What in the World …

Reviews of my novels have cited richly built worlds and characters. It is a deliberate extension of paying attention to the sensory impressions of my own world.

In the night, when a cold nose brushes my hand, I can tell which floof demands my attention by the texture of his fur and the length of his tail.

Through an open bedroom window, I hear tires on the pavement a mile away, then acceleration as they come out of a curve, the engine changing pitch as it nears.

At 4:30 am, robins sing a greeting song as first light begins to shove aside the night. Soon, a catbird joins in, then cardinals, sparrows and finches, a thrush and a blue jay. A distant caw breaks the song like an overzealous percussionist.

Stepping outside, I the heat rushes me as if from an open oven door, and with it comes the feeling like a hot wet towel has been pressed to my face.  Even without radar, I can tell from the sense of impending change that storms are coming.

I can taste the salt on my lips as my body struggles in the heat, hoping for a breath of wind to cool it.

Molten asphalt steams with the aftermath of the cold rain, raising steam plumes and petrichor as the worms stretch out across the wet pavement and a double rainbow arcs across the sky.

I know my world—its sights, its sounds, its sensory impressions—as surely as anyone else knows theirs. I find meaning in it, profound or mundane, leading me to think, or act, or even just log into my memory something that defined an ordinary day.

I know the names of plants in my garden, the common weeds and trees, or what’s on hand to eat. I know what is out of the ordinary: a sudden boom outside, or a helicopter overhead, or all the birds in the trees suddenly taking flight on silent wings.

The world builds character

The characters that populate fiction also know their worlds, whether they are in a contemporary setting, futuristic, or the “second world” of the typical epic fantasy. The world and the character should feel like they naturally fit together. Their deep knowledge of their own reality thus helps make the extraordinary stand out. Likewise, the reader should almost immediately feel immersed in that world and see logic in the characters and their reactions.

As I built my invented worlds, I suspected I was missing something. I was. I needed a better picture of how a people came to be in that world.

When my kid went off to kindergarten, I started taking classes in anthropology (who knew this would lead to a masters in archaeology, and eventually PhD minor in anthro … oops). The worlds I built had to have economies and cultures that felt natural.

Anthropology was the perfect tool for this. The American Anthropological Association defines anthropology as “the study of what makes us human, exploring the full sweep and complexity of cultures across all of human history…”

If engaging with non-human characters the same applies: what made them who they are? Often it is dictated by their world.

The natural world

As humans evolved and moved from nomadic to settled life, we built our communities and dwellings around natural resources: for survival, commerce, and eventually both. Those communities took on characteristics related to location, say a river that floods frequently, or a region with harsh winters. As civilizations advanced, so did the commodification of their resources and how culture emerged through them: from miners to fishers to farmers and all the various services that supported them.

Thus, natural questions arise in fictional world building: if a city is built on a mountain top, where does the food come from? How is it being supplied? Who, and where, are the farmers producing it? Where does the water come from? Why in the world are they living there?

 

Complex worlds create complex characters

From the earliest humans, beliefs and rituals formed around major life events, such as birth, death, adulthood and seasons. Our forebearers, faced with questions they couldn’t answer and needs they didn’t know how to meet, passed their knowledge down, their stories and experiences developing into cultural beliefs. They might come to worship a rain god in an area prone to drought, or a mountain deity in a place with volcanoes. Over time, those beliefs evolve, often moving far from their origins to become more or less important with layers of ritual that seem more like habit. Thus, characters’ environments also engender their beliefs. What does that look like? Are there temples? Special holy days or celebrations? Monuments or figurines? Does everyone believe?

Cultural difference often drives conflict. It’s a theme that emerges in all of my novels. In BLACK RIVER, a religious schism becomes war with Kyle’s prophesied arrival after 500 years. In the forthcoming RYSLAD, differing interpretations of the laws and foundational mythology that govern the world contributes to conflict.  In THE ENCHANTER’S WEB trilogy, the gods use the people of Ea as their proxies for their own dispute, one side manipulating the aggressors to imagine resource conflicts as deliberate acts of oppression by a people who remain largely clueless.

Resource competition often underlies conflict. Uneven distribution of resources has come into play from as early as we have records. That might be a physical resource like a mine or fishing grounds, or something more class oriented like wealth, opportunity, and position. When disaster strikes and people are forced to migrate into new territories, conflicts will come to a head.

In THE ENCHANTER’S WEB, class conflicts can come from one’s occupation. For example, fisher/scholar Nali’s sense of “imposter syndrome” comes through as he realizes other scholars are mocking his clothing, which is stained and worn and smells of fish. When people from the mountains and lowlands are forced to take refuge together, mixing class and privilege, conflict emerges when a low-born miner’s son and a duke’s daughter fall for each other, leading to disaster.

In RYSLAD, Sayre imagines a stranger as a man of means who could help her escape the slums of Marhamere. Yet, she knows no one of wealth would be foolish enough to venture there. This “wishing tale” helps define the world she comes from and hints at the conflicts that will drive the story.

All we eat is stew

What do people eat? If in space, are characters creating substance from “nothing” a la Star Trek replicator, or do they have pre-made foods or a garden module? Are second-world people going to have the same selection of foods as Earth? Do they eat anything other than “stew”?

In THE ENCHANTER’S WEB, I refer to generic grains, roots and tubers as well as livestock, or in other cases more specific, like apples. I could create an entire dietary difference, but I chose to imagine our world in an alternate time rather than a completely alien place requiring lengthy explanations. I only describe commodities that become focal points, drive the plot, or become part of the plans for surviving an occupation. Many of those items also have their own cultural histories. For example, a special kind of fish oil needed to prevent conception at a forbidden time and a plant with healing and psychedelic properties, which became the basis of trade disputes. I want the reader to sink into this world without being distracted by too many deviations: it has to remain believable and relatable.

In BLACK RIVER, however, Kyle is transported to Metatha where he doesn’t know what’s safe to eat, what people believe, whether a language he’s been taught is still understood, and why birds seem to fill every niche that he might expect other animals or insects to fill. He applies his understanding of his own world to determine whether it’s worth tasting a piece of fruit the birds like, or drinking from a stream, and imagines the signs that he’s poisoned himself. He feels nostalgia for a world he does know, and the reader sees this new world through its differences to him.

In RYSLAD, Val finds himself in survival mode, trying to evaluate whether he can drink the water (regretting his choice), and forage edible plants from among the unpalatable.

Building a world

Their world shapes the situation, the plot, and the development of the character. It can take careful thought. With BLACK RIVER, for example, I use contemporary Wisconsin locations I know well. But I needed to imagine whether Metatha would have the same gravity. I gave it a different sense of time, and suggested that all the worlds that connected to Metatha operated on a different time from each other, which becomes a critical plot point. What would the sky look like, what would 500 years of change amount to in a civilization? In our world, over 500 years we can still understand much of Shakespeare’s writings, and those of the first Europeans arriving in the Americas. But the technology may be unintelligible, and cultural differences significant.

Kyle ends up traveling to multiple other worlds. What are they like? Have they changed in 500 years, or did 500 years not pass in those places?

I built maps: communities form near rivers, lakes or the ocean for reliable water, food and transportation, or perhaps at a crossroads on a trade route. The location determines occupations and associated culture. Nali is a fisher and his superstitions and beliefs culturally relate to the sea. The kinds of people who fill different roles in his community – from the merchants and officials down to the lowliest of laborers, have their peculiarities in dress, jargon, attitudes, traditions, skills, etc.

Not Instagrammable

Of course, the reader doesn’t want every detail. I’m not posting photos of breakfast on social media. But I want a sense of how easily they can find food or what they dream of when they are hungry. It deepens the sense of character and culture. For example, Nali steals milk to feed his children, then horses because his pregnant wife and young children can’t walk further. His character, known to feel inadequate to his role, has him full of shame and regret, despite his justifiable need.

The worlds I create need to appeal to the senses. The characters smell horse sweat and dung, the ocean or petrichor on the wind, or the mustiness of a marsh or pine in the air. They feel the texture of fine clothing or a weapon’s grip. Their observations reveal their setting and signal the extraordinary, from building storms to stump-filled dark rivers; they need to taste the quality of fine beer or perhaps their mouth waters for fresh bread. These details make the world real.

Not everything of course. Even I don’t want to read the step-by-step of my waking day, every thought, complete with photos. Nor do I want to read long info dumps. But by seeding the ground here and there, like Nali’s imposter syndrome, it makes sense when he doubts his judgment, then is more profound when later he finds his confidence.

We are the product of our environment is as true in fiction as in real life.

Cover photo Meg Turville-Heitz, Avalanche Lake, Glacier National Park, MT, 2022.

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