I’ve always had this tendency to apologize for everything—even things that aren’t my fault, things that actually hurt me or were wrongs against me.

It’s become automatic, a compulsion I am constantly fighting. Even more disturbingly, I’ve discovered in conversations with my female friends that I’m not alone in feeling this impulse to be pleasant, to apologize needlessly, to resist showing anger.

After all, if you’re a woman and you demonstrate anger, you’re a bitch, a harpy, a shrew. You’re told to smile more because you will look prettier; you’re told to calm down even when whatever anger or otherwise “unseemly” emotion you’re experiencing is perfectly justified.

If you don’t, no one will like you, and certainly no one will love you.

I’m not sure when this apologetic tendency of mine emerged. Maybe it began during childhood; maybe the influence of social gender expectations had already begun to affect me on a subconscious level. But if I had to guess, I would assume it emerged later, when I became aware through advertisements, media, and various unquantifiable social pressures of what a girl should be—how to act, how to dress, what to say, what emotions are okay and what emotions are not.

Essentially, I became aware of what I should do, as a girl, to be liked, and of how desperate I should be to achieve that state.

Being liked would be the pinnacle of my personal achievement. I could accomplish things, sure—make good grades, go to a good school, have a stellar career. But would I be liked during all of this? That was the important thing.

It angers me that I still struggle with this. It angers me that even though I’m an intelligent, accomplished adult woman, I still experience automatic pangs of inadequacy and shame when I perceive myself to have somehow disappointed these unfair expectations. I can’t always seem to get my emotions under control, and yet I must—because sometimes those emotions are angry or unpleasant or, God forbid, unattractive, and therefore will inconvenience someone or make someone uncomfortable.

Maybe that’s why, in my fiction—both the stories I read and the stories I write—I’ve always gravitated toward what some might call “unlikable” heroines.

It’s difficult to define “unlikability”; the term itself is nebulous. If you asked ten different people to define unlikability, you would probably receive ten different answers. In fact, I hesitated to write this piece simply because art is not a thing that should be quantified, or shoved into “likable” and “unlikable” components.

But then there are those pangs of mine, that urge to apologize for not being the right kind of woman. Insidious expectations lurk out there for our girls—both real and fictional—to be demure and pleasant, to wilt instead of rally, to smile and apologize and hide their anger so they don’t upset the social construct—even when such anger would be expected, excused, even applauded, in their male counterparts.

So for my purposes here, I’ll define a “likable heroine” as one who is unobjectionable. She doesn’t provoke us or challenge our expectations. She is flawed, but not offensively. She doesn’t make us question whether or not we should like her, or what it says about us that we do.

Let me be clear: There is nothing wrong with these “likable” heroines. I can think of plenty such literary heroines whom I adore:

Fire in Kristin Cashore’s Fire. Karou in Laini Taylor’s Daughter of Smoke and Bone series. Jo March in Little Women. Lizzie Bennet in Pride and Prejudice. The Penderwick sisters in Jeanne Birdsall’s delightful Penderwicks series. Arya (at least, in the early books) in A Song of Ice and Fire. Sarah from A Little Princess. Meg Murry from A Wrinkle in Time. Matilda in Roald Dahl’s classic book of the same name.

These heroines are easy to love and root for. They have our loyalty on the first page, and that never wavers. We expect to like them, for them to be pleasant, and they are. Even their occasional unpleasantness, as in the case of temperamental Jo March, is endearing.

What, then, about the “unlikable” heroines?

These are the “difficult” characters. They demand our love but they won’t make it easy. The unlikable heroine provokes us. She is murky and muddled. We don’t always understand her. She may not flaunt her flaws but she won’t deny them. She experiences moral dilemmas, and most of the time recognizes when she has done something wrong, but in the meantime she will let herself be angry, and it isn’t endearing, cute, or fleeting. It is mighty and it is terrifying. It puts her at odds with her surroundings, and it isn’t always easy for readers to swallow.

She isn’t always courageous. She may not be conventionally strong; her strength may be difficult to see. She doesn’t always stand up for herself, or for what is right. She is not always nice. She is a hellion, a harpy, a bitch, a shrew, a whiner, a crybaby, a coward. She lies even to herself.

In other words, she fails to walk the fine line we have drawn for our heroines, the narrow parameters in which a heroine must exist to achieve that elusive “likability”:

Nice, but not too nice.

Badass, but not too badass, because that’s threatening.

Strong, but ultimately pliable.

(And, I would add, these parameters seldom exist for heroes, who enjoy the limitless freedoms of full personhood, flaws and all, for which they are seldom deemed “unlikable” but rather lauded.)

Who is this “unlikable” heroine?

She is Amy March from Little Women. She is Briony from Ian McEwan’s Atonement. Katsa from Kristin Cashore’s Graceling. Jane Austen’s Emma Woodhouse. Sansa from A Song of Ice and Fire. Mary from The Secret Garden. She is Philip Pullman’s Lyra, and C. S. Lewis’s Susan, and Rowling’s first-year Hermione Granger. She is Katniss Everdeen. She is Scarlett O’Hara.

These characters fascinate me. They are arrogant and violent, reckless and selfish. They are liars and they are resentful and they are brash. They are shallow, not always kind. They may be aggressive, or not aggressive enough; the parameters in which a female character can acceptably display strength are broadening, but still dishearteningly narrow. I admire how the above characters embrace such “unbecoming” traits (traits, I must point out, that would not be noteworthy in a man; they would simply be accepted as part of who he is, no questions asked).

These characters learn from their mistakes, and they grow and change, but at the end of the day, they can look at themselves in the mirror and proclaim, “Here I am. This is me. You may not always like me—I may not always like me—but I will not be someone else because you say I should be. I will not lose myself to your expectations. I will not become someone else just to be liked.”

When I wrote my first novel, The Cavendish Home for Boys and Girls, I knew some readers would have a hard time stomaching the character of Victoria. She is selfish, arrogant, judgmental, rigid, and sometimes cruel. Even at the end of the novel, by which point she has evolved tremendously, she isn’t particularly likable, if we go with the above definition.

I had similar concerns about the heroine of my second novel, The Year of Shadows. Olivia Stellatella is a moody twelve-year-old who isolates herself from her peers at school, from her father, from everything that could hurt her. Her circumstances at the beginning of the novel are inarguably terrible: Her mother abandoned their family several months prior, with no explanation. Her father conducts the city orchestra, which is on the verge of bankruptcy. He neglects his daughter in favor of saving his livelihood. He sells their house and moves them into the symphony hall’s storage rooms, where Olivia sleeps on a cot and lives out of a suitcase. She calls him The Maestro, refusing to call him Dad. She hates him. She blames him for her mother leaving.

Olivia is angry and confused. She is sarcastic, disrespectful, and she tells her father exactly what she thinks of him. She lashes out at everyone, even the people who want to help her. Sometimes her anger blinds her, and she must learn how to recognize that.

I knew Olivia’s anger would be hard for some readers to understand, or that they would understand but still not like her.

This frightened me.

As a new author, the prospect of writing these heroines—these selfish, angry, difficult heroines—was a daunting one. What if no one liked them? What if, by extension, no one liked me?

But I’ve allowed the desire to be liked thwart me too many times. The fact that I nearly let my fear discourage me from telling the stories of these two “unlikable” girls showed me just how important it was to tell their stories.

I know my friends and I aren’t the only women who feel that constant urge to apologize, to demur, to rein in anger and mutate it into something more socially acceptable.

I know there are girls out there who, like me at age twelve—like Olivia, like Victoria—are angry or arrogant or confused, and don’t know how to handle it. They see likable girls everywhere—on the television, in movies, in books—and they accordingly paste on strained smiles and feel ashamed of their unladylike grumpiness and ambition, their unseemly aggression.

I want these girls to read about Victoria and Olivia—and Scarlett, Amy, Lyra, Briony—and realize there is more to being a girl than being liked. There is more to womanhood than smiling and apologizing and hiding those darker emotions.

I want them to sift through the vast sea of likable heroines in their libraries and find more heroines who are not always happy, not always pleasant, not always good. Heroines who make terrible decisions. Heroines who are hungry and ambitious, petty and vengeful, cowardly and callous and selfish and gullible and unabashedly sensual and hateful and cunning. Heroines who don’t always act particularly heroic, and don’t feel the need to, and still accept themselves at the end of the day regardless.

Maybe the more we write about heroines like this, the less susceptible our girl readers will be to the culture of apology that surrounds them.

Maybe they will grow up to be stronger than we are, more confident than we are. Maybe they will grow up in a world brimming with increasingly complex ideas about what it means to be a heroine, a woman, a person.

Star Wars, as it was released in 1977, was an attempt to science fiction with three other classic film genres:

Westerns

Samurai movies

World War II movies

Everyone sort of understands that Star Wars is a space western (even if you forgot this fact, the recent release of the Mandalorian should have served as a good reminder), and most people get that the Jedi are space samurai.  (They have a strict honor code, and at least in the early episodes they held their lightsabers with both hands like a samurai, rather than holding them in one hand like a European medieval sword that was meant to be held with one hand while you held a shield with your other hand.)

However, I think nearly everyone has forgotten the reason that the first 1977 movie was simply titled “Star Wars.”  Most Star Wars movies since the original (even Empire and Return of the Jedi) have a third-act action climax that is resolved through some confrontation involving a lightsaber.

Luke didn’t have a lightsaber duel with anyone in the first movie.  Instead, he gets together with a bunch of his fighter pilot buddies for a dogfight in space. Luke’s big climactic third act victory is not winning a lightsaber fight, but being the last remaining pilot and, guided by the words of the wise Obi-wan, he trusts in the force and his instincts as a pilot in order to blow up the enemy aircraft carrier death star.  And you can’t have an air squadron without ground support, which we frequently cut to on both sides.

“Enemy fighters coming your way.”

We remember the glory and triumph of Luke’s victory.  What fewer people seem to remember is that the rebel squadrons were getting picked apart and the battle was nearly lost before Han Solo came in and played a critical role in helping Luke save the day.  It is dogfighting in space, using the same language as the World War II cinema that came before it, something that becomes apparent if you look at how the scene is shot: we don’t see just ships from a distance as they blow up in space in a grand spectacle of effects, we see shots of the pilots inside of their cockpits.

Storm Over The Pacific (1960)

Star Wars (1977)

This is a war being fought by individual airmen.  They might not have fleshed out backstories, but the mustached Red Three is distinct from the bearded and portly Red Six who is distinct from the clean-shaven Red Ten.

The movie makes a point of introducing us to Luke’s squadmates before they fly into battle: we have a roll call so that everyone can report in.  These aren’t just faceless characters: we’re given their callsigns and each of them gets multiple shots that clearly focus on their faces so that we get to know them as individuals before they fly into battle.  When an x-wing goes down goes down, we see the pilot reacting inside of his fighter before we cut to the view from space that shows the ship exploding into pieces.

Luke actually gets a very small portion of the screen time during the rebel run on the death star, and when he does, nearly every line of dialog he speaks reinforces the fact that he is part of a team. “Blast it, Biggs, where are you?” “Thanks, Wedge.  Good shooting.”

Even in the climactic battle, the movie doesn’t forget one of the most important thing about war, which is that it’s a process that is approximately 1% sheer adrenaline-pounding terror, and 99% grisly anticipation as you wait for things to happen.  This is true even when you are in a battle.

Something you might have forgotten from that movie: Luke’s squadron was not tasked with making the first trench run.  Their job was simply to draw fire, making strafing runs on the enemy’s stationary guns while the gold squadron made the first attack run to try to blow up the death star.  The first shot we see of the trench comes from the gold squadron’s perspective.

There’s a moment of sheer terror during the trench run when the death star’s stationary guns stop firing on them.  Why would they stop firing on us?  Answer: because the empire doesn’t want to hit their own ships.  The question doesn’t even need to be asked; the pilots immediately realize as the stationary guns stop that the empire must have ships on their tail, and immediately give the order to stabilize rear deflectors and watch for ships on their tail.  Including a face that you might recognize.

Darth Vadar has scarier weapons at his disposal than a mere laser sword. A lightsaber can remove your arm from your torso, but his TIE fighter can remove your pilot friends from the skies.  Of course, even the terrifying Darth Vadar can’t fly solo: he, too, is part of an army, just one of several TIE fighters who are on their tail.

The Rebels’ first trench run ends in loss and failure as the gold squadron of Y-wings is picked off, one by one.  They have to regroup and come up with a new plan: Red leader will make the trench run with the help of Red Ten and Red Twelve, with Luke, Wedge, and Biggs flying support.

“Just hold them off for a few seconds.  Almost there…”

During the final moments of the second trench run, the tension is so thick that the pilot’s face is wet with sweat.

The second trench run scores a hit!  But…wait, the death star suffers a shock, yet is still standing?  “Negative, negative.  It didn’t go in.”  The look on everyone’s face is pure devastation. 

The Rebels have only one remaining contingency: with Red Ten and Red Twelve gone, it falls on Luke to lead the third trench run, with his old friend Biggs and his new friend Wedge joining him.  But their final attempt seems futile: during the first two trench runs, they had been the ones providing support. With Luke, Wedge, and Biggs all down in the trench, who will fly support for them and take care of the TIE fighters on their tail?  What’s to stop Darth Vadar from following right behind them and picking them to pieces, just like he already did to the other Rebel pilots? And indeed, he and the other TIE fighters start to do exactly that. “We can’t hold them.” They’re on the precipice of defeat.  The John Williams score turns from optimistic and hopeful to to dark and despairing. After several shots on his fellow pilots, Luke is the only one remaining in the trench, and we watch in horror as Darth Vadar lines up the shot on Luke, the one remaining Rebel fighter.

“I have you now.”

Red Five, the man we know as Luke Skywalker, is the Rebels’ last remaining hope, and with no support, he is dead to rights. In order for this to work, they need a miracle.  And indeed, a miracle comes.

“You’re all clear, kid! Now let’s blow this thing and go home!”

In the prequel movies, the Jedi seem like invincible warriors.  Their lightsabers cut through battle droids like hot knives through butter. They make it look easy.  But when Luke and Han are recognized as heroes, it’s not because what they did was easy. It’s because what they did was hard.  They survived incredible danger.  Their companions made incredible sacrifices.  And in the day, their side won the battle at an incredible cost.

This is what Star Wars was about.  By the end of the original trilogy, it had become something else: a heroic epic about a boy with a special gift who was part of a grand legacy.  That is the legacy that is carried forward into the other parts of what is now known as “The Skywalker Saga.”  But in 1977, Luke was the farm boy with a knack for piloting who joined the Rebel army and won the war.  Sure, he had adventures along the way, and he even was in touch with the force, but this was the third act climax: dogfights in space.

In my mind, Rogue One is the only other Star Wars movie to even try to do anything close to this.  There’s a moment some time during the third act when every viewer realizes, “Oh wow, this is actually how things are going down.  I suddenly know how this movie is going to end, and yet I can’t believe they’re really doing this.  Are they really going to let a Star Wars movie end like this?”

Of course, Rogue One echoes the original not just in the fact that it is a war film, but that it is a cocktail blend of several genres.  Star Wars (1977) pulls influence from war films, samurai films, and westerns.  Rogue One pulls influence from war films, Hong Kong martial arts films, and heist movies, replacing the outlaws of the frontier with the outlaws of the heist movie, and replacing the laser sword-wielding space samurai Jedi with a force-sensitive monk played by Donnie Yen, who you might remember from many martial arts movies, including Ip Man.

Drafting

The Draft Notebook 

Be More Productive with Ambient Noise 

How to Steal: Know Your Tropes 

How to Steal: Good Writers Borrow

Write What You Know (Not What You’ve Experienced)

The Best Way to End a Writing Session

How To Finish a Draft

A Few Tips on Chapters

Language, Description, & Dialog 

“To Be” Or Not “To Be”: What Exactly Is Passive Voice?

Tagging Dialog 

Narrative Voice

Writing Better Descriptions

Basic Rules for Metaphors and Similes

Character, Plot, & Setting 

Creating Characters: a 4-Step Process 

Writing Relationships Your Reader Can Get Behind

Informative Character Names

The Strength of a Symmetrical Plot 

How to Foreshadow

Crafting Homes of Paper, Ink, and Neutral PH Glue

Motivation

On Writing Flawed Books

How to Return to Your Manuscript

The Acknowledgements Page

Staring at Blank Pages

What to Do When You Can’t Write

Motivational Writing Posters

Publishing

Writing the Perfect Query Letter

How to Write a Synopsis 

How to Pitch Your Novel in Under a Minute

A Glossary of Publishing Terms: Vol 1

Writing Tools

Why You Should Give Scrivener a Try

Outlining, Brainstorming, and Researching with Scrivener

Drafting with Scrivener

Editing with Scrivener 

CTRL+F

The Forest Productivity App

Editsaurus 

NaNoWriMo

Why Try NaNoWriMo

October Prep 

Why Listen to Writing Podcasts

Pick a New Daily Word Count Goal 

How to Write 2000 Words a Day

How to Plan a Novel without a Story

Pacemaker: Custom Daily Word Count Website

NaNoWriMo Master Post

Other

How to Read an Absurd Number of Books

Writing Workshops: An Introduction

Writing Groups

Different Types of Fantasy Novels

Ambient Soundscapes Based on Famous Writers

Ko-Fi & Other Support

If you enjoy my posts and can afford it, I would greatly appreciate it if you donated to my new ko-fi page! Each of these posts represents multiple hours of unpaid labor. I love writing for this blog, but I’m also an underpaid 20-something trying to stay afloat. I’ve made this master post of every essay I’ve written for this blog as a way to show my appreciation in advance of any support. If you donate, to further show my gratitude and appreciation, I’ll take requests for essay topics in the ‘messages of support.’ 

If you can’t afford to donate via ko-fi, another great way to show your support is simply by reblogging posts that you find useful and helping my blog reach new writers. 

Explain it in text? Without emphatic arm gestures or wine? Oh god. Okay. I’ll try.

All right, so narrative distance is all about the proximity between you the reader and the POV character in a story you’re reading. You might sometimes also hear it called “psychic distance.” It puts you right up close to that character or pulls you away, and the narrative distance an author chooses greatly affects how their story turns out, because it can drastically change the focus.

Here’s an illustration of narrative distance from far to close, from John Gardner’s The Art of Fiction (a book I yelled at a lot, because Gardner is a pretentious bastard, but he does say very smart things about craft):

It was winter of the year 1853. A large man stepped out of a doorway.

Henry J. Warburton had never much cared for snowstorms.

Henry hated snowstorms.

God how he hated these damn snowstorms.

Snow. Under your collar, down inside your shoes, freezing and plugging up your miserable soul

It feels a bit like zooming in with a camera, doesn’t it?  

I always hate making decisions about narrative distance, because I usually get it wrong on the first try and have to fix it in revision. When I was writing Lost Causes, the first thing I had to do in revision was go through and zoom in a little on the narrative distance, because it felt like it was sitting right on top of Bruce’s prickly skin and it needed to be underneath where the little biting comments and intrusive thoughts lived. 

Narrative distance is probably the simplest form of distance in POV, and there is where if I had two glasses of wine in me you would hit a vein of pure yelling. There are SO MANY forms of distance in POV. There’s the distance between the intended reader and the POV character, the distance between the POV character and the narrator (even if it’s 1st person!), the distance between the narrator and the author. There’s emotional distance, intellectual distance, psychological distance, experiential distance. If you look closely at a 3rd person POV story, you can tell things about the narrator as a person (and the narrator is an entity independent of the author) - like, for starters, you can tell if they’re sympathetic to the POV character by how they talk about their actions. Word choice and sentence structure can tell you a narrator’s level of education and where they’re from; you can sometimes even tell a narrator’s gender, class, and other less obvious identifying factors if you look closely enough. To find these details, ask: What does the narrator (or POV character, or author) understand?

I can’t put a name on the narrator of the Harry Potter books, but I can tell you he understands British culture intimately, what it’s like to be a teen boy with a crush, to not have money, to be lonely and abused, and to find and connect with people. There’s a lot he doesn’t understand (he doesn’t pick out little flags of queerness like I do, so he’s probably straight, for example), but he sympathizes with Harry and supports him. I like that narrator. I’m supposed to sympathize with him, and I do.

POV is made up of these little distances - countless small questions of proximity that, when stacked together, decide whether we’re going to root for or against a character, or whether we’ll put down a book 20 pages in, or whether a story will punch you in just the right place at just the right amount to make you bawl your eyes out.

Creating a world where magic and technology co-exist

Mixing science fiction and magic can be tricky; if everyone in the world is capable of teleporting anywhere at anytime, it probably won’t make much sense for people to own cars, for example. Blending these two forces leads to countless exciting possibilities, but it can also end up creating some inconsistencies that your audience will pick up on if you don’t think things through well.

I have several tips and things you should think about if you want to build a world that mixes sci-fi and fantasy. Ultimately how detailed you get with it is up to you; maybe you want to plot out ever single tiny aspect of how your world works, or maybe you just want to have robot dragons and to hell with whoever disagrees! It’s a story of your making; if you and your audience are having fun with it, that’s what I consider most important.

Either way, here’s some things to think about!

- Of course, it helps to start off with the usual integral factors that tend to define societies; things like geography, language, religion, laws, agriculture, philosophy, etc. Before you even start throwing magic/tech into the mix, what does your world look like? What does it sound like? What does it taste like??

- How does magic work in your world? Is it a gift only available to a select few, or can pretty much any Average Joe summon a fireball? Are all mages Clerics (with magic derived from a powerful entity), Wizards (with magic learned from studying), Sorcerers (with magic just as an innate trait), or a mixture of these (and other?) things? 

- How does technology (generally) work in your world? How widely available is it? How well is it understood? What level is it at; are there nanobots in everyone’s bloodstreams, or is a bronze sword considered “high technology”? 

- How well do magic and technology (generally) mix in your world? Are they both just two different tools for solving problems, or opposed forces? Can one be used to study the other? Can someone be an expert on both things? What problems have been solved (and created) from blending the two?

- Are either things taboo? How much social friction do either things cause? Is the use of one meant to be secret or forbidden? Why?

- Are tech-favoring people/societies generally on equal footing with magic-favoring ones? They don’t have to be! The world being skewed in one side’s favor could be a great source of conflict! 

- What can only be done with magic? What can only be done with technology? Consider the limitations of both forces in the world. Does one force typically work better in some or most ways than the other? What things simply can’t be replicated by one side? 

- Consider how advanced each side is. What methods of communication, transportation, education, fuel consumption, medical care, etc are available to magic-favoring societies and which ones are available to tech-favoring societies? One side may not be exclusively better than the other; a tech-favoring society might have much faster land transportation in the form of huge cars, but a magic-favoring one might be able to magically tame huge creatures that can walk on walls and reach places tech can’t easily get to. 

- (When it can,) how does magic solve the same problems as tech and vice versa? A magical stone of far-speech can fill the magic-equivalent role of a phone, for example. A manufactured chemical packet could function like a certain spell. Of course, if one side’s method is so ubiquitous and accessible, it’s more likely that all people’s will favor it. 

- On the other hand, the different perspectives will likely produce entirely different problems and methods of solving them. Beyond one side being unable to replicate certain things from another, they may not want to. Mages may have no interest in creating an internet analogue they instead have access to some great collective unconscious tech-favoring people can’t access. How might one describe these things to the other? This is where the real creative world-building comes in; not every problem should be solved by just having an equally viable magic or tech version of it. Different cultures will value things differently, and exploring that leads to lots of creative worldbuilding and conflict!

- Consider what divisions might exist within societies. There are always subdivisions within groups; not all mages are as powerful, knowledgeable, or experienced as one another. Some subgroups may think themselves superior in some way, and/or might look down upon others within their own circle for all kinds of reasons. No group is a hivemind (unless they literally are); groups are made up individuals! 

I had a minute, so I figured I’d throw something together that DID suit my needs!

(Note: This chart regards a character’s intent rather than the outcome of their actions—and for sake of clarity, here are the definitions I’m working with:

Good: concerned with the well-being the collective, often at expense of the self

Evil: concerned with the well-being of the self, often at the expense of the collective

Kind: concerned with the emotional responses of others

Cruel: unconcerned with the emotional responses of others)

I like conceptualizing things this way, cause sometimes Bad People behave with ‘good’ or ‘kind’ intentions, and sometimes Good People do things that seem ‘evil’ or ‘cruel’

The good/evil definition being used here is pretty much a relic of the other chart and it never fit quite right — but at the time I didn’t know how to fix it

But I’ve been thinking about it more and I finally figured out how to articulate what’s in my head

Good: Concerned with respecting the individual agency of others

Evil: Unconcerned with the individual agency of others

So like

So there’s this old German remedy for getting rid of boils. A mix of eggshells, egg whites, and sulfur rubbed into the boil while reciting the incantation and saying five Paternosters. And according to my prof’s friend (a doctor), it’s all very sensible. The eggshells abrade the skin so the sulfur can sink in and fry the boil. The egg white forms a flexible protective barrier. The incantation and prayers are important because you need to rub it in for a certain amount of time.

M Y    T I M E    H A S    C O M E

You guys don’t understand how excited it made me to read this post, I literally wrote my master’s thesis on this exact topic.

STORY TIME

Sometime in the 10th century in Anglo-Saxon England (for context, this is before the Norman Conquest and near-ish to the reign of Alfred the Great), a dude named Bald asked another dude name Cild to write a book. Not just any book. A leechbook, which was essentially the medieval version of WebMD for practicing doctors. BUT NOT JUST A LEECHBOOK. This leechbook was gonna be the damn Lamborghini of leechbooks. This thing was going to be split into two parts, the first dealing with external medicine and the second dealing with internal medicine—something that was unheard of at the time. It was going to be organized (head to toe, like all the good leechbooks were). It was gonna be nice (leather and vellum). It was gonna use all the best ideas (from all over the known world). And the whole thing was going to be written in Anglo-Saxon. Now, a few medical books had been compiled in Anglo-Saxon before, but none like this. This one was going to be EPIC. And it was—and still is.

Bald’s Leechbook (also goes by the more boring but more informative MS Royal 12 D XVIII over in the British Library) contains a lot of medical remedies. A lot of them rely on things like prayers and chants and odd charms, like one for a headache, which recommends plucking the eyes off a living crab, letting the crab back into the water, and wearing the eyes about your neck in a little sack until you feel better. However, it’s worth pointing out that the really wild remedies, the stuff that makes absolutely no freakin’ sense, is most often recommended to treat ailments that are hard to treat even today—migraines, toothaches, cancer. These things are really painful or deadly and, without modern medicine, almost impossible to treat. So are you going to make up some nonsense to make your client at least feel like they’re doing something, and hey, if it sort of works, it works? Of course you are. You want to help people. Even if it sounds crazy, what else are you going to do? You have to try something, and the people who are suffering are willing to try anything.

But there’s also things that make complete sense. To echo concepts that have been mentioned by commentators above, there is a recipe that calls for the recitation of the paternoster while boiling a honey-based salve meant to treat carbuncle. The book instructs the physician to bring it to a boil, and sing the paternoster three times, and remove it from the fire, and sing nine paternosters, and to repeat this process two more times. A century ago, historians read the use of the paternoster as a magical incantation, but today, most agree that in lieu of a stopwatch, the paternoster is just meant to make sure you don’t burn the honey.

BUT THAT ISN’T NEAR THE COOLEST THING.

Now, this book was compiled by a master physician (we don’t know if it was Cild himself or if Cild was the scribe for an unnamed author) who was compiling recipes that had been written down for some time, and had, as many things do, gone through various permutations over the years. Many came from Greece or the western Mediterranean, and had been adapted for local English horticulture and herbs. Some came from around what is now Germany, and some ideas came from farther away in the Middle East (King Alfred was a sickly king; some scholars believe that he had his physicians seek out cures from all over the world in an attempt to treat himself). But there is one recipe that has only ever been identified in England. Not only has this recipe only ever been identified in England, it’s only ever been identified in this one manuscript. When translated into modern English, it reads as follows:

Work an eyesalve for a wen [stye], take cropleek and garlic, of both equal quantities, pound them well together, take wine and bullocks gall, of both equal quantities, mix with the leek, put this then into a brazen vessel, let it stand nine days in the brass vessel, wring out through a cloth and clear it well, put it into a horn, and about night time, apply it with a feather to the eye; the best leechdom.

For those who don’t know and/or are lucky enough to have never had one, a “wen” or a stye is a bacterial infection that manifests like a boil or a cyst that on the eyelid. They hurt something awful, and can cause larger infections of the eye. They are usually caused by Staphylococcus aureus. 

With me? Okay. Fast-forward to 1988. A former biologist turned historian called M.L. Cameron decides to take a look at this old medical leechbook to see what he can see. He takes a good look and says “Lads I do believe these Anglo-Saxon leeches weren’t nearly so daft as we thought they were” (he did not and probably would never actually say that, I’m paraphrasing). Cameron was particularly interested in the recipe above. As a scientist, he knew a few things:

Garlic and cropleek (leek or onion, or another related plant) have been known to have antibacterial qualities for centuries.

Wine (alcohol) also has antibacterial qualities.

Bullocks gall (literally bile taken from a bull) is known to have detergent properties, and has long been used as an additive to soap for particularly tough stains.

A brazen vessel, or a vessel made of brass, contains a good amount of copper in it. And that copper, when left to sit around for, I don’t know, about nine days, would have plenty of time to react with the acids in the onion and garlic and the tartarates in the wine to create copper salts. 

Coppers salts, as it happens, are cytotoxic, meaning they kill everything: tissue and bacteria.

What an interesting find.

Fast-forward again to 2015. A paper is published by a team from the University of Nottingham, who’ve been working on an ‘Ancientbiotics’ project to investigate ancient medical remedies and see if they actually work. They’ve turned their sights to the Anglo-Saxons, and are, as was Cameron, particularly interested in this recipe for an eye salve. Without boring you with the finer details of the experiment and its various trials (read it yourself!) I will spoil the ending by telling you that they discovered a few things:

This recipe, which was over 1,000 years old when they tested it, worked.

It worked well.

It worked extremely well. 

So well, in fact, that (in a lab setting) they even got it to kill Methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus, or as it’s more commonly known, MRSA. MRSA is a modern superbug that has built up a resistance to the antibiotic Methicillin. And this goddamn Anglo-Saxon witches’ brew freakin murdered it.

Now, as an advocate for modern medicine and sound scientific method, I’m not about to say that we should go throwing this salve on everything in 2019, because it is, if anything, just a starting point for modern scientists. This salve is still incredibly crude by modern standards and comes with a lot of potential problems. But as a historian… it works, you guys, it really works.

Medieval physicians were not idiots. They believed in magic, they believed in all things supernatural, they believed in all those things that are ‘unreasonable’ or unpopular today, and they practiced them too. But they also interacted with the real world with brains and intellects as sharp if not sharper than yours and mine. They were smart, they studied, they talked to each other in Latin and Greek and Arabic and Anglo Saxon. They made old recipes better and came up with brand new ones. They tried dumb stuff and they tried smart stuff. They didn’t have access to even the smallest fraction of the information we have at our fingertips today, and yet they created things like this. 

To this day, no one knows who created the eyesalve recipe. And no one truly understands why this is the only copy of it. If it worked so well, why isn’t it plastered to the headings of every medical textbook from Alfred to Victoria? Speaking personally, I would argue that it has to do with language. Not so long after Bald’s Leechbook was written, the French invaded England and took over. Latin and French became the language of the court, and while Anglo-Saxon lived on throughout the country, and certainly lay doctors would have used Anglo-Saxon books daily, the language of formal English medical education was Latin. Oxford and Cambridge were late to the medical ed game after Salerno, Bologna, Paris, and Montpellier, and naturally fell in step with continental schools as a result, using Latin almost exclusively, and sometimes Greek or Arabic. 

Point being, by the time medical licenses and medical college degrees are a thing in England, not only does almost no one of university-eligible class speak Anglo-Saxon anymore, no one has use for those Old English texts, because they don’t get you your degree, and you can’t make a living as a doctor without a degree and doctor’s license. And no one’s going to translate an old Anglo Saxon text into Latin when Avicenna’s newest old hit, now in Latin, is fresh off the boat from France.

All that to say:  Never write something off because it’s old. 1,000 years is a long time ago, but human ingenuity and intelligence are hardly modern inventions. The science of the world hasn’t changed; only our tools and our perspective.

Thanks for coming to my TED talk

Further reading:

The 2015 Ancientbiotics report: A 1,000-Year-Old Antimicrobial Remedy with Antistaphylococcal Activity

NPR: ‘Ancientbiotics’ Researchers Look For Old Fixes To Modern Ailments

Mental Floss: 20 Anglo-Saxon Remedies from Bald’s Leechbook

Read a paper about how scholars are building on the work of the Ancientbiotics project to better understand how to apply ancient ideas effectively to modern medicine.

Look through Royal 12 D XVIII for yourself! Bald’s eyesalve recipe is on f. 12v and looks like this:

And sometimes I think, “Well, two hundred is technically less than four hundred.” And I have to stop myself, because - I am writing half as much as Terry Pratchett. Terry fucking Pratchett, who not only published regularly up until his death, but published books that were consistently good. 

And this has also been an immense help as a writer with ADHD, because I don’t feel bad when I take a break from writing - two hundred words works up quick, after all. If I take a break at 150, I have a whole day to write 50 more words, and I’ve rarely written less than 200 words and not felt the need to keep writing because I need to tie up a loose end anyways. 

Writing Advice | My WiP | Twitter

The first step in creating a language for a fictional universe is deciding the feel. How do the words flow? How do they sound? Is it a goblin language that’s spat out in short, rough bursts? A soft, melodious language of elves? Is it ancient or new? Once you’ve figured out how you want your language to feel, you can move onto step 2.

Research other languages. These can be fictional languages or actual languages that are similar to yours. When deciding on my language for my finished novel, I took a lot of inspiration from Hawaiian, Italian and Latin. If you’re not sure where to start, go to Google Translate, dump a sentence into the translator, and filter through a bunch of languages to see which ones you like. 

Once you’ve conceptualized and done the research, it’s time to actually start building. Make sure you establish grammar rules. These don’t have to be super complex. Figure out how you’d make something plural, (like English ‘s’ and ‘es’) or what an action verb looks like. (English ‘ing’) If you aren’t sure where to start I recommend looking up English grammar worksheets for kids and basically remaking them to fit your language instead. 

NEXT! Create a separate document where you’ll keep all the new words you create. Keep a guide, not a dictionary. What I mean by that is instead of just listing words and describing what they mean, keep words in categories like “Times of Day”, “Numbers” and “Greeting, Goodbyes, and Responses”. Chart them out so you have the word in your language, the pronunciation and the English equivalent.    

The fifth step is developing common phrases. For example, if you figure out how to say “A good morning to you” in your language, then you’ve figured out five full words and you’ve constructed a useful sentence for future use all at the same time. You don’t need 300 pages of words, just enough to fake like you might have actually done that much work!

Lastly, think about dialect, accents and slang. If this isn’t an ancient ceremonial language and it’s something your characters use in their day-to-day lives then there’s a good chance that they’re using short forms of words, contractions and slang terms. Additionally, if two characters speak the same language but come from different parts of the world, their versions of the language will probably differ. These things might not even be evident to the reader but they should be to you. 

And that’s it, really. I could honestly write a whole other post on how to USE a fictional language in a story. So if you guys are interested in the formatting and general use then let me know. Oh, and I also recommend @worldanvil to help build your language. I didn’t know it existed when I wrote up mine or I totally would have used it.

Writing Advice | My WiP | Twitter

My last post about creating your own fictional language got some pretty positive feedback so I went to work on this one as soon as I could! And BOY is it a LONG ONE! Thanks to everyone who read the last one and wanted more! <3

So first: Formatting. I recommend using italics any time you include non-English words in an otherwise English piece of work. That goes for fictional and real languages. You’ll see some examples a little further down. 

I’d also like to remind everyone reading this that nobody else knows your fictional language so your job is to teach your readers how to understand and accept it as part of the world. How do you do that? Repetition, restraint, not-awkward translations, and seamless integration. 

Repetition: Use the same few words or sentences over and over in your books where they feel natural so readers will start to remember what they mean. 

Restraint: You can definitely have too much of a good thing. I don’t recommend having a full dialogue between characters be carried out in a fictional language or an entire paragraph. Use your language sparingly. Too much information too quickly can be overwhelming for a reader.

Translations and Integration: When using a fictional language in a story there’s a lot of ways you can approach translating and integrating it. It’s easier to just show you how I usually do it so here goes:

Option 1

With this option, we have the full sentence in Wey (the name of my language) in italics. Cadence, not knowing Wey, tells the voice she doesn’t understand and so it’s forced to say it again in English. 

Option 2

This is probably the most obvious way to throw in a translation. It’s right in the same line of dialogue. The only issue with this is that it can come off a little stilted. There aren’t a lot of instances in real-world speech where people would speak in one language and then repeat themselves in another immediately afterwards without prompting. 

Option 3

***This option should only ever be used when all the other characters in the scene speak the same language and can understand what they’re saying.*** This gives you an out so you don’t have to actually write out a full sentence in your fictional language but it tells the readers that the character speaking is doing so in something other than English.

Option 4

This is the other way to go about the whole “using your fictional language but not really” route. If the other characters in the scene don’t understand the language you can express the language like the above example. I also recommend using descriptors for how they’re speaking to better convey the message. Even if a character doesn’t understand the words, they would probably be able to tell that they’re being said with anger, joy, or fear. 

There’s also ways to throw in some fictional words in otherwise English sentences, like if you’re insulting someone or greeting them. You don’t have to provide a proper translation if it’s obvious in context.

Aaaaaand that’s all I’ve got for you, folks! Well, I could probably write about this all day but I think I should probably end it here because this post is just way too long as it is. If anyone else has any other tips, feel free to let me know! 

A crew of enchanters maintaining the perpetual flames that run the turbines that generate electricity, covered in ash and grime and stinking of hot chilies and rare mushrooms used for the enchantments

A wizard specializing in construction, casting feather fall on every worker, and enchanting every hammer to drive nails in straight, animating the living clay that makes up the core of the crane

An elderly wizard and her apprentice who transmute fragile broken objects. From furniture, to rotten wood beams, to delicate jewelry

A battle magician, trained with only a few rudimentary spells to solve a shortage of trained wizards on the front who uses his healing spells to help folks around town

Wizarding shops where cheery little mages enchant wooden blocks to be hammered into the sides of homes. Hammer this into the attic and it will scare off termites, toss this in the fire and clean your chimney, throw this in the air and all dust in the room gets sucked up

Wizard loggers who transmute cut trees into solid, square beams, reducing waste, and casting spells to speed up regrowth. The forest, they know, will not be too harsh on them if the lost tree’s children may grow in its place

Wizard farmers who grow their crops in arcane sigils to increase yield, or produce healthier fruit

Factory wizards who control a dozen little constructs that keep machines cleaned and operational, who cast armor to protect the hands of workers, and who, when the factory strikes for better wages, freeze the machines in place to ensure their bosses can’t bring anyone new in.

A wizard tailors who transmutes cloth into fully made clothes without seems and leaving behind no scraps

A wizard who works in public transit, timing out teleports with detailed schedules, time magic, and enchanted communications, sending dozens of people to far away cities for a day or work or leisure

A team of wizard gardeners tend to trees grown far outside their native range, and ideal climate, encircled with runes and fed potions to grow none the less

A wizard sits in their office in the aqueduct, re-casting the spells that allow its precious water to flow to the city uphill

A wizard fisher casts water repelling spells on the sailors and the stairs, keeps the hoist on the anchor from rusting, casts balls of heat that keep everyone warm below decks. Their real job is to herd fish together so they can be caught in single huge nets, and keep them cold as the boat returns to land.

- Wizards who work as artists, creating vast complex arcane art works, perhaps an angry battle hardened wizard animating a mural like Picasso’s Guernica that illustrates the king’s crimes during the last war, to a Banksy style activist that cast zone of truth on the town’s financial district and mayor’s office… Or even just a simple necromancer who for a few gold coins will bind your Spirit to a moving portrait so you can Harry Potter yourself after death.

- Wizards who tour creating pyrotechnics, and illusions for famous Bards. Wizards who record and recreate famous, historical records, plays and speeches using illusions

- Wizards who offer legal services such as divining court cases, augering divorces, casting runes for mergers, and creating contracts that are more than just legally binding.

Earlier today, I served as the “young woman’s voice” in a panel of local experts at a Girl Scouts speaking event. One question for the panel was something to the effect of, “Should parents read their daughter’s texts or monitor her online activity for bad language and inappropriate content?”

Around age 13, I tried to express to my mother that I thought I might have clinical depression, and she snapped at me “not to joke about things like that.” I stopped telling my mother when I felt depressed.

Around age 15, I caught my mother reading my diary. She confessed that any time she saw me write in my diary, she would sneak into my room and read it, because I only wrote when I was upset. I stopped keeping a diary.

Around age 18, I had an emotional breakdown while on vacation because I didn’t want to go to college. I ended up seeing a therapist for - surprise surprise - depression.

Around age 21, I spoke on this panel with my mother in the audience, and afterwards I mentioned the diary incident to her with respect to this particular Q&A. Her eyes welled up, and she said, “You know I read those because I was worried you were depressed and going to hurt yourself, right?”

TL;DR: When you invade your child’s privacy, you communicate three things:

You do not respect their rights as an individual.

You do not trust them to navigate problems or seek help on their own.

You probably haven’t been listening to them.

When I’m distracting myself from the boredom, I read or game excessively so I don’t feel the emptiness of boredom. It’s a short term thing, and it only staves the boredom as long as I’m doing the thing.