Tropes Not Cliches: More Thoughts On Making ‘Epic Fantasy New’ & The Importance of Character
On Saturday I cross-posted to a guest post on SF Signal, titled “Making Epic Fantasy New–Do We Need To?” (to find out my conclusion, you’ll have to check out the post, here) in which, amongst other matters, I discussed tropes and my personal view that every class of ficton has its own set.
On Friday, my post, here, marked the UK mass market release of The Heir of Night (with that funky new cover everyone seems to be liking!) Although I was mainly cross-posting to my UK publisher Orbit’s blog, I did add a few thoughts on how the big ideas behind a story have to work their way out through the characters.
I’ve been thinking a bit about both posts since, because I think there is an overlap. In both posts I come right out and say that I’m unashamedly writing classic epic fantasy. Yes, epic has tropes, but so does every style of fiction, and these happen to be tropes that I’ve always loved—of quests, high adventure and strange magic, heroism, friendship and love. However, I did think Paul’s comment on the “Making Epic Fantasy New” guest post, was also very valid:
“I think there is plenty of life in the old Tropes, if they are told well. That’s the key, though. Painting straight by the numbers gives any genre, especially one as prominent and large as epic fantasy, a bad name.”
To me, what Paul is underlining is the difference between a trope and a cliche. And avoiding cliche’s is where the characters come in. For example, I watched the first two episodes of Carnivale again over the weekend and it struck me that of course the central character of Ben Hawkins is literally the classic epic fantasy trope of a farm boy with a destiny. And although Carnivale is set in the Great Depression in the USA, and not a medieval Europe lookalike, it’s still very much epic fantasy in its conception, with forces of light and dark contending, the band of companions and plenty of strange magic, not to mention the farm boy with a destiny and superpowers.
But here’s the thing—I had never consciously noticed the trope when watching Carnivale previously. The reason for that, I believe, is because Ben Hawkins is not a cliche. As soon as he appears at the opening of the story he is very much a real person and distinct character—definitely not done by the numbers. I suspect the wonderful evocation of the world of the 1930s dust bowl also helps erode a feeling of cliche, even if the opening narration speaks very clearly of forces of light and darkness and the conflict-without-end between them.
So I was brought back to one of my assertions in the “Making Epic Fantasy New” post: “the thing I believe drives storytelling more than anything else, regardless of genre, is the level of interest in the characters …”
And also to my Friday post on The Heir of Night, which is both classic epic fantasy in its conception, but also very much character-driven storytelling. In addition to the two central protagonists, Malian and Kalan, I also discussed Malian’s father, the Earl of Night, and how even if not easily likeable, I hoped he would prove an interesting character for readers.
If that proves to be the case, then I also regard it as an achievement, because in his earliest conception he was definitely a cliche, ie ‘the tyrannical father.’ But as soon as I got into the guts of the story, that take on ‘who he was’ felt really unsatisfying to me. Sure it would have made writing the story a whole lot easier of he could have just been straight-out unsympathetic, but I really felt that character type wasn’t a trope—it was a cliche and a really boring one at that. In fact, pursuing it would have made Malian into a cliche as well, i.e. “feisty rebellious daughter” who opposes “tyrannical father”—and as I said in my “The Evolution of Character” post on Orbit, the whole thing about Malian is that she isn’t rebellious. She actually has a really high sense of duty and has grown up knowing and accepting both her destiny and duty as Heir of Night.
So if Malian wasn’t to be a cliche, then it wasn’t going to work casting her father, the Earl, as a cliche either—besides my being bored by that whole “rebellious daughter/tyrannical father” scenario. But what it did mean was that I had to spend a great deal of time thinking about why the Earl became the way he is (discussed on Friday so I won’t repeat here), and the forces that constrain him into a square that it’s equally important Malian thinks outside. I suspect a whole lot of that background thinking will never make it directly into the book, but my hope is that it helps make the characters and their relationship with each other authentic, real even, however classically epic-heroic the stage on which they play their parts.
“I think there is plenty of life in the old Tropes, if they are told well. That’s the key, though. Painting straight by the numbers gives any genre, especially one as prominent and large as epic fantasy, a bad name.”
To me, what Paul is underlining is the difference between a trope and a cliche.
Pretty much, yeah, that is what I was driving at 🙂
Glad I got that right! And it helped generate another epic fantasy post–how can that be bad? 😉
I had not considered that point about the Earl and Malian. That the Earl being the way he is adds richness and depth to who and what Malian is.
It is obvious once it is pointed out though – and very true.
I always feel that books, and also poems, should ‘speak for themselves’ and know also that they will speak to each reader differently, but if as author I can cast a different light on the landscape of the story, then perhaps there is a place for ‘speaking to’ my writng from time to time, after all …
I agree, the Earl is a great character for the depth you give him, and I think, as you say, Helen – it reflects well on Malian (and vice versa)
Thanks for the feedback, Ashley–I am glad you are “getting’ that from the story.
Absolutely, part of what makes the characters work for me is how they ‘bounce’ off each other, or are confined/constrained by each other.
That isn’t always a feature of some fantasy, when everyone either gets along a little too well for the most part. As an example, Eddings, perhaps at times, can do this with his early works. Of course, that’s part of what I like about those stories too, there is a real ‘group’ feel. Sometimes I just want more tension however (as opposed to outright (constant) conflict.
Regarding the tension within the band of buddies, this is something I worked on in one of my yet unpublished novels, ie tension withn the group, a litle bit of suspicion and fear cast around. I think, though, that if there is a very ‘clear and present’ external threat and danger, that any internal conflict will be minimised/set aside, simply because that’s what we do–when it’s about survival we rise above ourselves and only resume the petty squabbling once it’s safe to do so … In terms of grand alliances the removal of external tension also sees the different factions that necessity has brought together starting to compete for dominance, eg the Cold War followed the WW2 alliance of the UK-US-Soviet Union. I think there ‘may be’ a point to be drawn here in terms of the Derai’s internal divisions and the wider external situation with their traditional conflict …
Very cool – and I definitely see that tension and hints of suspicion in ‘Heir of Night’ already. And those external pressures can and no doubt must sweep aside a good deal of the internal conflict.
And I really like how you’re building that crisis for the Derai, as their internal divisions complicate the external forces you’ve set up. And isn’t that one of the secrets of maintaining narrative tension? When one problem/issue is resolved (partially or fully) a second (per-existing perhaps) one may come into the forefront to take its place? Exhaustive if done too much, I’d argue, but that’s perhaps part of what makes Jaransor so effective, it’s a respite – comparatively at least!
Yes, HEIR is just the first book and obviously there is much to work through yet … But if the suspicion is there that no one may be exactly as he/she seems then my work, if not done, is at least well begun …:) And I think it is true, and no spoiler given my Big Idea post in 2010, to say that the internal conflict within the Derai is as important as the external conflict with the Swarm. I also agree that changes of scene, as well as of perspective, can help with the pacing/tension balance in a narrative. But even in Jaransor, I think, older conflicts are hinted at. (And by the way, I’m talking about Jaransor again here.)
A very interesting post, Helen. I’m intrigued to hear the term “epic fantasy fiction” spoken of as a class of literature.
“Epic” — often confused with “lengthy,” or with a story told in multiple parts — is the whir of a mayfly in a tiny sunlit patch of meadow encountered while climbing the most dangerous mountain in the world.
That is to say, epic is about moments of digression in the midst of an exciting journey. These numerous sidetracks rarely advance any action, but rather work like good gossip in a fully inhabited world. Think of the hundreds of lines that Homer, Hesiod, Virgil and other epic poets would devote to the long (ekphratic) descriptions of the intricate designs on their heroes’ shields.
A great example of epic, no doubt, is Moby Dick. Do we really need all those chapters about “The Pipe,” “The Hat,” the meaning of “Cetology” and so forth? Yes! We do!
As for “fantasy” — all literature is fantasy. To create a new “epic fantasy fiction” would be to subvert some of the more common requirements, such as, for example, the need to travel. Is it possible for epic fantasy fiction to exist without the hero actually going anywhere?
Perhaps. I’m thinking about H.G. Wells (because I mention him in my post this week), who broke new ground by sending his traveler not across Melville’s seas, but through the seas of time — a new dimension. I’ve always believed, in fact, that the Time Traveler never actually left his home; in the same way Proust, also a Time Traveler, creates epic fantasy fiction through a largely immobilized narrator.
The point is, the epic fiction genre is still so very young and fresh — even the old is young! — our world growing so much bigger, with so much more to explore each passing day, how can we not invent new forms? As Shakespeare wrote: As long as bots can beep and web-cams see, so long lives art, and art gives life to thee.
Well, we like to intrigue–but regarding it being a ‘class of literature’, absolutely–& one with a fine tradition and heritage behind it, too.
I shared some thoughts last year on what I think makes ‘epic’, starting here, but confess I had not directly equated the current trend for 10-12 volume mega series with the antecedent works you mention, but perhaps I should have detected the similarity before. The Jordans, Martins and Eriksons are frequently accused of indulging too much in description as well …:)
Well, I certainly love Moby Dick and recall being entranced from the opening line of “Call me Ishmael” (one of the great opening lines of fiction, I believe.) It’s certainly an epic and there is something supernatural about the white whale—do you remember that description of ‘whiteness’, I think toward the later part of the book, where Melville gives us all its terror and immensity, a long way from the Victorian drawing room equation of white with a kind of simpering purity.
In discussing ‘epic fantasy’ as a class of fiction I am talking about it as a particular class of (ie that exists in) literature yes, but certainly not as separate from the greater body—a ‘subset of’ would be the more correct interpretation, one I am particularly choosing to focus on at this time. In terms of the heroic journey, I believe it is or should be possible to have such a journey that is inwardly conceived, but I can also imagine it being difficult to pull off in storytelling terms. A challenge perhaps? But a journey through the sea of time is still a journey (ie as is Moorcock’s ‘Sailor on the Seas of Fate’) so I will not exempt HG Wells from having sent his hero on a journey.:) Similarly, it is never quite clear whether Stephen Donaldson’s Thomas Covenant, who is suffering from leprosy, is physically or only mentally transported to The Land, and of course Edgar Rice Burroughs’ John Carter transported himself to Mars via an act of will …
Actually I don’t think epic fiction is new at all, I think it’s one of the oldest forms we have, going back to works like the Iliad (where the heroes we are constantly reminded are so much greater and more superheroic than the poet’s contemporary listeners) through tales such as Beowulf, the Matter of Britain, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, the Faerie Queene … And I am perfectly willing to be proven wrong, but it seems to me that the essential essence of these stories, the tropes they draw on, is enduringly similar although the outward trappings, as with my Carnivale example, may appear ‘new’ at first glance. But I will certainly say with you “vive la art” because however enduring the tropes they still have to ‘speak new’ to us in each generation.
I think you’re absolutely right, and I appreciate the examples of Moorcock’s Sailor, Burrough’s Carter, Donaldson’s Covenant.
I guess what I’m trying to say (as the deafening jet of genre flies overhead) is that books such as Don Juan, In Search of Lost Time, Moby Dick, Powell’s Dance to the Music of Time, Joyce’s Ulysses (this last book makes the point for me with its title) — these would all qualify in my mind as “epic fantasy fiction.”
So my question is: What differentiates such books from LoTR or AGoT? Can it really be the internal struggle of the protagonist? (Don’t they share the same struggles?). Is it the “alternate world,” the fact the LoTR and AGoT start and end in times and places that are different from the world we live in? (But wait, so does Proust’s work, so does Powell’s). Or is it something else, say, the made-up languages, the imagined histories and creatures and digressions of no practical purpose, or — in the case of AGoT — too many characters for even the author to remember?
But don’t they all share these elements to some degree? Aren’t these exactly what make a story epic?
A small quibble meant not to sully the spirit of your excellent comment but rather to further demonstrate the wonderfully prosaic, sometimes even tedious nature of the epic story: Contrary to what most people believe, the opening line of Moby Dick is not “Call me Ishmael.” Those three words come after we’re already over 3500 words into the novel. Rather, the book opens with the more mundane: “The pale Usher —- threadbare in coat, heart, body, and brain; I see him now. He was dusting his old lexicons and grammars…He loved to dust his old grammars; it somehow mildly reminded him of his mortality.”
Grammars and lexicons, dust and mortality. A truly epic opening.
Hey Zireaux,
Do not apologise for the quibbling, or even outright arguing the toss–it’s nice to feel that blogging can be about conversation and discussion as well as ‘broadcasting.’
So, on with the discussion–I would definitely agree that Moby Dick and Ulysses have epic qualities (I haven’t read the other works you cite, although it would probably be more accurate to say that I ‘attempted’ Ulysses rather than reading it as such!) but I don’t see them as fantasy because their fundamental premise is ‘real world’ and there is no ‘magic’, not even ‘magic realism.’ And I do feel that to be fantasy (epic or otherwise) there has to some element of magic, whether an alternate world with magic in it, magic armor and weapons, the deities or other sueprnatural beings having some involvement in the story etc. So War and Peace is an epic, yes, but not epic fantasy. To use another example, I have always seen Hesse’s “The Glass Bead Game” as speculative fiction (I use ‘speculative’ in the latterly fashionable sense of meaning Fantasy-SciFi—knowing you will rightly point out that all fiction, and a great deal of non fiction, is speculative—mainly because I have never been able to quite decide whether TGBG is fantasy or scifi) and so part of that longstanding and great tradition I mentioned previously, which incorporates more mainstream works (or what have become mainstream works) than many realise.
Regarding the opening line of Moby Dick, I suppose it depends on whether one refers to the actual story, as narrated by the central protagonist, or the Eytomological forward, which I have always thought of as being far nore in the authorial voice. So I fear you have just exposed the prosaic, plot-driven predisposition of my inner storyteller, whereas you, I suspect, are ‘seeing it slant’ (yes, I know, misquoting Dickinson) with your (hoary?) ‘poetic eye’. But I am always willing to defer to a poetic view and so concede you “the pale Usher” (hmm–just noticed that ‘white’ allusion again.)
By the way, I love “the deafening jet of genre flying overhead.” 🙂
I accept the pale Usher (one of the great characters in literature), and raise you the “magic” and “supernatural” of the Parsee (who prophesies the two hearses Ahab must witness before he dies); plus Queequeg’s talking totem Yojo, plus Elijah the Prophet, plus the Pequod‘s crucifying mast, the quadrant, the candles, the Sphinx, the lightning, the waves, the sky-hawk, the great white whale itself.
Well, I am always very willing to accept new—especially such prestigious—entries into the mighty canon of epic fantasy in literature.:) Although I do wonder whether those who are not of so egalitarian a disposition might not argue that some of your magical/supernatural examples, while believed by the characters to be ‘real’, ie they believe in their efficacy and/or symbolic significance, are not necessarily presented as something the reader must also believe is ‘real’, even in that world? For example, my recollection is that although the captain and crew imbue the whale with supernatural potency, I am not sure that we as readers are expected to believe that it has supernatural powers—whereas with a dragon, or even Shadowfax, Gandalf’s horse in LoTR, that is very much part of our suspension of disbelief.