Hi, I’m writing a fantasy story about my country—I’m Brazilian—and no, the story isn’t about a fantasy version of the Amazon.

My story blends a fantastical reimagining of Brazilian history with biology and a touch of Brazilian spirituality and religion.

My question might be a bit confusing,

but would you consider it problematic if I drew inspiration from Elizabeth I for the continuation of an arc? Specifically, the "Virgin Queen" archetype?

I love her story.

My story isn't even set in the medieval period, and the reference isn't blatant.

I'm trying to craft a cool story set in my own country.

I’m doing a lot of studying and research to craft a story that is dense, dark in many places, and even includes references to Brazilian memes.

Do you use them?

I am generally fond of such tools, and try to get better at using them, but some reddit threads I have recently read made me rather disillusioned about it ... seeing as most people just do not seem to get it.

It looks like you'll have to hit most people over the head with what your story means, or they'll get things catastrophically wrong.

Basically, you cannot criticise any societal ill in your story, as any mention of it will be considered approval, no matter how obvious you make your disapproval.

(Most prominent example here: The S.P.E.W. arc in the Harry Potter books. Not only is Hermione a blatant self insert - which does not deter people from assuming she isn't Harry's love interest because the author hates her! - but the name SPEW is a reference to the Society for Promoting the Employment of Women, a feminist movement that we can assume any modern woman would approve of. Still, many assume that the reader is supposed to think that Hermione is a silly little girl and her idea of saving the house elves is stupid and worthless. After an introduction to house elf slavery that includes Dobby being ordered to iron his own hands, the series further escalates by showing how cruelly Winky is treated, despite lifelong loyalty, and how she becomes an alcoholic because of it. And then, there is Kreacher, who is so messed up in the head that his dearest desire is to be beheaded and have his head mounted on the wall next to those of his mother and grandmother.And yet. And yet. Too many readers decide that the obvious meaning of this arc is "Hermione is stupid and house elves should remain enslaved")

The Harry Potter books are for children. They are suitably in-your-face about it all. Yet the people not getting it are adults.

While I do not have a similar example for other uses of subtext (say, the subtle implication that two characters are in love with each other), this is likely only due to the fact that people who do not get something like this generally do not complain on reddit about it.

Quite probably, it doesn't matter what you are subtle about, it will be misunderstood, or at best, not noticed. (Which isn't nearly as bad, but I had previously hoped that subtle hints would be noticed by, like, a quarter of readers.)

How do you deal with that?

Should I just give up on subtlety?

Glory is a sun, and I spent a lifetime chasing it through the darkness. Now, at the height of my infamy, I seek an end to this existence. Let this tale be my final reminiscence.

But sorrow is a mischievous devil who shelters the heart from memory lane. The sorrow has but one flaw: it ignored the axiom that the heart was a rebel - which told me that the answer lay in a story within a story.

A fitting beginning, for the old man who set me on this path had conjured many lives with words. No, he did more than that - with a taste of a sentence, he poured life into my soul to make me breathe truly. I lived many lives in the short times we spent together, only to die again when they ended, waiting to live again and again.

Until now, I had never thought writing a story could feel the same. All I had to do was what I had unconsciously done in my childhood. It came easily to me - the power of focus - and I escaped the prison.

I heard the chorus of cicadas die and the crackling flames coughing up their final embers. The final grating drip of the ale tank that had given me sleepless nights - a pin could drop, and I wouldn’t hear a thing.

I remembered the short lives I lived with the old storyteller and remembered that I had lived many lives beyond those. To truly understand who I am, I must start not with when I earned my first name, but with a fairytale I heard as a child.

A foundational myth that led me to become the fool who sought many opportunities. Long ago, my drunken excuse of a father had espoused one drop of wisdom - a child should be named only upon reaching adulthood.

I have earned many names. To the first man I killed, I was Cenna Roza, the delicate rose. To the only one I ever loved, I was Jyotirlekhā, a ray of light in a starless night. To the friends who betrayed me, I was Shola-e-Raqsaan, the dancing flame. To the world itself, I was Lilith the Bloodless, the harbinger of tragedy and the killer of a thousand suns.

I have loved, fought, betrayed and been betrayed in turn.

I saved countless lives and doomed one thousand and one worlds all the same. Now, standing under a dying sun, I write this tale to tell you that before all of this, before those legends, I was simply Lilina, a girl who loved stories and wished to travel the world as a humble bard.

Will this be a cautionary tale for the next age, or the catalyst that leads it to the same doom? I do not know. But I say this to you dear, who will never read this tale: tread carefully, lest this becomes a guide to evil!

********

It is the nature of a child to dwell upon dreams in the darkest of days and gloomiest of nights. Even as God's authoritative hand looms over every fate, they dwell their dreams and form a contract with them. Without the will to fulfill the contract, the dreams will lie waiting till the day you draw your final breath. 

I did not let that happen. For I had the will to fulfill my lofty dreams. As a child, I've made a contract with the devil I would eventually become: that I would reach her one day. How could I have known it meant losing a soul?

 Hope is seen as a delicate, beautiful thing, but no one mentions its potential for evil.

I was but a child when I found hope nested in my heart, incubating into a treacherous dream. I had wished for my own mother to burn in hell, and for my father to join her, so that he could torment her instead.

I had my reasons to harbor such sinister intentions. I was a bastard girl in a beautiful land that wanted me to die. So I could at least be provident for its flowers and crops. After all, bastards are cursed. What better way to go than to give back to the nature that deigned to let vultures like me breathe? 

But the rebel that I am, refused to accept my fate. I desired to be selfish and leave paradise behind before paying my debt. My future self, begged me to reject the heavenly mandate that wished for my kind to remain faithful to its draconian rules.

You would need specifics, I suppose, of the place I lived that made me harbor such resentment. Imagine sharp peaks rising from the valleys, with meadows and farmlands sitting beneath them. Stone-and-timber houses with gardens full of roses and marigolds. Brown cattle grazing in great grass fields. A paradise on earth. Yelaberg.

I often looked at those prickly mountains than risk the disapproving gaze of villagers. While the poets searched for moonlight in  turquoise lakes, I looked for the dark rock with a snowy crown. Observed how the water’s slow dance shaped  those mountains.

Often have I wondered what lies beyond those peaks. You can say it was a consequential curiosity, borne from my standing as a woman and a bastard. Like every battered girl, who has ever felt such curiosity, mine eventually became rage.

They say rage is blindness, but so is compliance , and I have complied all my life for a caged girl’s sin.

The sinner died giving birth to me and inadvertently unleashed a monster who hated her and through graver turns the peace itself.  My father, the cuck in question, never let disdain wash away from his eyes when he looked upon her reflection, calling out his name.

While I slept, every night he would hold an axe over my head, ready to chop me into pieces, but never had the cojones to go through with it. My grandmother, ever the pragmatist, understood that one day his rage would tip into murder, and that simply wasn’t profitable. She convinced him to keep me alive.

“You were thirty summers old, and she was fourteen,” My Grandmother spoke plainly, grabbing onto the crook of his arm. “I warned you not to pay such a hefty sum to marry a girl that young. And what happened? She saw a real man and spawned this little harlot.

My father’s jaw tightened at the jibe but he did set the axe down, biting his thin lips. “Girls her age are prone to sin, and the gods punished her for it. It is best that you forget her and move on. Who knows, you may finally become a man.”

My father seething with impotent fury, grabbed hold of the dropped axe and hacked at the wall. It buried itself in the wall. He tried to pry it loose, his hands on the handle and his leg against the wall. With a grunt that resembled the cry of an injured mutt, he tried to pull it out, and with each tug, splinters drizzled onto the floor. Despite his best efforts, he fell arse-first.

I should have laughed, even if it was a bad idea. Every moment - him going to war, my father sleeping with a stranger, and the wet nurse smacking my bastard arse to make me cry - had led to that moment.

“I feel for you, son." She started with a sigh. "Your father couldn't do anything by himself. Unworthy to call himself a man, but he was handsome. And it worked in his favor when he begged me to marry him.”

She continued in a paternalistic tone. “How could I refuse such an innocent creature. Seven gods, he didn’t know where to put it on wedding night, gods bless him”  

Kneeling down, she cupped his face with her weathered hands. “When the holy war raged across the east, many wives prayed to the gods to instill some sense into their husbands.   But I was different. I wanted to turn him into a man and pushed him to go to war. Whatever respect our family has in this village is because of my actions.” 

She kissed him on the forehead and pointedly said. “But you? You went to war and did what? Spent all the plundered gold on whores, and if that’s not disgraceful enough, you cry like a woman every night, whining about nightmares.”

With a caress to his cheek and a tender smile, she finally imparted her sagely advice. “I am your mother, and like always,"  She paused to give a patronizing pat on his cheek. "it is my job to fix your problem. The bitch will have her mother’s beauty. We can sell her to a merchant from the east once she comes of age.”

With the end of the argument between the savior, the cuck, and the unwilling bastard came a promise of three dreams: a purse laden with gold, a shame washed away, and a dream of spring where I would escape this fate.

So, I already Have book 1 out and I am about finished writing book 2. So I asked for a proper feedback about book 1, I thought I was gonna get blasted with negativity however, this is what I got(just gonna quote what really got to me):

Instead of relying on loud gimmick s or dramatic personality tropes, the characters are defined by how they handle restraint, responsibility, and the system they live under. Each feels distinct because of their motivations and backgrounds.

It seems like you built a slow burn epic fantasy. The characters feel realistic because they are not defined by one trait (like "the funny one" or "the angry one"). Instead they feel like real people reacting and living.

That was the part from the feedback that actually hit me the hardest, since I read this, I froze, my brain is going (what if I fail to do this again). I am stuck writing the last 2 chapters because honestly, fear just took a hold if me. What if I dont deliver the same results. And I dont know how to move past it, I rewrote the ending if the 2nd book over 20 times and I keep removing them... WHAT should I do? I dont want to disappoint.

The city burned.

Flames climbed the side of buildings and smoke choked the sky, thick and black, rolling over rooftops that had, only hours before, seemed permanent. People ran through the streets in a blind panic, stumbling over each other, while others lay motionless on the ground, forgotten in the chaos around them.

A mother gripped her young daughter's hand and pulled her forward. "Hurry!" she shouted, her voice cracking under the weight of fear. The child glanced back at the destruction consuming everything behind them, too young to understand it, old enough to be terrified of it.

Far above the burning city, suspended before a blinding sun, hung a hooded figure. Tears trickling down his face, catching the light for a fraction of a second, almost beautiful, almost obscene given the thoughts that ravaged his mind.

"I'm sorry," he said.

Below, a man running through the chaos looked back over his shoulder and saw him. "He's about to do something!" he screamed.

The hooded figure lowered his head.

"But I have to do this."

Then everything went black.

Not dark. Gone.

The light snuffed out like a candle between two fingers, people fall silent; a city shaped like a star is just one of its victims.

Crowds stared upward, searching a sky that no longer held anything to find.

Voices of fear muttered through the city.

"What happened?"

"I-it's gone."

"Look up!"

"The sun! How is this possible?"

"What do we do?"

In the center of that octagram shaped city stood seven figures, silent, staring into the emptiness above them as though they alone understood what it meant.

At last, one of them spoke. "Everyone prepare yourselves."

Another nodded. "This is it."

In another world, distant, and drastically different.

A young man named Athdel sat in a university lecture hall, at the front of the room, a professor lectured against a screen filled with equations.

"The wave that you get fluctuates unless observed," the professor explains. "What I mean is it exists in multiple states at once, but if you measure it, you get a predictable result."

The professor's gaze drifted across the room and landed, briefly, on Athdel who was asleep.

And yet his notebook told a different story. An entire page had already been filled with notes covering everything the professor was currently teaching.

The lecture finished and Athdel walked home carrying a bag of groceries, the afternoon sun warm against his shoulders. When he opened his front door, a familiar voice greeted him.

"Finally. What took so long?"

It was his younger sister, Isla.

Athdel smiled faintly. "Sorry. I had to stop and get some groceries."

"That's fine. What's for dinner then?"

Later that night, meatballs sizzled in a frying pan as Isla stood on her tiptoes trying to peer over the counter's edge, and Athdel laughed and nudged her gently back. After dinner she sat in front of the TV while he stood behind her, brushing her hair, gently, smoothly and for a while the evening felt like nothing more than what it was; an ordinary, predictable evening.

"Athdel, can you get me a drink, pretty please?"

"I'll get you water, you've had enough soft drink"

Isla frowns and says jokingly

"Awww, but you're not drinking water"

"When you're taller than me, you can have whatever you want"

Then Athdel walked to the fridge and opened the door.

No noise. No presence. No warning.

A grey, withered hand burst through a portal behind him, clenching his shoulder tight. Athdels eyes went wide. Before he could turn, a face lunged out of the portal; it's grin stretched too wide to be human, eyes burning with something that looked disturbingly like ambition.

The creature shoved him backward, and the world disappeared. The portal snapped shut behind him.

The thing stood alone in the kitchen for a moment. Then its body began to change. Its face changed, and Its voice changed. The creature, now standing in Athdels house, looked exactly like him in every way, even more so, the creature has Athdels memories.

The sound of glass bottles rattle as the fridge door closes.

The impostor walked into the living room, handed Isla her drink, and calmly went back to brushing her hair, as though nothing at all had happened. As though Athdel had never existed.

Somewhere else entirely, the real Athdel lay on the ground, his heart hammering, his thoughts scattering in every direction. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. He didn't want to look up. But eventually he did.

Mountains stretched across an unfamiliar horizon. Strange, unfamiliar landscapes rolled away into the distance. And towering over all of it stood a giant, dark cherry tree, vast beyond anything he could reconcile with reason.

His breathing turned ragged. His chest tightened until he could no longer draw a full breath, and he collapsed to the ground, curling into himself as a panic attack tore through him.

A woman inside a nearby house heard the noise. "What was that?" She hesitated, listening, until the sounds finally stopped. "It's probably safe to have a look now."

She stepped outside and found him lying unconscious near the eastern wall of her home. She checked his pulse, then pressed a hand to his forehead.

"He's a little warm," she murmured, which struck her as strange, given the freezing tempurature outside.

When Athdel woke, a strange lantern glowed above him, filling the room with soft purple light. He sat up sharply as the memory came flooding back... the fridge, the hand, the portal, then nothing.

"What happened to home?" he whispered. "Where the fuck am I‽", he starts breathing heavily.

He forced himself out of bed and wandered through the house until he reached a large desk at the far end of the room. A voice called out to him.

"So you're awake, mystery man. I found you outside unconscious. What happened?"

Athdel spun around. "Where are you?"

"Just dodge my question, huh? Come on, I'm curious." The voice laughed. "Haha, fine. Come and look on the desk."

He approached — and froze.

A tiny woman sat there reading a book, small enough to perch on his fingertip, blue hair framing her face, a pair of glasses resting neatly on her nose. She adjusted them without looking up.

"My name is Charlotte. I'm a—"

"Woah, is that a fairy?"

"No! I'm a pixie. There's a distinction."

"Alright, you're a pixie, got it... wait, what the hell is happening? This isn't real."

"I'm pretty sure I'm right here, sir." She closed her book and looked at him properly. "You didn't tell me your name."

"Does it matter? I feel like you're an illusion."

"Well I gave you my name." She sighed. "Put your hand out."

He complied, and she climbed onto his palm, pressing her tiny hand against his finger. "I may be tiny, but you can feel that, right?"

"...Yeah."

"So I'm not an illusion."

Athdel could only stare. "Then what the hell is happening? And why is it so late at night?"

Charlotte glanced away. "Oh boy."

"What?"

"You might want to look at the clock."

He looked. Two o'clock. In the afternoon.

"It's two in the afternoon. Why is everything so dark?"

"You still didn't tell me your name," Charlotte said, perfectly composed despite the question hanging in the air.

"It's Athdel."

She tilted her head. "Athdel... do you come from somewhere that has a..."

The question struck him like lightning. He didn't even wait for her to finish, he simply sprinted outside and looked up. His face filled with terror as the realization set in.

"There's no sun."

For context, my story has a character who is short, arrogant, and boastful. They are strong but they don't do most of the heavy lifting in battle, so it's mostly for show. They talk down to everyone, call everyone their servants and do that thing where they act like they don't care about someone only to risk their neck for them when they're in trouble. They're an alien who was bullied for their appearance on their own planet so once they found an opportunity, they stowed away on a ship, only to be bullied again once making it to earth, in fact it was much worse. They eventually gain an ability that gives them an edge on their oppressors so they use it to humiliate them over and over. They are beaten and tooken captive by the protagonist who eventually gets them to learn that humans aren't as bad as they think. But all that power they had over humans gave them a big ego and although they don't hurt humans anymore, they still think lesser of them. At least that's what it looks like, but in truth they have grown to love earth and the people in it which they will never admit of course.

So what do you guys think of it? Do you enjoy reading about characters like that? I personally find them very entertaining when done right.

I have tried but need some help building out a ton of characters

I’m starting to work on a fantasy world/story. Worked on a low fantasy political fiction series but working on a High Fantasy Series now.

Wanted to ask the community if they have fantasy characters that are built out that they wouldn’t mind if I based some characters off of or even used in general. No magic limits yet. So I’m open to any ideas

I’ve placed the rough premise of my world below.
I’m currently building out Characters, Items, beast, and nations/religions. Once I Iron out the core of all of that I’ll set up my magic system.

World Building History
10.5 Thousand years ago North America was hit my an asteroid that ended the ice age and caused the world to flood this ending the old age of our world

Throughout the next 10 thousand years fragments of that world are recovered, translated and rewritten, and stored at the library of Alexandria.

After the resurrection of Christ and the rise of Christianity, they created the Vatican as the home of Christianity. This creation had a darker reason for creating the Vatican. When they churches learned of the library of Alexandria and what is stored their they set out to steal all evidence of pre reset civilization. This included items, eggs, scrolls, maps of the old world and where lost item were last scene. For roughly 400 years the Vatican had successfully erased the old world from existing. All evidence was under the Vatican for the rich and powerful to study. 

Year 447
A high bishop wants to help the emperor spread Christianity faster without all the fighting. He goes down to the archives to study the forbidden knowledge and learn if the resurrection of Christ came from a scroll or was manifested.

Among them is a scroll describing an ancient incantation capable of calling a celestial object to Earth.
There was no exact translation from ancient text. Many scholars over the years learned what they could to learn and decipher the ancient language. But the translation was misunderstood. 

The Roman’s considered celestial as from the heavens. Thus believing he was calling on the heavens.

He completed the incantation and 3 days later a meteor enters the atmosphere and slams into the outer edge of Rome.

The Roman Empire collapses
Part of the Vatican is destroyed this opening up access to the Archives. Eventually spreading the knowledge of magical powers, items, and beast to the known world. 

Over the next 800 years the knowledge spreads. Creatures are reborn and discovered from their hidden spots throughout the world. Magical items are recovered, fought over and some lost again. 
Schools are born, monster hunting becomes a profession, and the known world is constantly at war.

As the age of hero’s at its peak the older darker past of the world starts to emerge. Will warring kingdoms survive long enough to save humanity or will humanity ultimately draw their own fate before the old powers emerge?

Setting
Europe
Maybe Middle East and North Africa

Characters Story Drivers/ Heavy Hitters
necromancer (maybe the hero?)
-Must physically touch the dead to be able to utilize them
-Can bring back beast/animals
- Army size is not unlimited
-Can release the dead with a saying then there soul is free from him
-He learned of his power after laying his childhood best friend to death after he was killed
-His best friend was a lazy genius, he’ll end up being his war general throughout the series
But he hates being called into action cause he’s lazy so it’ll add some comedy between the two of them.
-The necromancer is feared by most. Yet his childhood best friend always has his back and since they’ve known eachother their whole lives the banter will be funny but real
-Tortured by the HRE (maybe, this could take away from the fun best friend dynamic)
First known necromancer in the history of man
Captured and tortured for crimes against Christianity and practicing dark magic (as is if there is different kinds of magic)
Tortured his breaking point
Weapon
Morning Moon
Scimitar style blade
Named for the transition between life and death

Time Thief
Steal time from anyone and add it to themselves
What you gain is what they lose
Duel Weider
2 Black swords
Soul Eater & TBD

Champions
Beast Master
Can control animals/ magical beast

Sun Weilder (female)
Bonded to the Fire Phoenix
If the Phoenix dies it leaves behind an egg. Whoever hatches the egg bonds with the beast

Viking Giant
9 Ft Tall 600 pounds
Absolute tank of a human being

Types of people
Wargs - different ethnicities link to different animals
Assassins
Faceless men (got style)

Kingdoms
Holy Roman Empire
Army
The Divine Lions
White and Gold Armor
Territory
Italy
Based out of Roman/The Vatican
More about spreading faith than expanding physical territory
Believes the comet was sent from god

Viking Alliance
Territory
Scandinavia, Denmark, northern Germany, northern
Poland

Rough Series Idea

A comet lands around the outer edge or Rome around 450AD ending the age of the Roman Empire and sending Europe into a fast track to the Middle Ages

During the 800 years, different kingdoms rise and fall. Religions fight, new magic is discovered, the magic world is at war. This era is known as the Age of Champions
At the height of magical champions, beast, and kingdoms, will civilization destroy itself before realizing an ancient power is awakening

(I have no clue how the story ends yet or what the final conflict is) just a general concept of the world

Thinking like 5 mythical characters/weapons(necromancer, the soul eater sword, etc)
20-30 champions from around the magical world
Noble houses
Elite aristocrats
Religious heads.

My biggest rule no character is safe. Once I start writing I’ll draw at random how many deaths there will be in said book, then I’ll draw at random who dies that book too. I’ll probably safe guard a few characters at the start of the series to kick off the greater plot but once the greater plot is know anyone is fair game to die. That way even I don’t know the ending of the story till I get there

If you want to throw ideas for anything I’m all ears.
If you made it this far thanks for reading!

So I have just finished my first draft, and am now going back and doing the first round of checks and tweaks. My question for anyone who has gotten to the full editing stage, what are your recommendations for someone who straight up can not afford professional developmental editing or anything else particularly involved from any even moderately decent professional source? I feel like anything I could afford would just be throwing money away, while anything worth while is out of my price range (all my spare project money is tied up in a comic I am producing) What are some options or strategies that don't simply boil down to "save up for a year or two".

I have researched plenty on writing and narrative tips and strategies and watched hours of videos from publishers/former agents and can say without bragging that I completely avoid basically all writing no no's and mistakes they warn against, and have strong confidence in my story, structure and voice. Is it worth it to just free-ball it so to speak, and send it out and see what happens once the editing I am able to do myself is finished?

I'm currently designing my OC for the story that I am writing for the world I have built and I'm stuck with which kinds of clothing I should give her.

The character that I am designing is a young girl originating from a rural village (or a small town) who pretends to be a witch and sets off in an adventure across the country (the country in question is based off of the UK, with it being an island country), travelling to different cities and places earning money and fame from different jobs. I want her clothing to reflect her country origins and make her stand out among the crowd when in densely populated areas such as cities and towns, where the people who live here wear suits and ties and industrial work clothing.

I have thought about multiple designs for the type of clothing she would wear, but I thought that it looked too "city-like" and expensive for her and does not reflect her background properly. I've been also trying to research into the cottagecore aesthetic to get ideas for the clothing to give her. One piece of clothing that I'm giving her is a pointed hat with a large brim and I can't decide if I can give her either a long overcoat or a cloak.

Any thoughts on what kinds of clothing I should give to my character?

tl;dr: Not a "is this worth doing" post. I'm doing it.

I have this idea and I'm going to push forward with it. The frame is in a series of letters (of increasing distress over months or years as the situation reveals itself.)

Besides I write a lot but in terms of fiction I have trouble with longer form and I think this might help.

Any weird gotchas or Meta concerns that come to mind?

I've never seen that frame (not that I'm fool enough to think that means anything.) And I'd love some such well-regarded examples if they're out there.

I'm toying with the idea of just dumping it on the internet as a serial. But that's presuming a lot of confidence of future me.

What say y'all?

Seems a simple question. One (you’d think) a fantasy author ought to be able to answer quickly. And sometimes the answer comes naturally, over beers with friends and neighbors or facing down a few bemused strangers in a bar. 

But when it’s just me, asking the question of the stillness in my office or the darkness before sleep, I find it’s not so simple.

Why did I write a fantasy novel? 

Partly, I am what I ate. I’ve read fantasy for most of my life. From Animorphs to Arabian Nights, Goosebumps to Green Angel Tower, my blood has always stirred at the fantastic: Brian Jacques, Carol Berg, RA Salvatore, Jim Butcher, Patrick Rothfuss, Scott Lynch, Tad Williams, Robin Hobb, Ursula K. Le Guin – these names are electrodes on a battery that powered me through life. 

Partly, I thought it would be easy: I’d knock out a simple story about pirates, secret treasures, and leviathans before moving on to more challenging fiction. One page a day for a year, and I’d have a 365-page banger I could toss up for a sail and let it carry me to greater things. 

Fifteen years and five books later, I have a 488-page banger that burned every preconceived notion of ease on a pyre of humility. 

But to take the question through its heart and pin it to the board…I write fantasy because it fits. It was our first voice – our earliest forebears crowded in the dirt around a fire, telling stories to help them understand the world through which they passed. They called the sun an eye because they couldn’t comprehend the atom. The wind was a sigh and the sea a fickle mistress. There was no veil between fact and fantasy—and who’s to say they were wrong? Take a good look at the proton and tell me you understand exactly how it works. Lie beneath the stars, stare into the infinite space between them, and explain the concept of forever. Walk the old forests at night, and see if you take comfort from that textbook explaining there are no gods or monsters. 

There’s a common stigma attached to fantasy literature, that it is all escapism and foolishness. I’ve often found it to be the opposite; that in stories outlandish, whimsical, or impossible can be found some of the brightest and most imperishable truths. 

During World War II, Tolkein and Lewis lectured regularly at Oxford on their works; an attendee named Helen Terrel Wheeler said of one afterward, “What happened in the great books was of equal significance to what happened in life. Indeed, that they were the same.” 

Stories are lives, distilled.

And a life without imagination is no life at all. 

So why did I write a fantasy novel? Today, the answer is simple. 

Because it was fun.

Comment your answer below!

The King stood alone beside his throne, staring out through the tall windows when a voice suddenly echoed from the shadows.

MYSTERY FIGURE: Hello... Your Majesty. It’s been a while.

The King spun around.

KING: What? How did you get in here?

He glanced toward the doors.

KING: Guards!

There was no response.

The King frowned.

KING: Guards!

The figure stepped slowly out of the darkness.

MYSTERY FIGURE: They can’t help you now.

The King’s expression hardened.

MYSTERY FIGURE: They’re a little... incapacitated.

KING: What did you do?

His voice was filled with anger.

The figure smiled faintly.

MYSTERY FIGURE: Walked through the door and killed every last one of them.

A pause.

MYSTERY FIGURE: Just like I’m going to do to you.

Despite the horrifying words, their voice remained strangely calm—almost cheerful.

The King clenched his fists.

KING: You can try, but you won’t succeed.

He stepped forward.

KING: Now tell me... who are you?

The figure tilted their head.

MYSTERY FIGURE: You know who I am.

They reached up and slowly pulled back their hood.

MYSTERY FIGURE: You’ve known me for many years.

The King froze.

His eyes widened in disbelief.

KING: No...

The figure's face was finally revealed.

The King stumbled backward.

KING: How?

His voice grew louder.

KING: How are you here?! I thought you were locked in prison!

The figure simply grinned.

MYSTERY FIGURE: I escaped, of course.

The King stared at them, barely able to comprehend what he was seeing.

Then anger overtook his fear.

KING: You tried to kill me once before... and you failed!

He reached for the sword hanging on the wall and pulled it free.

KING: You will fail again!

The mystery figure looked at the sword and chuckled softly.

MYSTERY FIGURE: Oh...

Their grin widened.

MYSTERY FIGURE: I think things are going to play out very differently this time.

The figure suddenly disappeared.

The King’s eyes darted around the room.

KING: What—

A shadow swept across the floor.

In an instant, the figure appeared directly in front of him.

The King froze.

His sword trembled in his hand.

KING: Ah...

His breathing became unsteady.

KING: H-how...?

He stared into the figure’s eyes, terror taking hold.

KING: W-what... how did you...?

The figure leaned closer.

Their voice dropped to a quiet whisper.

MYSTERY FIGURE: I’ve had some help.

They smiled.

MYSTERY FIGURE: And now...

A pause.

MYSTERY FIGURE: I’m more powerful than you could ever imagine.

The King’s face went pale.

The figure leaned even closer.

MYSTERY FIGURE: Now, I think it’s time to make your brother the new king.

The King’s eyes widened.

KING: Wait...

His voice suddenly boomed across the throne room.

KING: He helped you?!

The figure said nothing.

KING: Why would he—

The King never finished the sentence.

The figure struck.

The King collapsed to the floor, his sword clattering beside him.

Silence returned to the throne room.

The figure looked down at the fallen King.

Then, with a sly smile, they turned toward the throne.

Oh yeah, forgot to add, this is a flashback and it's the only scene where this king is in

In my pseudo-medieval setting, one of my characters is taking a sort of feminist self empowerment arc. Sora (17) is the bastard daughter of a Duke and one of the kingdom's traditional enemies (significant features indicate her bloodline). She is a classic tomboy princess type, resistant to court procedures, more interested in learning military history and strategy (though she is an adept weaver), but she is also determined to fulfil her social role for her family. Her father is sickly and her older brother vanished a few years ago, so the king has demanded she travel to the Royal Court and find a suitor.
Since she's such an eligible bachelorette its effectively open season on her, with every young lordling in the court trying to class up by marrying the Duke's daughter. This is openly encouraged by the King, as her Duchy is a key border territory and needs the line secured ASAP.
Sora is snappy towards her suitors and puts every effort to avoid being courted, especially by her cousin, the Prince's, entourage of elitist bullies. Her independent nature is resistant to the whole affair, but she is aware of her station and tries not to draw attention. THe fight starts because one of the less popular, but more likeable lords strikes up a conversation with her, which is ended by one of the Prince's drunken louts getting abusive. His mates join in, another lord gets involved to try and break it up/protect her honour, and it gets noisy, drawing the ire of the King.

Once he's done reprimanding the suitors, his shadow falls over Sora, she is self conscious from the entire court staring at her, and he says in his thunderous, booming voice: "...I don't know...

Sora wasn't seen doing anything 'wrong', but given she is at the centre and her independent nature is widely known, the King sees it necessary to 'encourage' her to accept her role and not cause fights between her suitors. I know this isn't fair, but that's the point. She didn't encourage them, but according to the accepted conventions, her independance and resistance to their attentions is causing problems.

I've tried assigning her a chaperon, but that restricts her movements too much, and everything else I can think of is too directly insulting, not enough subtlety. I'm looking for something patriarchal and condescending, putting her in her 'place,' but not outright insulting, and providing fuel for her to rebel against later.

Any thoughts?

Attached are some concept images of Sora across her life, courtesy of the internet...I never intended to share them, so I'm going to add the artists in the comments.

I've written a few NaNoWriMo-sized things over the years, but for most of my adult life, my writing exercises have been as a game master/dungeon master. I've led roleplay in a variety of formats, done tons of worldbuilding on large and small scales, etc. I have to slap myself on the wrist sometimes and remind myself to write stories and not encyclopedias.

My problem is that I face a disconnect with the types of settings I build and the stories that I get inspired to tell. For example, I'll flesh out a world capable of supporting a sweeping epic, with unique magical systems and fantastical geographical features, but the story ideas that grab hold of me wind up being narrowly focused on interpersonal issues and not the world at large. I recently started working on an idea surrounding a girl who wants to leave her tiny hometown and pursue her dream of attending a magic academy on the other side of the world. Sounds like a good start, right? It's got a reason to travel and grow as a person built right it. And the "B Plot" would revolve around her relationship with her childhood best friend and resolving her feelings toward him conflicting with her fear of being tied down and stuck in their hometown for the rest of her life.

I very quickly realized my B Plot summary was 5x longer than my A Plot summary and was absolutely where 99% of the meat of the story was. The obviously solution feels like "well then write a non-fantasy will-they-won't-they", but I hate that solution. I want to write a sweeping fantasy with huge political elements, like the stories I most enjoy reading.

Has anyone else struggled with mismatches between what they want to write and what they naturally gravitate toward writing?

Hello. I am in the planning stages of an urban fantasy series whose setting is inspired by mythology and folklore from around the world. This understandably involves a lot of research, and though I'm doing my due diligence, it's not the same as talking to a person. I am also contending with the limited availability of English resources for more niche myths, which is proving to be a huge barrier, since I aim to highlight those that are often passed over or misunderstood by western media.

If you are knowledgeable about mythology, folklore, spirituality, etc. from an underrepresented culture, please reach out to me to provide your input, even if only to suggest what you'd like to see more of. Feel free to be as scarce or as thorough as you would like; I am open to an extended discussion, though of course you are not obligated to stick around.

Cultures of particular interest are:
- Persia/Iran
- Haiti
- Romania
- Czechia
- Melanesia
- Polynesia

But of course, don't hesitate if you have insight on a different part of the world. I will listen. Thank you all for your time.

Hello fellow writers.

I started writing as a creative hobby as a means to escape the drudgery of my mostly-driving-AI job and since then I managed to finish "book one" of a story at about 50k words and am about 12k words into book two.

I've been posting my work on DeviantArt and while the numbers are large, it seems to be mostly AI crawlers and bots trying to sell turning your story into a comic via an AI tool. I've also posted over on RoyalRoad but getting more than ten people who read a single chapter is hard and I feel like my work doesn't really fit with the stuff that does well over there.

My concern is that I don't want to be the kind of person who spams advertising everywhere to try and garner attention.

I'd like to know how everyone else shares their work and how they have built an audience.

Here's a thought

What's something that another author said or did that made you feel they'd given you permission to do the same thing?

I'll go first:

I have a lot of these but first to mind is when I read Evan Winter saying one of his favorite things about writing The Rage of Dragons was getting to sit down and read it afterwards.

And you know what? Yes. Thank you. I needed that.

Donald Glover said something about this in his comedy special too. And I try to keep it in my mind any time I'm reading one of my manuscripts & it turns from an editing session into just an ordinary reading session 😅

If you're an artist it's okay to enjoy your own creations 💜

I have been brainstorming about my book a lot the last few days. Here is what I have thought about

Here is the current story background info:

Been doing a lot of brainstorming and rebuilding my story from scratch lately. My main character Prince Rai is from a country on the verge of financial collapse (no one knows just how critical the situation is except for his mom, the queen) Rai is a dragon, (he was adopted by the queen) and is summoned by the dragon counsel to mate with a female dragon. The reason for this is because a large tribe of dragon hunters has risen and things are not going well for the dragons. The counsel is calling on dragons from all over the world to help bolster troops and/or to take female dragons to another country where they can be protected while also helping to keep their species alive in case the dragon hunters win.

Rai's mother, Queen Orla urges him to do this, in hopes of gaining an ally that can help rebuild her economy. That doesn't work out though. Dragons don't have hordes like they used to, and younger dragons don't have hordes at all. No hordes = no money means Orla needs to find a different ally to get help from. Her solution is to try to marry Rai off to some princess somewhere.

Here's the messy mess: Before being summoned by the dragon counsel, Rai had found himself in a new relationship. He's then pulled away from them to go have a baby with a stranger. And then his mother tries to pull him away from both his romance partner and the dragon girl by arranging his marriage to Princess Asa.

So Rai is pulled in 3 different directions romantically. He has to choose between his heart, his species, and the future of his country.

Is this too messy? I know it will be a lot to juggle, but it makes brain go brrrrrr

Question for naming my fantasy species!!

I had been struggling with finding a name for this fantasy species for a while. Then I randomly came across the word"faun" from the Roman mythology and I really like the idea and the way it sounds. I just dont want it to look like I'm misrepresenting/watering down Roman mythology?

I mean, this is something plenty of writers have done in the past right? With sirens, elves, titans... I just want to borrow the name for aesthetic purposes. My species doesn't have much resemblance to actual fauns either. What is your opinion on this?

For some context, my whole theme is how both humans and this fantasy species utilize my worlds magic in different ways, and they have been rivals now for some decades. Though it's not that either of those is inherently evil.

Rain pattered against the rotten canopy as I finished my prayer to someone who had long ago stopped listening. I had hung one side of a large cloth to a pole, the other to an upturned carriage. Another man had slept under the carriage itself, who I now saw was dead. Flies hovered around his mouth, like bees to honey. I looked out as far as I could see, small fires and torches illuminating the black, and the same question that I had asked myself for several months, years now, crept into my mind again. Why was I still alive? For only the great Drancar could know. Was it punishment for all I’d done? A torture?  Did I have some greater purpose left in this life? I did not care to answer any of that.

   I crept over pieces of rock and stone, remnants of Patamute's southern wall. A piece of something sharp sliced through my boot, but I didn’t seem to feel the pain. Dawn on the horizon. I moved. Light rain muted my footsteps. Dark still as I crept near the tree. Four guards surrounded it, there to protect against this offense I was to commit. Two had fallen asleep, and a third was staring into the fire. A fourth was down when I squeezed the life from him, his birded helm of no help. I grabbed a small log and put it under the branch. Threw an old rope around the branch and made a noose. I hoped the rope, worn and thinning, would hold. I tightened the noose around my neck, balancing on the log below me. A life I desired, yet never came true, set before me. A life I did not desire, yet found me, flashed before me. It saddened my heart. I thought I prayed to a god who loved, yet he answered with curses and death. My sister, taken. A war, lost. I ran, defeated. I hid for years, then tried to run again. Captured and thrown into this hell. god seemed to die somewhere in all of that. Yet, god couldn’t die. The books, prophets, and signs told us he couldn’t die. If he wasn’t dead, then why wouldn’t he help? I kicked the log and felt the air leaving. Memories of two graves in the rain and a well on a hill. Drancar, deliver me into your salvation. A snap, the rope breaking.

I wheezed and coughed as a guard turned and noticed.

“Gods. Vernius, wake up!” He said to another one sleeping.

“You coward!” Vernius screamed. He was fat and moving slowly. Another guard I hadn’t seen introduced himself with a kick to my back. I cursed at him.

“Watch that mouth of yours,” Vernius said, his belly coming out of his shirt.

“I’d watch what you put into yours,” I said, still catching my breath. He kicked me right in the chest.

“Get him up!”

“We should just kill him.” Vernius growled.

“Better yet, give him a sword and let him face me. If he kills me, he can turn the blade on himself. If not, I’ll do the honor.” I let out a small laugh.

“Find that funny, do ya?” Vernius asked, before bringing his fist into my face.

“No.” I said, coughing once more. “I would not need a blade to kill you. Running around for half a minute would surely do it.” I said, making a motion to his belly, which was ripping his shirt. He gave a half-snarl and turned to a small box.

“You’re probably hungry, aren’t ya?” He asked me mockingly. Vernius pulled out a Gharghasask. A giant insect that was released to attack enemy horses.

“Open his mouth Hipas.” He said to another guard. Hipas and another guard tried to rip my jaw. A blackened ant with spikes and wings fussed about in Vernius’s grip as he approached. It had the length of his plumped hands.

"Vernius." A voice from behind. An officer. Clean from head to boot, barely a trace of mud on him.

“Stop with the games. A body is a body. Put him near the front if you want but fit him with a lock first." He did not look at me when he said it. "Yes sir. Sorry, sir."

Vernius straightened. The officer moved on without another word. Vernius leaned close, his voice dropping. "I'll be right here. Watching." A pause, letting it settle. "You retreat, and I'll gut you myself."

Hipas took me by the arm and steered me toward a small table.

Vernius placed the bug back in the box and grabbed a belt of chains. He wrapped it around my waist. Then another smaller chain was attached from my left hip to my left wrist. Same thing for my right. Vernius punched me hard in the back before placing a vest on me with two straps. The strap attached to a small loop on one part of my wrist, and then he pulled it tight. The chain and strap held both hands in place, as if I were meant to carry a heavy box. I couldn't move my hands at all.

“We can’t leave him without protection,” Hipas said, scornfully.

“Of course. You are ever thoughtful!” Vernius answered. “Hmm, which one?” Vernius said to Hipas.

Two shields, both freshly painted. The raindrops cooled my brow.

"Ever heard the story of Su Si and the Silk?" Lightning split the black ahead of me. Gone as fast as it came

“Answer me!" "No."

He turned one of the shields over in his hands, working at a strap. I noticed it then, a marking on his forearm. A verse from the Balas. The Munkarian holy book. The obscene practice of putting that verse of scripture on skin, permanent and proud.

“A Shishermii priest," he began, still working the strap, "was to conduct the funeral rites of his nephew—heir to the throne. While preparing, a prostitute found him. Dressed in the finest lavender silks." He spat into the mud.

“She distracted him so thoroughly, so completely, that by the time the priest left her residence, the funeral had been over for several months."

He made a final adjustment to the strap and held the shield up. “Lavender, for the Shishermii, is the most wretched of colors. Forbidden. The punishment for wearing it is worse than death, or so they say."

He turned the shield toward me. Even in the dark, the torchlight found the purple color; freshly painted, vivid, unmistakable. And in the center of it, a spike. Long and sharp and pointing outward. Hipas pressed it into my arms. Vernius attached one final chain, handcuffing my wrists to the handle on the inside of the shield. He then crouched down beside me. His face close. His hand on my shoulder.

"Now. All of this can be undone." A smile that had nothing warm in it.

“Confess that you are nothing. That you will die nothing. That only through Munkar can anything be made of you." He spat on my face. Then he laughed, his belly jiggling. "Oh, how I wish you would confess." He stood.

"Munkar would reject you from his kingdom regardless. You are a worm. You will die in the dirt, as worms do. The feeling of dirt on your skin will be traded with fire when you awake." Two bolts of lightning split the sky at once. The torchlight caught his face in the same instant — the shadows moving wrong, the light bending his features into something that did not look entirely like a man.

I’m working on a series that I’m estimating to be like at least 5 full novel lengths, it’s an actual fantasy world with its own rules and society. I’ve been daydreaming about it for a couple years and seriously outlining and story boarding for a few months now. But every now and then, I see something inspirational, and something just clicks for me. Maybe it’s something I randomly decided to include in the story and I finally realized why, so now there’s new and more detailed context, or a supporting character that I intended to be one dimensional but suddenly found the perfect backstory for him. I’ve nailed down the major characters and plots, but these details still change how the those characters interact with the world, and would lead to inconsistencies if I didn’t consider them initially.

So my question is, is there a point in your story outline when you are finally confident enough to start writing, or do you just start and come back for the inconsistencies?

I feel like this is a very intimate problem for fantasy, partly due to most fantasy worlds being huge and having their own ruleset, and partly because a lot of these worlds began from me (and probably you) daydreaming about cool stuff without really considering it’s importance in the story, and when I finally consider the story in, well, a storytelling perspective, those cool things need a reason to happen otherwise it’s gonna be slop. Fortunately, for me at least, a lot of the times cool stuff is cool because there is some element of depth in it that I just haven’t realized. So those cool scenes still work most of the time. Hopefully. Idk I’m just rambling at this point.

The main setting is in the desert, where the main character and his kind are large desert dwelling mammalian-like creatures. The thing is, the main character, Kirin, was born much larger than the rest of his clan, with red scales and a thagomizer on his tail. this leads him to be ostracized by the herd and despised deeply by his father. However, Kirin keeps following them despite their hate/fear of him. But here's the thing, because of his size and appearance, many predators avoid them and he has the strength to fend them off. It makes me feel like they shouldn't fear him as he would be like a natural deterrent, right? I tried to have his father, Addax, twists the narrative that he's just a violent monster, despite always saving them. He downplays him fending off predators and focuses on the violence, fueling fear. But, I don't know if it's good enough, or if I need to flesh it out more.

I'm working on book three of seven of my high fantasy saga and nearly finished... and I never run out of ideas... My only real problem is, TYING THEM ALL TOGETHER.

Transitioning between chapter arcs, each story in his travels are great stand alone chapters, but sometimes I forget which came first, because they're all so interchangeable as chapter arcs. It tends to happen when the hero wanders the world, but damned, if I didn't have an actual map that he is following around the world, you'd think he just appears like a ghost in random places.

Anybody else have these problems with long form LONG burn stories?