Look Further Than Your Own Back yard

In my personal experience it has been difficult to study fantasy without considering history. Perhaps not strange, given that most western authors seem to set their work in something spun out of a fantastical medieval Europe. Not to mention the amount of borrowing that has been done from Norse mythology. That said, there is so much more to the genre than “Eurofantasy” and history is not the enemy here, no, I consider it a great ally. What better way to open our eyes to something new than looking at the history of someplace foreign?

As far as storytelling goes, there are a number of very old stories that have been retold time and again. In fantasy I suppose that would mean the Tolkien-esque stories, high fantasy paired with that sense of wonder brand of magic. To be frank though, I am no longer interested in stories about The pretty Elf of the Woodland realms with AHmazing archery skills or the burly Dwarf under the mountain with a bad Scottish accent.

(I haven’t forgotten about you either, Mr. tall-dark-sexy-brooding-mysterious-hooded-assassin-protagonist. Nope.)

By no means are these stories bad! *cough* They have their place and their audience, and that is awesome. For them. No, seriously.

What I would love to see, is that more authors in the west (read esp. Europe, the U.S. and Scandinavia) would study other cultures and be inspired by them. Show better representation! The main characters do not all have to be 2o-something white males. Add a bit of spice! But don’t go all dune on me, or actually, why not? Let’s travel the universe. Better yet, I would love to see more fantasy work translated from other languages available in the local stores. Well, just seeing more fantasy in the stores at all would make my day!


Then again, perhaps I am wrong! Perhaps there is plenty of novels out there and I am just looking in the wrong places. But seriously though, let us all look a bit further than our own back yard.

More cultural diversity in fantasy!
In my mind, there is no better genre for it.

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Iron shackles, calloused hands,

Rowing, drums, and splinters.

Sky-sent fire, ancestors rumble,

Spear and howls,

Rain and thunder.

Lives, lived and lost.

But fragments still linger.

I am as we were, as they were as I am.

What use have we of gods? 

We who came before.

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There are times when I need to be alone,

When even the noise of nothing in particular,

By someone very specific,

Which I have come to love ~

Become too loud.

The moments are rare and far between,

But every once in a while,

I need absolute quiet to smile.

We have learned, she and I,

To communicate, and in spite of my need for silence,

We always talk.

Respite comes only after,

And disaster never follows.

So do as she does, and as I do too,

Fear not confrontation,

It can be very good for you.

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Reader’s Greed

Give me something fantastical, epic, and with a hint of strange.

Tell me a story of not only Sword and Sorcery, but of life, love, and everything between.

Show me characters of the fascinating variety, and make me care!

Make my heart bleed and make my eyes water, make my eyebrows rise, and make me smile through laughter.

Satiate my hunger, cater to the passionately curious, and give us new perspectives.

Enlighten me to flaws I didn’t know or realise I had.

But if you only ever do one thing for me, my dearest Genre, Fantasy ~

Tell me a story.

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Too Loud

There is too much noise,

Too much interference.

I can’t hear it at all,

Through all the static.

What’s on my mind, how am I, what am I thinking?

Your guess,

Is as good as mine.

Knowing you, probably better!

I need the isolation, the silence, and the dark,

Not all the time,

But just enough to start.

The words never stop,

But through the static,

I can’t hear them.

They linger,

And demand to be heard.

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Work Work

As Tomorrow declares war,

On the sought-after midnight roost,

I dread the inevitable incursion of Dawn.

But as my alarm rings, and I hit snooze,

For the fifth time ~

I know I should count myself among the fortunate few,

Who are able to count an early day at work,

As the greatest of their tragedies.

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Weary, Dreary, Tired

Stories are for the weary,
exhausted workers,
dreading the dreary everyday rhythm.
Custom made,
for maximised disruption of normality.
Books and moving pictures,
or still-framed narratives,
consumed by properly caffeinated minds.
Why are we hooked on artificial clarity,
and fictitious heroes?

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