Author Archives: Josh Melican

What Fantasy Fiction means (to me)

So I’ve posted a couple of short stories which I have tagged as fantasy. They are stories I submitted to spec-fic ezines as ‘fantasy’ pieces, but I think the term requires a little investigation.

Inevitably this discussion will have to deal with “the ghetto of genre”, but I like to think this is less an issue now than in the recent past. Where once, no so long ago, genre-fiction was something enjoyed by niche readerships it seems now that broad audiences are more accepting of genre-fiction. This manifests in two ways.

Firstly works of genre-fiction are more successful and reach larger audiences. The obvious examples here are “Harry Potter” (Magic Fantasy), “Twilight” (Supernatural Romance Fantasy) and “Hunger Games” (Post-Apolcolyptic Sci-Fi). “Game of Thrones” (Epic Fantasy*) could be added to that in terms of the NY Best-sellers list, and the Showcase adaptation is broadening the exposure still further.

Historically it has been harder for Fantasy to reach such audiences. “The Lord of the Rings” is of course the prototype of the popular Fantasy story, but its readership always carried something of a social stigma, until the success of the Peter Jackson adaptations opened its appeal to a new generation audience.

The enduring appeal of comic-book super-heroism is successful Fantasy, but until recently ‘comics’ were considered childish at best and geek at worst, perhaps (despite the Pulitzer won by “Maus” and the Hugo by “Watchmen”) they still are.

Further back we have the success of “Star Trek” (Soft Sci-Fi) and of course “Star Wars” (Sci-Fi / Fantasy), again with accompanying social stigma being recently reduced, in the first case by the grittier JJ Abrams re-boot and the latter by the prequels.

There was of course a time before genre so defined a text, so we have the canonical status of the speculative fantasies of traditional story-telling; Grimm’s tales for instance, “Gulliver’s Travels”, “Wonderland” the Gothic fantasies of Poe, the incipient Science-Fiction of Mary Shelley and R.L. Stevenson, whereas the weird fantasies of Lovecraft and Kafka, and the Golden Age Sci-Fi of Asimov, Clarke, P.K. Dick and Heinlein have achieved comparable respect only within their ‘ghetto’.

Secondly we see the breaking down of genre barriers so that genres are combined, created, morphed, mangled and ignored by authors. China Mieville famously called Tolkein “The wen on the arse of Fantasy literature” (though he has tempered that rage a little more recently) before going on to define the genres of “New Weird” and “Urban Fantasy”.  He wasn’t the only one to criticise Tolkein’s influence on Fantasy (and the influences of other conservative writers – Lewis springs immediately to mind). Perhaps as a result of shaking off the ‘stultifying influence’ of “Rings” (and others), contemporary authors are exploring the limits of what ‘Fantasy’ can encompass (or challenging the value of genres all-together).

Seth Grahame Smith has found a new use for classic literature. Diana Gabaldon uses the Sci-Fi trope of time-travel to create a bare-chested  Romance set against a Low Fantasy milieu.  Neil Gaiman brings myth to the strip-malls and freeways of the American road-trip.  Richard K Morgan creates Noir Sci-fi and an Epic Fantasy (which may actually be a Sci-Fi) complete with magical swords, non-human races, magic… and protaganists who are by turns gay, drug-abusing, sociopathic and decidedly anti-heroic. Joe Abercrombie drags his ‘heroes’ through a formulaic Quest Fantasy… torturing them and any other character that takes his interest along the way and finally depositing them in the most unexpected places.

How then do we define ‘fantasy’?

Tzvetan Todorov identified two modes of story-telling within ‘the fantastic’: ‘the marvellous’, and ‘the uncanny’.

He first defines ‘the fantastic’ as “that hesitation experienced by a person who knows only the laws of nature, confronting an apparently supernatural event.” He differentiates ‘the marvellous’ from ‘the uncanny’ by how they explain this event.

In ‘the uncanny’ the events can be explained within the laws of nature, perhaps through some fault of the character (or the reader) in understanding them.

In ‘the marvellous’ the events cannot be explained within the laws of physics, and are therefore accepted (b the character and presumably the readers) as supernatural.

I would like to think that my Fantasy writing avoids both the uncanny and the marvelous, or is perhaps different things to different readers.  As a writer I would like to keep my reader in that state of hesitation, in Todorov’s ‘fantastic’, for as long as the inevitable winnowing of narrative progress allows.

And so what does all this mean for me, the aspiring writer with a love of Fantasy Fiction?

I think it means what I want it to mean. I think it means freedom. Genre is not the ghetto it once was, or was once feared to be… Fantasy is a rich landscape in which I’m free to explore and perhaps even claim my own little plot of land, and to build upon it whatever structure I like.


A Choice of Kings (2009)

This short story has been published and appears in Dark Edifice #2 (now available). To read it (for free) please visit Dark Edifice and support this new Australian magazine.

Thanks.


The Festival of Light (2010)

Diwali comes to a northern suburb where trees make way to new millennium homes. The McMansion around us is incomplete. It is opulence unfinished: a lordly manor for the middle-class, but there are no vassals here. Land is not tilled; it is paved and tamed and levelled: bent to human will.

Amidst the palatial rooms, at the foot of twin staircases, celebrations are held. Traditional snacks are served with cautious enthusiasm. Ancient practices are passed through time to briefly live again. Laksmi is welcomed.

An Iranian of indeterminate middle age demurs. Her husband is silent.

They are the faded glory of Cyrus’ great empire.

A girl from Singapore whispers English with an American’s accent. Her face is flustered and ruddy.

The sweet-meats of the hosts are supplemented by a Turkish dish from a guest’s oven. The recipe has survived generations of war and migration.

Sisters from Shepparton shake their heads in unison and hair like curled flame is for a moment wild. They are the daughters of Bodicea or Brian Boru.

They are the descendants of colonial oppression, relaxing in a subconscious self-assurance of alabaster skin and emerald eyes.

The host is desperate for the approval of his guests. He frets and stammers; refills plates that are barely touched. His home is his castle and built by his own hands. The tour is obligatory and detailed. In the prayer room Ganesha smiles wisely from a moment of frozen dance. He holds pride of place over bhagwans and Demi-Gods.

Outside coloured rice is shaped to patterns exotic and arcane. Candles are lit and the air thickens with perfume and incense hidden amongst the gloaming of the day. Lord Rama returns to Ayodhya.

Sparklers are lit from candles and rejoice in their brief moment of life. They say the light is eternal… for sparklers it is not. Soon enough they are inert; only strange shapes of ash in the dirt. So too may we all one day be.

“Ashes to ashes…”

“Illuminate the inner self. Live in Brahman.”

Words echo silently across the gulf of religions.


Hospital visit (2009)

Idiot smiles in chins slick with drool.

A bag of sagging flesh ambles along the corridor. She is bruised and bloated like some grotesque beaten beast. Staples run from temple to temple like a rail line.

I visit a skeleton. Arthritic joints curl fingers into claws. They clutch at me urgently.

The Roman Catholic chaplaincy has come and gone. They left a pamphlet full of prayer and promise. Death is obviously near but god, if he is here, is more subtle. I cannot apprehend him. Perhaps the others can.

Words fill the air, the innocuous ‘secondary’, the arcane ‘metastasised’.

‘Cancer’ echoes in the room or in my mind. The word haunts like a spectre. Every other word exists in the long shadow it casts.

A nurse brings afternoon tea. White with sugar. It is drunk through a straw with glacial precision.

My boy saves me. Soon he will be two. He is life amidst death. He is irrepressible – indomitable. He is an incarnation of oblivious joy. He climbs over the deathbeds like they are play equipment in the park.

Then he is tired and saves us all.

“He is tired.”

Excuses are made. Cheeks are kissed: his round and plump; hers dry and wrinkled.

We shuffle out with guilt inflecting our relief.


A writer’s blog

Hi,

Welcome to my blog.

Here you will find a collection of my various writings. Some are bare ideas, sketches of scenes or characters, others are initial drafts with something beginning to resemble a plot or purpose, still others I hope are relatively polished pieces.

I have been writing for over a decade, but have only sought professional publication on a few rare occasions, and never (yet) successfully. I have studied writing (Hons BA from Monash with a Creative Writing thesis), joined writers’ communities (Writing Victoria, previously VWC), and subscribe to Aurealis and some online newsletters, but I feel the time has come to stop splashing in the shallows and wade in.

Of course this is only done with a certain trepidation, so this blog is that first tentative step.

I have written the manuscript for a novel. It’s a big one, and although I’ve declared it finished I can’t stop myself occasionally going back and trying to polish it some more. I’ll post excerpts here, but not the whole thing. I’ve started on a follow-up so I’ll keep you posted on progress.

I also write short stories, some in the same fictional setting as the novel, others of various genre or literary intent.

Perhaps though it’s better to let my writing speak for itself.

Thanks for visiting.  Honest feedback and constructive criticisms are sought so please do comment and contribute. I hope you enjoy your time on my blog and the writing you read.