You know you’re writing fantasy when:
-Months become "moons"
-You finally decide to try mead
-You dive into ancient deity rabbit holes on Wikipedia
-You're realizing simple math is harder than you thought
-You're placing vewols where thay don't belong bacause it laaks cool
-You're slowly learning to make mead
-Looks cool also to rearrange words, and so it you do, and with brazen stride
-You dive into medieval history rabbit holes on Wikipedia
-You try elderberry wine
-You're watching videos of people tumble so you can accurately describe how your rogue escapes an enemy with perfect execution
-You're slowly learning to make wine
-You dive into industrial age rabbit holes on Wikipedia
-There is naught but mead and wine; drink deeply and revel, fellow bards
-You've spent so many moons immersed in worldbuilding that you've become a master of the quill and all quake at the power of your written word
Just Go With It
You know you're writing fantasy when your ongoing storyline gets more and more outlandish, but hey, it's a fantasy story, so it's all good!
Shameless self-promotion for my own ongoing fantasy storylines:
"The Ultimate Hero Network? A Short Story Collection" - https://theprose.com/book/3184/the-ultimate-hero-network-a-short-story-collection
"New Adventurers: Enter The Pirate & Crew!" - https://theprose.com/book/3137/new-adventurers-enter-the-pirate-crew
You Know You’re Writing Fantasy When…
You know you’re writing fantasy when you start building a world so deep you have to explain your explanations…
When you have notebooks with notes trying to come up with the best made-up,unpronounceable names for your characters…
And when you realize you should really rethink this world you’re building ’cause even you can’t keep it straight.
You know you're writing a fantasy
when your characters
all live happily ever after.
You know that you're writing a fantasy when your principal calls you in because you keep googling lethal doses of poison and how to procure them in nature.
You know that you're writing a fantasy when you accidentally start cursing in a made-up language.
You know that you're writing a fantasy when you get stares in public as you not-so-subtly make spell-casting hand motions to yourself.
You know you are writing fantasy when
Your computer gets flagged by the school system
When you have hundreds of websites bookmarked.
When you know more than most people about mid evil weapons
When you create a monster that scares even your friends
When you create a whole new universe, plants and stars.
When you create other realities and their rules.
Nothing by Janne Teller
This story isn't that old. It was written only 21 years ago (2000). However, I do consider this tale to be rather obscure and would like to share it. It definitely makes sense as to why the book didn't garner much acclaim but the story is quite fascinating and bizarre.
Synopsis: A youth named Pierre Antoine is undergoing an existential crisis and frequently remarks that there is nothing in life to live for (hence the title, "Nothing"). His classmates are eager to prove him wrong and embark on a challenge to form a heap out of items that have the most meaning. Among these bizarre items are a baby's corpse, a handkerchief with a young girl's bodily fluid, a cross stolen from a church, a dead dog, somebody's braids and a variety of other things. There is no major adult intervention whatsoever in this story.
In the end, Pierre Anthon, along with the heap of "meaning", are set aflame by the other kids.
My thoughts: When I first stumbled upon this book, I was probably around the age of the character cast. My first thought when I finished was "What the actual !@*&# did I just read?"
The prose the author utilized wasn't particular flower but it was concise and got the message across. Each string of words felt so visceral and raw. It was like numerous consecutive punches to the gut and it's even worse when you consider the fact that such morbid thoughts were spoken from a child's perspective.
It was the first time I had gone through a story on my own that had ended on a sour note. Sure, I read Hamlet in school and skimmed the tragedies of Sophocles. But the difference was that I had a vague idea of how those stories would end. I had been spoiled by SparkNote blurbs while my English teacher took us through each tragic tale.
I had no clue what to expect when reading Nothing. In the back of my head, I knew nothing good could come out of a tale about deranged kids hoarding things but I wasn't ready for the shock value.
When Pierre Antoine goaded them to find something with meaning and mocked the every time they presented something new, it was blatant that the other kids were pissed at him.
But I didn't expect the to be vengeful enough to k i l l him and collect his ashes as a souvenir afterwards.
Excerpt describing Pierre Anthon's death:
"I don’t know if it was gruesome or not. Looking back on it now, it must have been very gruesome indeed. But that’s not how I remember it. More that it was messy. And good. It made sense to beat up Pierre Anthon. It made sense to kick him. It was meaningful, even if he was down and unable to defend himself and eventually wasn’t even trying.
It was he who had taken the heap of meaning from us, just as he had taken the meaning from us before that. It was his fault, all of it. That Jon-Johan had lost his right index finger, that Cinderella was dead, that Holy Karl had desecrated his Jesus, that Sofie had lost the innocence, that Hussain had lost his faith, that …
It was his fault that we had lost our zest for life and the future and were now at our wit’s end about everything. The only thing we were certain about was that it was Pierre Anthon’s fault. And that we were going to pay him back. I don’t know what condition Pierre Anthon was in when we left the sawmill.
I do know what he looked like, although that wasn’t what I told the police. He was lying all awkward with his neck snapped back, his face all blue and swollen. Blood was running from his nose and mouth and had also colored the back of the hand with which he had tried to shield himself. His eyes were closed, but the left one was bulged out and seemed strangely askew beneath the gashed eyebrow. His right leg lay broken at a quite unnatural angle, and his left elbow pointed in the wrong direction. —"
In terms of plot, I have to say it is quite marvelous and definitely does illustrate what the author is trying to intend. That is, if you can look past the fact that none of these kids have no sufficient adult supervision or guidance in their lives.
The story starts off by posing a question "What is meaningful?"
And the rest of the story tries to answer that to no avail. What is meaningful to one kid holds no meaning to another. This spurs a number of arguments and conflicts.
In the end, the one kid who was content with not finding meaning was brutally murdered by those who could not agree on a single definition of meaning. He started off as an outcast and ended as an outcast. It's simultaneously ironic and befitting.
In short, this story is messed up on many levels. But it is definitely thought provoking and guides the readers through a very interesting journey.
Read it here: http://m-o-r-g-a-n.com/ezn/wp-content/uploads/2014/11/Teller_Janne-Nothing.pdf
Pick up this phone.
It feels so cold.
Ignore the fact,
It doesn't have a dialtone.
Smile at me,
Through that thick window,
I'm glad to see you,
Even for these few minutes.
Now stop your crying,
You know we can't be long,
And forget what they are telling you,
No, you don't belong.
How was your day?
Yes, that is great news.
No new bruises,
I'm happy for you.
How am I?
Child, we don't have the time.
It's not a song and dance,
We don't have to rhyme.
I love you, dearly.
It has never stopped.
And one day when is seen clearly,
We will forget this loss.
Moments and seconds,
Please don't look away,
Even through unseen torture...
You...you have such a beautiful face.