In the past fifty years, fantasy’s greatest sin might be its creation of a bland, invariant, faux-Medieval European backdrop. The problem isn’t that every fantasy novel is set in the same place: pick a given book, and it probably deviates somehow. The problem is that the texture of this place gets everywhere.
What’s texture, specifically? Exactly what Elliot says: material culture. Social space. The textiles people use, the jobs they perform, the crops they harvest, the seasons they expect, even the way they construct their names. Fantasy writing doesn’t usually care much about these details, because it doesn’t usually care much about the little people – laborers, full-time mothers, sharecroppers, so on. (The last two books of Earthsea represent LeGuin’s remarkable attack on this tendency in her own writing.) So the fantasy writer defaults – fills in the tough details with the easiest available solution, and moves back to the world-saving, vengeance-seeking, intrigue-knotting narrative. Availability heuristics kick in, and we get another world of feudal serfs hunting deer and eating grains, of Western name constructions and Western social assumptions. (Husband and wife is not the universal historical norm for family structure, for instance.)
Defaulting is the root of a great many evils. Defaulting happens when we don’t think too much about something we write – a character description, a gender dynamic, a textile on display, the weave of the rug. Absent much thought, automaticity, the brain’s subsconscious autopilot, invokes the easiest available prototype – in the case of a gender dynamic, dad will read the paper, and mom will cut the protagonist’s hair. Or, in the case of worldbuilding, we default to the bland fantasy backdrop we know, and thereby reinforce it. It’s not done out of malice, but it’s still done.
The only way to fight this is by thinking about the little stuff. So: I was quite wrong. You do need to worldbuild pretty hard. Worldbuild against the grain, and worldbuild to challenge. Think about the little stuff. You don’t need to position every rain shadow and align every tectonic plate before you start your short story. But you do need to build a base of historical information that disrupts and overturns your implicit assumptions about how societies ‘ordinarily’ work, what they ‘ordinarily’ eat, who they ‘ordinarily’ sleep with. Remember that your slice of life experience is deeply atypical and selective, filtered through a particular culture with particular norms. If you stick to your easy automatic tendencies, you’ll produce sexist, racist writing – because our culture still has sexist, racist tendencies, tendencies we internalize, tendencies we can now even measure and quantify in a laboratory. And you’ll produce narrow writing, writing that generalizes a particular historical moment, its flavors and tongues, to a fantasy world that should be much broader and more varied. Don’t assume that the world you see around you, its structures and systems, is inevitable.
We... need worldbuilding by Seth Dickinson
Hey, random writing tip: Instead of having something be a ridiculously unlikely coincidence, you can make the thing happen due to who this particular character is as a person. Instead of getting stuck on "there's no logical reason to why that would happen", try to bend it into a case of "something like this would never happen to anybody but this specific fucker." Something that makes your reader chuckle and roll their eyes, going "well of course you would."
Why would the timid shy nerd be at a huge sketchy downtown black market bazaar? Well, she's got this beetle colony she's raising that needs a very specific kind of leaf for nest material, and there only place to get it is this one guy at the bazaar that sells that stuff. Why would the most femininely flamboyant guy ever known just happen to have downright encyclopedic knowledge about professional boxing? Well, there was this one time when he was down bad for this guy who was an aspiring professional boxer...
I know it sounds stupidly obvious when written out like this, but when you're up close to your writing, it's hard to see the forest for the trees. Some time ago I finished reading a book, where the whole plot hinges on character A, who is 100% certain that character B is dead, personally getting up and coming down from the top rooms of a castle, to the gates, at 3 am, to come look at some drunk who claims to be this guy who died 17 years ago. Why would A do that, if he's sure that B is dead?
Because he's a Warrior Guy from a culture of Loyalty And Honour, and hearing that someone's got the audacity to go about claiming to be his long-lost brother in battle, there is no other option than to immediately personally go down there to beat the ever-loving shit out of this guy. Who then turns out to actually be character B, after all.
the problem with addiction is not that it's pleasurable. it's not "having too much fun" disease. it's not even a requirement for addiction that you have fun at any point in the process at all and to be honest it is incredibly common that no pleasure is gained from substance use. imagining that addiction is about pleasure does two things: 1) demonises feeling good (there is nothing wrong with wanting to be happy/comfortable/etc), and 2) frames addicts as people who Like Having Fun Too Much. it's simply not useful to frame things this way as well as just fundamentally not being true
Tender, Subtle Ways to Show a Character Cares
For the characters who will literally die before saying it out loud, but their body and habits scream devotion.
Letting them walk on the inside of the sidewalk
Memorizing their coffee order
Keeping extra gloves/scarves/snacks just in case they forget theirs
Texting: “Are you home safe?” instead of “I miss you”
Tucking their hair tag in
Offering the last bite, even if they really wanted it
Taking mental notes on what makes them nervous or happy
Saying “Call me if you need anything” and meaning it
Sitting close enough that their shoulders brush
Keeping an umbrella in their bag. Just. In. Case.
Being the first to notice when something’s off
Defending them behind their back
Refusing to let them feel dumb, even for a second
Remembering little details from a single offhand comment
Turning down the music when they walk in without asking
Just a bunch of things I've read recently.
The Authoritarian Roots of India's Democracy by Tripurdaman Singh
Why is Everything So Ugly?
Casual Viewing by Will Tavlin
“You are Next”: Unmarried Urban Women in India and the “Marriage Talk” by Shilpa Phadke
Crossing Days by Thomas Dai
Inside the Indian Manosphere by Lhendup Bhatia
Optimism and Desperation by Camilla Grudova
Everyone is Cheating Their Way Through College by James Walsh
Blunt-Force Ethnic Credibility by Som-Mai Nguyen
When My Authentic is Your Exotic by Soniah Kamal
The discontent of Russia by Joy Neumeyer
On anti-political projects by Kat Rosenfield
'Correcting' historical wrongs is a slippery slope by Manu Pillai
Flowers have a long history of symbolism that you can incorporate into your writing to give subtext.
Symbolism varies between cultures and customs, and these particular examples come from Victorian Era Britain. You'll find examples of this symbolism in many well-known novels of the era!
Amaryllis: Pride
Black-eyed Susan: Justice
Bluebell: Humility
Calla Lily: Beauty
Pink Camellia: Longing
Carnations: Female love
Yellow Carnation: Rejection
Clematis: Mental beauty
Columbine: Foolishness
Cyclamen: Resignation
Daffodil: Unrivalled love
Daisy: Innocence, loyalty
Forget-me-not: True love
Gardenia: Secret love
Geranium: Folly, stupidity
Gladiolus: Integrity, strength
Hibiscus: Delicate beauty
Honeysuckle: Bonds of love
Blue Hyacinth: Constancy
Hydrangea: Frigid, heartless
Iris: Faith, trust, wisdom
White Jasmine: Amiability
Lavender: Distrust
Lilac: Joy of youth
White Lily: Purity
Orange Lily: Hatred
Tiger Lily: Wealth, pride
Lily-of-the-valley: Sweetness, humility
Lotus: Enlightenment, rebirth
Magnolia: Nobility
Marigold: Grief, jealousy
Morning Glory: Affection
Nasturtium: Patriotism, conquest
Pansy: Thoughtfulness
Peony: Bashfulness, shame
Poppy: Consolation
Red Rose: Love
Yellow Rose: Jealously, infidelity
Snapdragon: Deception, grace
Sunflower: Adoration
Sweet Willian: Gallantry
Red Tulip: Passion
Violet: Watchfulness, modesty
Yarrow: Everlasting love
Zinnia: Absent, affection
Tips for writing those gala scenes, from someone who goes to them occasionally:
Generally you unbutton and re-button a suit coat when you sit down and stand up.
You’re supposed to hold wine or champagne glasses by the stem to avoid warming up the liquid inside. A character out of their depth might hold the glass around the sides instead.
When rich/important people forget your name and they’re drunk, they usually just tell you that they don’t remember or completely skip over any opportunity to use your name so they don’t look silly.
A good way to indicate you don’t want to shake someone’s hand at an event is to hold a drink in your right hand (and if you’re a woman, a purse in the other so you definitely can’t shift the glass to another hand and then shake)
Americans who still kiss cheeks as a welcome generally don’t press lips to cheeks, it’s more of a touch of cheek to cheek or even a hover (these days, mostly to avoid smudging a woman’s makeup)
The distinctions between dress codes (black tie, cocktail, etc) are very intricate but obvious to those who know how to look. If you wear a short skirt to a black tie event for example, people would clock that instantly even if the dress itself was very formal. Same thing goes for certain articles of men’s clothing.
Open bars / cash bars at events usually carry limited options. They’re meant to serve lots of people very quickly, so nobody is getting a cosmo or a Manhattan etc.
Members of the press generally aren’t allowed to freely circulate at nicer galas/events without a very good reason. When they do, they need to identify themselves before talking with someone.
There’s nothing worse than a forgettable villain. You know the type: cartoonishly evil for no reason, monologuing their master plan to no one in particular, and vanishing from memory the second you finish the book. A great villain, though? They haunt your thoughts, challenge your hero, and—sometimes—you catch yourself *agreeing with them*. If you want to level up your storytelling, here’s how to craft villains that stick.
Nobody wakes up one day and just decides to be evil (unless they’re in a Saturday morning cartoon). Real people are shaped by their pasts, fears, and desires—and your villains should be, too. Maybe they believe they’re saving the world, just in a way that costs too much. Maybe they were betrayed and now trust no one. Whatever the case, give them a *why*. Even better? Make your readers *understand* that why, even if they don’t agree with it.
Mustache twirling is out. Complexity is in. A villain who kicks puppies just to prove they’re the bad guy is boring. But a villain who feeds stray dogs while orchestrating a political coup? *That’s* compelling. The best antagonists aren’t evil—they’re driven. And when their goals put them in direct conflict with the hero, *that’s* where the tension comes from. Let them think they’re the hero of their own story.
Your villain shouldn’t just be a physical threat—they should challenge your hero’s beliefs, force them to make hard choices, and maybe even make them question themselves. When the antagonist represents a deeper, thematic opposite to the protagonist, you’ve got literary gold. Think of how The Joker unravels Batman’s moral code, or how Killmonger forces T’Challa to reconsider Wakanda’s isolationism. Conflict isn’t just punches—it’s philosophy.
Whether it’s a chilling line of dialogue, an eerie calmness, or a twisted sense of humor, give your villain something *distinct*. Personality matters. A unique voice, a specific mannerism, or an unexpected vulnerability can elevate your villain from “meh” to “iconic.” Think about what makes them tick—and what makes them *memorable*.
The scariest villains are the ones who are *almost* right. When a reader can see where they’re coming from—or even agree with some of their points—that’s powerful. It creates tension not just in the story, but in the reader’s own mind. And that’s exactly what a good villain should do: make you question, make you uncomfortable, and make the story impossible to forget.
What are some of your favorite villains in fiction? Drop your favs (or your own villain WIPs) in the tags or replies—I’d love to see them!
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