasy (page 1 of 5)

History, magic, and fantasy

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I always hesitate to call my writing fantasy, because I know that gives people the wrong impression. I’m more often tempted to call it historical fiction, because that seems easier to explain and defend. There is no magic in my imaginary world. There are no fantastical creatures. There’s nothing, in fact, that would be implausible in real-world historical fiction. And I labor to create a sense of “historical” realism. It’s not real history; what I mean is that my characters’ identities derive from their past, the same as do our identities in our world. The way their world works—and the way they understand it to work—is linked inextricably to their history.

My characters are products of their environments. Their stories don’t happen in a vacuum; their societies have long histories, long memories. I want the reader to feel their world is an internally coherent one, and a complex one; I want the reader to have the sense that myriad other stories are happening concurrently with yet independently of my characters’ stories. So I have to give thought to the economic and monetary systems, the climate and crops and markets, the language, the literacy rate, the social issues at work in the background. Perhaps none of this is a pivotal or even visible element in a particular story, but it’s there as an important part of the framework just the same. I want there to be a reason (besides plot convenience) why my main character in Blood Road is bilingual. I want there to be a reason why the royal family are the only ones allowed to wear sapphires. I want there to be a reason why my Empire would wage war over an economically and strategically unimportant rural province in His Own Good Sword. I don’t want anything to feel arbitrary.

Obviously (unsurprisingly) my fantasy world owes a great deal to real-world history, particularly Roman history. With some careful carving-up His Own Good Sword and its prequel, Blood Road, my current WIP, may have worked very well as historical fiction set in the late, crumbling, Christianized Empire. I write very consciously with that setting in mind, because it’s what I know and love. But I choose to write it as “fantasy.” Why? What exactly is fantasy, anyway?

As I said above, “fantasy” has the wrong connotation, if not technically the wrong definition. Technically, any fiction is a sort of fantasy—an imagining of what could be or what might have been. The World English Dictionary defines “fantasy” simply as “imagination unrestricted by reality.” Rather than using “fantasy” as my sandbox for playing with magic and the supernatural, then, I am using it to play with questions of politics and ethics and philosophy. My writing is probably best called “historical fantasy” or “political fantasy”—but even those terms trip people up, because the assumption remains that magic has something to do with it. Mine is neither a real-world setting infused with supernatural elements (as Naomi Novik’s Temeraire series, or Katy Moran’s Bloodline), nor a supernatural world with the trappings of real-world history (as Megan Whalen Turner’s Queen’s Thief series, or Guy Gavriel Kay’s Tigana). The “fantasy” comes instead from exploring real-world issues—slavery, racial and class prejudice, political corruption, theories of government—in a setting informed but unrestricted by reality. It’s magic-less, but it’s no less fantasy.

Top 10 Tuesday: Books to make you cry

Top Ten TuesdayI feel like I should rename this as “Books that will make you cry if you, in fact, cry for books.” I don’t, typically. The following books particularly moved me—if I did cry for books these would be the ones that did it—but I think I only truly cried at the first. Some spoilers follow, naturally.

  1. The Lantern Bearers, Rosemary Sutcliff. Unsurprising to most of you who know me and my reading preferences. This is my favorite of her books, it’s very nearly my all-time-favorite book, and yes I have cried while reading it. Through most of the ending chapters, but especially at this part:
  2. Aquila was staring into the fire, his arm across his knees. What was there to say to Flavia, after their last meeting, and the years between? And then he knew. He put up his hand and freed the shoulder-buckle of his leather tunic, and pulled it back; he dragged up the loose woollen sleeve beneath, to bare his shoulder, and leaned toward Mull in the firelight. ‘Look.’

    Mull strained up higher on his sound arm, and looked. ‘It is a dolphin,’ he said.

    ‘A friend did it for me when I was a boy.’ He let his sleeve fall and began to refasten the buckle. ‘Ask her if she remembers the terrace steps under the damson tree at home. Ask her if she remember the talk that we had there once, about Odysseus coming home. Say to her-as though it were I who spoke through you, “Look. I’ve a dolphin on my shoulder. I’m your long-lost brother.”‘

    The Lantern Bearers, Oxford University Press, pg. 292

  3. The Shining Company, Rosemary Sutcliff. Not even among my top five of her books, probably, but undeniably a tear-jerker.
  4. Lavinia, Ursula Le Guin. This one is for entirely personal reasons and perhaps inexplicable; but I first read this book very soon after I’d spent three months living in Rome, and nothing else has captured Italy quite so well.
  5. My hearing is good. I can hear a mouse breathe among the fallen oak leaves. Through the noise of the water in the cave I can hear the roar and rumor of the vast city that covers all the Seven Hills and the banks of the father river and the old pagus lines for miles and miles. I can hear the endless sound of the engines of war on all the roads of the world. But I stay here. I fly among the trees on soft wings that make no sound. Sometimes I call out, but not in a human voice. My cry is soft and quavering: i, i, I cry: Go on, go.

    Only sometimes my soul wakes as a woman again, and then when I listen I can hear silence, and in the silence his voice.

    Lavinia, Mariner, pg. 272

  6. A Farewell to Arms, Ernest Hemingway. I don’t have my copy with me and so can’t quote it word-for-word, but the scene in which Catherine admits her fear of the rain because “sometimes I see me dead in it.” And then, at the end of the novel, when Frederick leaves her dead in the hospital room and walks out into the rain . . .
  7. The Things They Carried, Tim O’Brien. The passage in “On the Rainy River” when the narrator is considering dodging the draft and running to Canada and he weighs his past and his future and decides he will be a coward and go to war.
  8.  . . .They were all whooping and chanting and urging me toward one shore or the other. I saw faces from my distant past and future. My wife was there. My unborn daughter waved at me, and my two sons hopped up and down, and a drill sergeant named Blyton sneered and shot up a finger and shook his head. There was a choir in bright purple robes. There was a cabbie from the Bronx. There was a slim young man I would one day kill with a hand grenade along a red clay trail outside the village of My Khe.

    The little aluminum boat rocked softly beneath me. There was the wind and the sky.

    The Things They Carried, Broadway, pg. 59

  9. Across the Nightingale Floor, Lian Hearn. One of my favorite historical fantasies. It’s the first in a five-book series, but I’ve never felt the inclination to continue on to the other books, because I feel the story is self-contained and perfect as it is—and also because my favorite character is tortured and dead by the end.
  10. The House of the Spirits, Isabel Allende. I loved and hated this book. It’s one of the most frustrating, heartbreaking redemption stories I’ve ever read; because there is redemption in the end, but at such a cost.
  11. One Corpse Too Many, Ellis Peters. This one haunted me. I know it’s supposed to be a cozy murder mystery, but the picture of a rural medieval town coping with the aftermath of a bloody civil war is surprisingly vivid and hard.
  12. The Children of Húrin, J.R.R. Tolkien. By far the darkest and most painful story from the Silmarillion, and that’s saying a lot.
  13. And last, to lighten things up a bit: Jeeves & Wooster by P.G. Wodehouse. I laughed so hard at these books that I cried, so there.
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