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“I was seven years old the first time my uncle poisoned me.” The first sentence of Sam Hawke’s City of Lies lets the reader know exactly what they’re in for. A deliciously tense, well-crafted start to a new fantasy series, City of Lies follows Jovan and Kalina, two young nobles who have been raised to detect poisons and prevent them from harming the ruling family of Sjona. When their father and the monarch are assassinated, Jovan and Kalina have to protect the new ruler—their close friend Tain—from threats both within the city and outside its walls. We talked to Hawke about devising fictional poisons, creating a magic system based on emotion and the real-world parallels in her fantastic new world.

A lot can happen in the process of crafting a novel, especially when it’s part of a series. How different is the final product of City of Lies from what you originally intended when you set out to write it?
In some ways very similar, and in others quite different. I think it has stayed true to its core—that is, the main characters, who they are, how they relate to each other and the broad plot. What changed fairly dramatically over the course of editing was its structure (it was originally geared more heavily toward Jovan’s storyline, and undersold Kalina’s), some of the history of the world and the motivation for the rebellion and the active role of magic in the story.

I think the six guilds (Warrior, Craft, Artist, Stone, Theatre and Scribe) are fascinating, both because of their roles in the plot and the picture they paint of Sjonan society. How did you choose them? Was it more about plot, world building or something else entirely?
Definitely world building. The Guilds are a handy shorthand for what the society values and elevates—arts, science, learning, cultural pursuits—and what it doesn’t. There were a few extra Guilds that got cut for the purposes of tightening the cast early on, though!

Many religions use clothing as a mark of faith or status, and discrimination against members of those religions based on their dress is both a huge contemporary issue and something that turns up in City of Lies with characters like Hadrea. Did you intend to deal with or comment on those real-world parallels?
I definitely was influenced by real-world events in looking at how a dominant culture can steamroll smaller ones, whether through deliberate design or unthinking ignorance. In this case, the cultural difference is partially religious, but it’s also based on the class and geographical divide between the cities, and the land and people that keep the city fed and supplied. Where there are no racial or other physical cues to identify differences, dress custom, jewelry and other body markings can be a visual identifier of those differences and therefore the target of mockery and discrimination (or subtler aggressions such as taking the trappings of the religion and using them in a manner stripped of meaning).

Your choice to focus on proofers and poisoners reminded me of Robin Hobb’s Assassin’s Apprentice series. Were those books something you thought about when writing City of Lies?
I love a good assassin story but I wanted to write the kind of inverse to that: the tale of the spoiled and pampered officials being targeted, rather than the tale of the assassins themselves. What I particularly love about Robin’s books, and what makes them stand out from other assassin romps, is that the poisonings and manipulations performed are never presented in a glorified or glamorous way. Fitz takes no joy in his position. He’s not a wry, unruffled or revenge-fuelled assassin. He’s not a cool loner. If anything, I was inspired by the way those books deal with the emotional cost of every decision and the consequences of a lifestyle of that nature. While my story is focused on defense rather than attack, the way that my characters think about poisonings and violence is never offhanded.

Your blog is a mix of thoughts on writing, life stories and humor (I had never considered how well I actually know the back of my hand until reading your bio), and your novel reads in a similar way, so I was curious—how much do you think you have a “writer voice” that’s different from your normal voice? You can take that to be about word selection, pacing or basically anything else you’d like.
I’m a lot sillier in real life than in fiction (at least I hope), and more conversational in my style, but I suspect the ole Samishness bleeds through into everything I do. I admire other writers who are far more elegant in their writing than I am, but I always sound like me to me. Just, with fewer rants about cheese hangovers.

You clearly put a lot of thought into the specific poisons and their effects in City of Lies. How much is all of that based on actual research into historical and current poisons, and how much of it was invented for your world specifically?
Oh, lots of both. Because the world I had created was pretty low magic, I still wanted it to feel like a different reality, and one way to do that, besides pretty significant cultural differences, was to have a lot less reliance on our world’s standard trappings in terms of flora and fauna. So while there are some recognizable “earth” type plants and animals, most are invented. I also didn’t want to be writing a manual on how to poison somebody for real, and I didn’t want to be bound by particular expectations about what certain plants do and don’t do. But having said that, a lot of my fictional poisons are based loosely on real ones to help me along! I left a few clues in the names so keen-eyed readers can probably spot some similarities.

I love that your magic is based on a kind of emotional communion rather than incantations or spells, and I’m always curious where fantasy writers get those structures from, especially when they’re as central to the conflict as yours. Can you talk a bit about building the magical and cultural mechanics of Sjona, and what kinds of inspiration you drew on for that process?
My POV characters know literally nothing about the magic in their world. I wanted it to retain a certain air of confusion and mystery and surrealism because that’s how it comes across to them. (Readers who are only into very detailed, rule-based magic systems, beware, this may not be for you.) Since the Darfri culture was the original way of life for Sjona, and is something retained in the more remote areas of the country but largely forgotten in the cities, it seemed natural to fit with an indigenous tradition of great respect for and desire to work harmoniously with the land. It made sense to have a kind of elemental magic that linked people and the land itself. Without giving spoilers, the concept of spirits bound to particular landmarks was obviously important to the plot, and I wanted there to be a symbiotic relationship between people and spirits, and for the use of magic to be tied to that relationship. As part of my personal tastes, I like reading about magical systems that are entwined with emotions rather than intellectualism (because that’s messier, and gives you loads of scope for good character moments), and that felt like a natural tie into what humans could offer to the equation.

City of Lies functions really well as a standalone story, but knowing it is the first installment of a trilogy changes the interpretation of several main storylines. How confident should we be in the way things seem to have wrapped up at this point?
Hmm, I’m not sure how to answer this without spoilers. You can definitely read City of Lies as a standalone—no big cliffhangers and the main plot threads are resolved (for the immediate term anyway). But the second book, Hollow Empire, deals with the very messy aftermath of the events in the first book and brings in new but related threats. The story will also pan out to see more of the continent outside Sjona. I don’t think I can say much more!

 

ALSO IN BOOKPAGE: Read our review of City of Lies.

Author photo (c) Kris Arnold Photography.

“I was seven years old the first time my uncle poisoned me.” The first sentence of Sam Hawke’s City of Lies lets the reader know exactly what they’re in for. A deliciously tense, well-crafted start to a new fantasy series, City of Lies follows Jovan and Kalina, two young nobles who have been raised to detect poisons and prevent them from harming the ruling family of Sjona. When their father and the monarch are assassinated, Jovan and Kalina have to protect the new ruler—their close friend Tain—from threats both within the city and outside its walls. We talked to Hawke about devising fictional poisons, creating a magic system based on emotion and the real-world parallels in her fantastic new world.

Interview by

“One of my biggest challenges was to see how far I could push that morally gray area, how uncomfortable I could make the reader feel without having them bail on the book.”

The protagonist of Temper, Auben Mtuze, is literally an evil twin. His brother Kasim was born with six out of seven possible virtues, and only one of the seven vices. Which means Auben has six vices, an almost-unheard-of number that marks him for poverty and disdain in a world where the good and the bad are neatly separated by walls between their respective neighborhoods.

With this striking premise, author Nicky Drayden launches fearlessly into questions of morality, religion and marginalization, following Auben as he struggles to come to terms with his identity, and also maybe exorcize a demon that’s taken up residence in his body. We talked to Drayden about taking the reader into uncomfortable places, creating a visually rich Afrofuturist world and why science is deemed lecherous in her society.

Temper has such an interesting and unique premise. What was the spark of that idea for you?
Well, two main concepts sparked this story. The first was reimagining an African continent that had escaped the ills of colonization. Through examining the “could-have-beens” in this not-quite alternate history, I wanted to open a door to a world where anything was possible. The second concept came to me after reading about how some parts of Nigeria have very high rates of twinning, like nearly one in 10 people are a twin. That left me wondering, “What if we took it further? What if 80 or 90 or 99 percent of people were twins?” And from that, this story was born.

So often in genre fiction, the protagonist of a novel is the moral center, and the supporting characters are the ones who are free to be more morally gray. Did you find that writing from Auben’s perspective opened up new possibilities for the story?
Starting out, I very much wanted to write a “good twin/bad twin” story from the bad twin’s point of view. One of my biggest challenges was to see how far I could push that morally gray area, how uncomfortable I could make the reader feel without having them bail on the book. By exposing that raw, uncomfortable feeling, I’m hoping readers will be willing to look deeper into themselves and see things from different perspectives.

Without giving too much away, Temper explores how a society constructs and legislates morality, and the pitfalls of strictly adhering to either end of a good/evil spectrum. What do you think compels you to pose questions like this?
In Temper, people are dealing with lots of issues, prejudices and discrimination brought into play by fantastical societal constructs. In this story, twins are divided into groups based on the number of vices they are assigned as children. There are seven vices: Vainglory, Envy, Duplicity, Doubt, Lechery, Greed and Temper. The twin with the least number of vices is deemed the “greater twin” and has better opportunities in life. The other is the lesser twin, pretty much destined for a life of poverty.

I think this structure, with its clear and visual recognition of the ways we divide people, magnifies the divisions laid upon us in the real world. How do these divisions give power to some, while taking it from others? What happens when a person from one marginalization refuses to open their mind to the struggles of other marginalizations? And who gets to define what constitutes good and evil to begin with? I don’t have all the answers (or maybe any of them), but I do enjoy chewing on the questions.

Your previous novel, The Prey of the Gods, was set in a futuristic South Africa. Temper is set in a fantastical world inspired by many African cultures, but still shares quite a few similarities with South Africa. Why is that country such a rich source of inspiration for you?
I visited South Africa as a college student, and the experience challenged me and changed me well before I became a writer. I’m excited to see more genre fiction coming out of the country, because there are infinite stories to share from a place brimming with so many cultures, languages, accomplishments and struggles. In the way that The Prey of the Gods was a near-utopia, I wanted Temper to tell a story that was the opposite . . . something dark, gritty and stifling, but also something hopeful and even humorous at times.

A detail I thought was particularly inspired was how the society in Temper characterizes science and a desire for scientific knowledge as lecherous. Was this inspired by the ways in which many religions have demonized sexuality and science throughout history?
There is definitely precedent for religion looking down upon those things, and one of my favorite themes is how religion and science don’t have to always be at odds. Deeming science lecherous in this book made sense to me. . . . It’s a sort of self-flagellation of the mind, often consuming all other thought, taking pleasure in logic and the underlying structures of nature, exploring wild theories, experimenting with risky ideas . . . until that moment of “Ah-ha!” when all the world suddenly bursts into absolute clarity. How could science not be seen as lecherous?

The plot of Temper constantly kept me on my toes—what did structuring this novel look like on your end? Did you always know that the story would go to so many different places?
Well, I had to rewrite the last quarter of the book twice, so there’s that. My outline was very thin, maybe a half a page of notes. Structuring this novel involved a lot of touch-and-feel, making sure I was taking care of the reader, reassuring them when needed before pressing them and challenging them to go to new (and often darker) places. There’s just so much to this world, and I had very few opportunities where I could ground the reader using clues from our own world. With a young protagonist possessing a limited worldview and a hunger to learn more, I had a great vehicle to ease both the reader and myself into this very layered story.

As someone who completely geeks out over costuming and fashion, I adored the attention you paid to clothing in Temper. Were there any real-world inspirations you pulled from? If not, how did you establish the look of the book in your head?
Ah, thank you! That was a big part of the world building for me. My inspiration came from South African Fashion Week, which is an amazing display of artistry! I wanted a world where fashion consciousness is a way of life, even for those without means. Each character’s dress and look comes from one of the runway models, and it was totally fun to describe them all. Here’s a peek at the current season.

Would you ever set another story in the world of Temper? And if so, what would it be?
I’m not big on writing sequels, but I’d never say never. My next book is shifting away from South Africa, shifting away from Earth altogether, in fact. I’m working on a space opera about the unlikely heir to the command of a biological, city-size starship carved up from the insides of a spacefaring beast. “Space politics and family drama with a heaping side of tentacles” sums it up nicely.

The protagonist of Temper, Auben Mtuze, is literally an evil twin. His brother Kasim was born with six out of seven possible virtues, and only one of the seven vices. Which means Auben has six vices, an almost-unheard-of number that marks him for poverty and disdain in a world where the good and the bad are neatly separated by walls between their respective neighborhoods.

Interview by

A fairy tale fractured by prejudice and the pitfalls of adolescence, Rena Rossner’s The Sisters of the Winter Wood is a mesmerizing update of Hassidic legends, with a bit of Christina Rossetti’s “Goblin Market” thrown in for good measure.

Set in the early years of the 20th century, Rossner’s story begins at the edge of a tiny town named Dubossary, where a Jewish population lives a simple life next to a forbidding, dark forest. Sisters Liba and Laya have grown up on the outskirts of this community, and when their parents are called away, they learn something shocking about their family. Their parents are shape-shifters, and the girls have inherited their power. Liba can turn into a bear, and Laya into a swan.

We talked to Rossner about writing in both poetry and prose (one form for each sister), the importance of food and creating the stories she wishes her younger self could read.

What kind of folk tales did you grow up with and how did those stories influence this book?
I grew up on a steady diet of fairy tales, having been born and raised in Miami, Florida, (three hours from Orlando and Disney World) and my mom also read to me from Andrew Lang’s Fairy Tale books that were collections of fairy and folk tales from around the world. But more than all of that, I was raised on Hassidic tales, many of which have magic and supernatural elements to them. From the Wise Men of Chelm to Isaab Bashevis Singer’s stories, Jewish folk tales were a large part of my childhood and my father, who worked in Jewish education, was great storyteller. He often told stories as part of the speeches he made and the lectures he gave. I only wondered why I never found any of these magical tales in any traditional fantasy novels: Why were there no Jewish fantasy novels? Why did I never see Orthodox Jewish teens like myself as the heroines of their own fairy tales? As I got older I was determined to write these stories so that my daughter would be able to someday see someone like herself in a fantasy novel that drew on the stories and tales of my childhood.

Readers might not know much of the history of the real town of Dubossary, which you mention in the author’s note. Do you find its history inspirational? Or tragic?
The truth is that I didn’t know much about the history of the real town of Dubossary either. I was simply looking for a place to set my tale, and I decided to start reading some of my family’s genealogy books (which I had never read before). I found a poem online that was part of the Dubossary Yizkor (Memorial) book that echoed some of “Goblin Market,” it mentioned that the town was full of orchards and vineyards, berries, grapes, pears, apples and melons, and I knew where I had to set my book. On the one hand, I was inspired to write a story about Jewish resistance not set during the time of the Holocaust, and I was proud that the Jews from the town that my ancestors came from fought back and made sure that a pogrom didn’t happen in their town. On the other hand, starting in September 1941, the Nazis came to Dubossary and forced 600 Jews into the main synagogue and burnt it to the ground, after which they systematically wiped out the entire Jewish population. Today, there are 18,000 Jews buried in mass graves in the forests surrounding the town and only about 100-150 Jews left from the town. It is a bittersweet tale, but I wanted to bring to life the shtetl as it was before tragedy befell the town, to tell a story of courage, resistance and resilience, not a tale of tragedy.

Let’s talk about writing prose and poetry in the same book. First of all, what drove this choice? Did you alternate each style as you wrote, just as the chapters alternate? Did you find yourself liking one style versus the other while writing?
I originally set out to write the book in prose. But when I was trying to differentiate Laya’s voice from Liba’s voice I started to hear Prokofiev’s “Peter and the Wolf” melodies in my head—the plodding sound of the grandfather or the wolf, and the flute-like sound of the bird, and I realized that I needed to do this in literary form. I was a poet first, well before I decided to try my hand at writing fiction, and I love a good novel-in-verse, so I thought, why not a novel written half in verse and half in prose? It’s not something that we see very often, and it just felt right. I was really excited to play with this new format and see where it took me. I think that writing Laya’s sections was more fun, and it was nice to take a break from Liba’s sections and write a little poetry in-between. It kept things interesting.

This book is full of Yiddish phrases and Hebrew words, which gives the story a feeling of authenticity and place. How did you choose what words to employ and when to employ them?
When I realized that the book was going to be set in the shtetl of Dubossary I knew that I had to put Yiddish into the book. You can’t write about turn-of-the-century Eastern Europe without including some Yiddish. I was very much inspired by the way Laura Ruby used the Polish language in Bone Gap, and I really wanted to do the same kind of thing for Yiddish (and Hebrew) in my novel. As I looked up phrases that I knew had a good Yiddish equivalent, I often found that the right word popped into my head before I had even completed a search on the internet. My grandmother’s voice came to me as I worked, and this book is dedicated to her, for she taught me all the Yiddish I know. But I also spent hours reading lists of various colorful Yiddish phrases and spread them all out around me so that when the right opportunity arose I could use a choice phrase in the novel so that I would be incorporating as many authentic Yiddish turns of phrase into the book as possible. To me, more than anything, I hope this book helps keep the Yiddish language alive in the minds and hearts of readers.

Food is important in this story. The sisters each crave different foods and are heavily affected by them. Is this rooted in the part of the world the book is set in? Did you use food as a way to impact the story?
Food is a really important part of Jewish culture. Every holiday, every weekend (Shabbat) is centered around shared meals, customs and symbolic foods. Besides that, I am a foodie myself and my first book was actually a cookbook. Anyone who has eaten at my table knows that about me, so it was only natural that food should find its way into the books that I write. I think that food is very much a part of how we define ourselves culturally, and “Goblin Market” itself is a poem filled with descriptions of luscious fruit—I love books that are super evocative, where you can see and smell and taste the world that is being described, and I was determined to make sure that readers could literally taste my book on their tongues.

Tell me about writing a story centered on two sisters with two very different perspectives. Was it difficult to unify these perspectives into one story? Are there parts of how they’re tied together that you’re most proud of?
I think that a lot of the work of being a sibling and being part of a family is forgiveness. There is a lot of petty stuff that happens on a day-to-day basis between siblings, and from a very young age we are constantly forgiving and forgetting. The bigger challenge is what happens when we grow up and grow apart. What happens when your siblings start to make important life choices that you don’t agree with? This is something that happens in every family. And I think the parts I’m most proud of are the places where the sisters have to work hard to forgive each other and to love each other despite how different they are. It’s a hard lesson, and one that I think is really universal. The places where the sisters love and fight for each other even though they don’t agree with the choices that the other is making are the parts that I hope come across as nuanced and real—those are the parts I’m most proud of.

What are some of the defining elements of folklore that comes from Russia, the Ukraine and other parts of Eastern Europe that were inspirations here?
I started with the Hassidic folk tales I was familiar with—taking a man who dances in a bear cloak to save a fellow Jew (from the tale of the Shpoler Zaiyde) and making the leap from that to a man who can actually turn into a bear wasn’t that hard! But there are magical elements to a lot of Hassidic tales—they are just not as well-known as traditional fairy and folk tales. I discovered that the bear is the national symbol of Russia and that in the Ukraine, it is traditional to dance in a bearskin (head and all) to welcome in the new year. There is a line in “Goblin Market” that compares one sister’s neck to that of a swan, and that was the jumping off point for me to making Laya and her mother into actual swan-maidens. Russian, Ukrainian and Moldavian folklore are chock-full with swan-maiden and swan-prince tales, often in epic poems called blyini.

When you think back on writing the book, are there parts of the writing process that stand out in your mind?
Once the bare bones of the novel were finished, it took me many drafts to get it to the place that it’s at now. But to a certain degree—revising is kind of my favorite part. I’d say: “Ooh, I need to put Yiddish into my novel,” and then start from the beginning and braid the threads throughout. Then my agent suggested I make the woods creepier and add more of a sense of foreboding, so that was fun, too—going back in and making the woods come to life, while setting the stage for more of a sense of fear and uncertainty in the air. Writing is rewriting. The hardest part of working on a project for me is getting down the bones. Painting in the muscles and sinews and fleshing out the skin is the fun part.

You also mention in the author’s note that you’re a great fan of both history and fantasy. Are there other works out there that you would recommend for readers itching for similar tales?
I think that the further you go back in history the more mythological or fantastical historical fiction becomes. Mark Noce writes books that are categorized as historical fiction (Between Two Fires and Dark Winds Rising) but that skate on the edge of myth and have fantastical elements to them. J. Kathleen Cheney’s The Golden City series is one of my favorites and one that truly combines a sense of history and fantasy, Gretel and the Dark by Eliza Granville does this as well, and Naomi Novik’s most recent Spinning Silver is absolutely magical, but firmly rooted in elements of history.

Okay, be honest . . . would you rather be a bear or a swan?
I think that I am most like Liba in my personality, but, if given a choice, I would much rather be a swan. Perhaps it is because I am very un-swan-like in reality. I think there is a little of me in both sisters, and like Liba, I often wish that I could be something other than myself—something a bit wilder and more free.

 

ALSO IN BOOKPAGE: Read our review of The Sisters of the Winter Wood.

Author photo credit Tomer Rottenberg.

We talked to Rena Rossner about writing in both poetry and prose, the importance of food and creating the stories she wishes her younger self could read.

Interview by
This BookPage Icebreaker is sponsored by Baen Books.

When one talks about military sci-fi, one has to talk about David Weber. Author of the long-running, deeply influential Honor Harrington series, Weber has been delighting readers with the action-packed adventures of his titular character since 1992. A decorated politician and soldier, Honor is a “strong female character” that is allowed to have more personality traits than simply strong and female. Clever, empathetic and dedicated to her loved ones and country, Honor has starred in 13 standalone novels, and fans have been eagerly awaiting the 14th, Uncompromising Honor.

We talked to Weber about visualizing warfare in space, plotting character arcs over several novels and if his latest book is the last we’ll see of the indomitable Honor Harrington.

I know that the Honor Harrington books were reportedly inspired by the Horatio Hornblower series, but when you originally conceived of them, were there any other influences for her character in your mind?
Well actually, the inspiration for the books wasn’t Horatio Hornblower. I knew that if the books succeeded, that was who she would be compared to. So I decided to go with that motif all the way through. She’s actually much more as character inspired by a mix of Horatio Nelson, who was killed at the Battle of the Nile, and Alexander Cochrane, who is a much less well-known, at least in the United States, British admiral. And so in a sense, she and Horatio Hornblower share a historical ancestor, since Hornblower was clearly modeled on Nelson.

Now, people have asked me many times why I made Honor Harrington female. And the answer to that is that it never occurred to me to make her anything else. Not because I was making any feminist statements or anything else, but because—alright, if you follow my books in general, most of them have very strong female characters, and I would say the majority of them, probably, have female protagonists. If you look at the Safehold books, you’ve got Merlin Athrawes, who was born a woman but who had to become man by reconfiguring a cybernetic body. I write about strong female characters because I like women and I like strong people, and that produces strong female characters.

I think probably my statement on women’s rights is to be seen in the fact that nobody’s fighting about it in my books and it’s a done deal. I think that maybe near-future science fiction is a good platform for novels that emphasize the role of women and the equalization of genders. But I think if you write far-future science fiction like I do, and your female characters are still facing the same glass ceilings, the same restrictions and so forth, then you’re really shortchanging women. Because 2,000 years from now, I’d like to say the whole question of gender equality will have the burning significance to people of say, the pharaoh’s policy towards the Hittites does to us, because it will be a done deal. Half the human race, at least the last time I looked, is female. And that means that half the capable people on the planet are female. And my theory is that any society that doesn’t want to take advantage of that deserves to be stuck in the Middle Ages and probably will be.

I feel like your books take that same stance in regard to race—that we wouldn’t define race in the same way that we do on Earth once we’ve colonized a galaxy. So of course it’s going to be a multicultural society.
Actually one of my friends who is black called me up after reading Field of Dishonor and said, “The queen of Manticore is black.” And I said, “Yeah.” And he said, “You don’t understand, the queen of Manticore is black!” And I said, “Yeah, I wrote the book. I know she’s black.” And he said, “But no one says anything about it.” And I said, “That’s what they said about it.”

Right, there you go, that’s it.
Yeah, I think that science fiction in general tends to be an optimistic genre. Even the most dystopian people at least assume we’ll have a future to be grim about, if you know what I’m saying. But I think that in general, it tends on the social side to take current problems and visualize solutions to them, whether that’s a good solution or a bad solution, and see how that plays out.

So I always stalk the person I’m interviewing online, as a matter of course. You have to be prepared. And in several of the interviews I’ve read with you, you’ve said that you see yourself as a storyteller as opposed to an artist. I was wondering if that is how you personally approach your work or do you think that is a thing that is, for want of a better word, necessitated by the genre?
I really can’t answer that question for other people. Those who write the stronger stories, for me, are those who are storytellers first, and writers second. Writing is the medium through which they tell their stories. And I think that my judgment has been that people who set out to grind a partisan ax, whatever the ax may be, I think that really weakens your work. There are exceptions, but those exceptions are usually where the entire object of the story was to be polemical, like Orwell’s 1984.

Or Brave New World or something along those lines.
Yes, exactly, exactly. And you’re in a different readership, reading for a different reason, than you are for the general readership of science fiction. And that’s not to say that there’s not crossover between the two, because there definitely is. I think that to me, the crunch point comes when your vision of yourself as a writer, as a stylist begins detracting from the story you’re trying to tell. The point at which the reader begins looking at how you’ve done it rather than what you’ve done.

My judgment is that you can learn to be a writer, but you can’t learn to be a storyteller. You either are a storyteller or you’re not. Now you can learn to tell them better. But you have to have that storytelling bug.

Going back to the social structure of the world you’ve created, something I think is unfortunately rare in sci-fi especially is a religion that is not a terrifying cult or seen as alien or prehistoric. I think there’s this idea that, when we’re talking about a society evolving beyond sexism and racism, that somehow society will also evolve beyond religion. And I don’t think I agree with that, and I like reading books like yours where that is very much not the case.
Well, I am proof in advertising. I’m a Methodist lay speaker, although my certification has lapsed. I think that the people who believe that religion has to wither away probably don’t really understand faith in the first place. And I don’t intend that as a slam, because there are people who are people of faith, and there are people who aren’t, and a lot of depends on what your own personal experience has been. I know people who are blindly religious and don’t care about any possible challenge to their beliefs. I know people who are equally blindly secular, and will admit no evidence that might challenge their beliefs.

My personal view is that religion is very unlikely to ever wither away completely. I think that for whatever reason, we as a species are hardwired to look for something beyond ourselves, something greater than ourselves in which to believe. And I think that people who claim to not be religious have, in many cases, simply expressed that need to believe in and identify with something greater toward something other than God. There’s something that they put at the top of their hierarchy. And again, I’m not condemning them for that. I think that all of us have that need, that hunger.

I have met that need in myself through my faith in God. And I try to portray religion fairly in my books. As a practicing Christian and as a person of faith, I obviously believe that religion has a place in people’s lives. As a historian, I am aware of how that need to give God a place has been distorted and used for absolutely counter purposes time and time again. And I try to show both the positive and the negative side in what I write.

And as a historian, how do you visualize warfare in space? Are there forms or kinds of historical battles that have helped you figure out how you would plot a battle in space?
Well, I must confess—I think it’s probably the worst kept secret in science fiction—that I deliberately structured the technology in the Honor Harrington books to do the line of battle of naval warfare. I designed it so they would do broad sides at each other. The elements of naval strategy aren’t going to change all that much. The environment will change. And I think that naval combat is going to be a better guide for what goes on in space combat that say, air forces are.

That would have been my first assumption, because aerial battles are more three-dimensional.
Right and see the U.S. Navy has carriers and it has submarines, so it’s already a 3-D playing field.

Oh, I didn’t think about that!
And the U.S. Navy is unique because of our carrier fleet. The Navy has to be able to practice air-to-air warfare, anti-submarine warfare, commerce raiding warfare—it has to be able to put an invasion fleet ashore. And no one else in the world has anything like that capability.

Now, in the Honorverse and in interstellar warfare, it’s going to have a lot of resonances with World War II in the Pacific. Because the islands of the Pacific were isolated points in the middle of the ocean. Once they can be isolated by your fleet, nobody could possibly reinforce them, so one way or another, the island is going to fall.

In the Honorverse, once you control the gravity well of the planet, the planet is expected to surrender under the laws of war. Because if they can’t keep you from dropping rocks on them, you’ll eventually control the planet. And the Honorverse has the equivalent of the 18th-century, 19th-century laws of war that very clearly specify when a besieged city is supposed to surrender, what happens if it doesn’t surrender, etc., etc. And those grew out of the Forty Years War in Germany, which was just incredibly brutal. So they evolved a code of recognized practices of war.

I write military stories, and they tend to be about combat. Combat is absolutely horrific. And as a writer, writing about it, you have a responsibility to not sanitize it. I tend to be more of a believer in that you deal with the personal costs in terms of grief or guilt, and just every so often, you whack the reader in face with a scene that tells them how horrific it was. The hardest scene I think that I have ever had to write in the Honorverse was from Honor of the Queen. When Honor is dealing with the ensign who survived the mass rapes and the atrocities at the hand of the Masadans. And figuring out how to tell that critical part of the story without being overly graphic on the one hand, without dismissing it on the other.

And I think that the way I did it works. And I’ve had many women tell me that it works. It’s basically that you don’t actually see the assault at all. You’ve got this woman who’s obviously been shattered by what happened to her, trying to hang onto her sanity long enough to tell her commanding officer what happened. And then you have the commanding officer’s reaction to it. And I personally feel that that was a more effective way to handle it. Because you’re dealing here with what did it actually cost the human being involved.

So with such a long-running series and a character that’s been with you for so long, how do you approach plotting out a character arc?
With Honor, I knew a whole heck of a lot more than I told the reader in the first two books. If you read the first two books, you are introduced to this young, very focused, cool, calm collected person, and there’s truth to that. But it’s not until she meets Paul Tankersley and is forced to deal with things that she had suppressed—that had turned off one entire side of her life—that you begin to see that the Honor you met in the first two books is only a part of who she is.

I did that deliberately, because I knew that the character was going to grow and change over the course of the series. I wanted something that I could unpack for you as the reader. I wanted to be able to unwrap pre-existing parts of her that you didn’t know about to maintain that revelation process. I always knew that she was going to wind up with Hamish and Emily. That was really the only nailed-down part that I had.

So what’s coming up next for you?
The next Honorverse novel is A Call to Insurrection, which I am working on with Tim Zahn and Tom Pope. The next solo novel in the Honorverse will almost certainly be about Honor’s father and will be the story of his marine service. And Through Fiery Trials, the next Safehold book, is coming out in January.

I don’t know when/if there’s going to be another Honor-centric novel. One of the problems I had was that she was supposed to die in At All Costs, and she didn’t. And that’s fine! I love Honor, I’m glad she didn’t die, I’m good with that. The problem was that she was supposed to die at the pinnacle of her career. So here I have this woman who’s the commander of the grand fleet, and she’s this and she’s that—you can’t send her on death rides anymore! She’s too senior to be interacting with any junior officers. So the analogy I use when people ask me about this is that Honor will probably become Lessa from the Pern novels. Lessa and F’lar in the later novels are the senior leaders and not going out doing any of the crazy stuff. They are still central characters tying everything together, but they’re no longer the focus of the action.

Sci-fi/fantasy editor Savanna Walker talks with David Weber about visualizing warfare in space, plotting character arcs over several novels and if his latest book, Uncompromising Honor, is the last we’ll see of the indomitable Honor Harrington. Sponsored by Baen Books.

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M.R. Carey has left the zombie apocalypse world of his novel The Girl With All the Gifts in favor of modern-day Pittsburgh, where battered mother Liz Kendall may or may not be having a breakdown. Her latest encounter with her abusive ex-husband ends in shocking violence, enacted by her hands—but not by her mind. In the heat of the moment, another personality seems to take control of Liz’s body and physically repel her ex-husband. So far, so good. But this other self, whom Liz starts to call “Beth,” isn’t satisfied with just protecting Liz and her teenage son from harm. “Beth” likes hurting people, she likes intimidating them and she wants more. As Liz tries to figure out whether she’s experiencing a mental break or something paranormal is occurring, Carey explores mental illness, female rage and the mystery of the mind’s inner workings in Someone Like Me.

Your best-known work might be your zombie novel The Girl With All the Gifts—in fact, your most recent book was its prequel The Boy on the Bridge, which you published last year. What keeps you coming back to the theme of mental takeover—in this case, by an alternate personality instead of a zombie parasite?
It’s a powerful source of existential horror for me. I’m a lot more afraid of loss of agency than I am of most physical threats—and since a lot of my work has horror elements, I find myself visiting those fears quite a lot when I’m thinking about possible stories.

Having said that, I think Someone Like Me is a long way, thematically, from The Girl With All the Gifts. In Girl, Melanie was threatened by a part of her own nature that she didn’t perfectly understand—and the whole thrust of the story was about her accepting what she is and coming to terms with it. Liz Kendall, in Someone Like Me, is in a very different situation and has a different journey to go on. The monster she’s facing is . . . well, it’s not a part of her in the same way that Melanie’s hunger is. It’s more like a dormant possibility, that suddenly becomes less dormant. You’re right, though, that the threat presents in a similar way in the two stories. I hadn’t realized I went to that well so often!

Mental illness, particularly as a response to trauma, plays an essential role in this story. How much research did you do on real-life conditions resembling those displayed by these characters, and did you learn anything surprising in the process?
Without getting into spoiler territory, some of the mental health issues were more relevant to the story’s resolution than others. I did a lot of reading, on both childhood psychosis and dissociative disorders. Less on post-traumatic stress, where I had some personal experience to draw on. I also used my own therapist as a resource. He worked in clinical psychiatry for almost a decade before he moved into behavioral therapy, and he turned out to be invaluable.

I was relieved but not surprised to discover that a diagnosis of a psychotic condition in a child is handled with extreme caution. To take the obvious point, it’s so much harder to draw a clear dividing line between healthy imaginative play and delusional symptoms. Adults draw the line for you, having learned to keep their imaginative lives mostly private. So the range of diagnoses that Fran receives in the novel, which Dr. Southern describes as like throwing darts at a textbook, would actually be an attempt to keep all clinical options open for as long as possible, rather than rushing to judgement and making her problems worse.

Where dissociative identity disorder is concerned, I was a little surprised to discover how much disagreement there still is about its origins and its status. But only a little. I suppose the idea of repressed memories, on which the diagnosis of DID often depends, has become something of a minefield in itself. And M. Night Shyamalan’s sensationalistic handling of the condition in Split probably did more harm than good in some ways. One alter having diabetes when the rest don’t? No. That’s not a mental illness, that’s a miracle.

I’m inclined to hold with the theory that sees all psychological traits as existing on a spectrum, so the dividing line between what we think of as normal and what we label as pathological isn’t actually a line at all, but a broad spectrum. We never see our own mental health issues, but we’re quick to work up taxonomies for everybody else’s. People are complicated. And fragile.

The fictional animated series “Knights of the Woodland Table,” from which Fran derives her imaginary friend Lady Jinx, sounds like something I would have loved to watch growing up. What inspired you to use a cartoon in this manner? Did you have any real-life animated influence in mind?
I was thinking of the Studio Ghibli movies, many of which feature magical transformations. When I imagine Jinx, she’s very much an anime fox, hyper-stylised but still very graceful and beautiful, like the animals and nature spirits in Princess Mononoke or Haku the dragon boy in Spirited Away.

It’s amazing how children incorporate their favourite stories into their own imaginative lives. My own kids played endless let’s-pretend games involving characters from many different media franchises, much as Molly does in the novel. Mash-up games. Children’s entire lives are a mash-up, until around the age of seven or eight. Fran’s appropriation of Lady Jinx is a more extreme example of the same thing—taking something that means a lot to you, an imaginative focus, and rebuilding it around your own needs.

The key players in The Girl with All the Gifts and Fellside are female, and Someone Like Me follows suit, splitting its narrative between a divorced mother of two and a 16-year-old girl. What moves you to focus on female characters? Have you ever dealt with criticism of your ability to channel this perspective (like Stephen King, who began Carrie in a fit of pique after his editor told him that he couldn’t write women)?
I don’t have a good answer to this question. I can talk about the how of it, but not the why.

Immediately before I wrote The Girl With All the Gifts, I collaborated on two novels with my wife, Linda, and our daughter Louise. They were a big departure for me. I’d co-written comic books, but not novels. A novel is a commitment on a different scale. It demands a lot of brainstorming, a lot of arguing things out and blocking things out and experimenting with style and voice. Anyway, I came out of that process in a different place, creatively. The Girl With All the Gifts was the first result, and I was very happy with it.

Since then, as you say, I’ve mostly written stories with female protagonists—although the novel that follows Someone Like Me has a male narrator. It’s mostly not a conscious decision, or at least it’s not a decision that arrives in a way that’s separable from the story idea. I come up with a premise, and the premise quickly knits itself together into a sense of the story. The characters come into focus bit by bit as I noodle with the idea. Just lately, when I can see them clearly they mostly turn out to be women—whereas back when I was writing Lucifer and Castor they were more often men.

Nobody’s told me yet that I can’t or shouldn’t do this. In fact, some reviewers of The Girl With All the Gifts assumed that M.R. Carey was a woman rather than a man. I was very proud of that.

Someone Like Me is so casually American in its atmosphere and tone that the reader could be forgiven for forgetting that you are a British author. What made you decide to set a novel in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, and were there any challenges involved in conveying the setting accurately?
We have very good friends in Pittsburgh, and we’ve visited them there on numerous occasions, so I had a reasonable level of background knowledge of the city and the area.

But “Why America?” is the question that comes first. The answer is that it felt to me like a story that made more sense in America. Some of Liz’s predicament arises from the fact that she has lousy health insurance, which isn’t a thing in Britain—or at least not in the same way. And dissociative identity disorder, similarly, is in some respects an American artefact. Or at least it’s perceived as one. I’m aware that this is contested, but a large percentage both of the diagnoses and of the literature on the condition come from the USA. So locating Liz in America seemed appropriate and useful to the story. It seemed like a fitting place for it to play out.

And then once I’d made that decision, all sorts of serendipitous things dropped into my lap. Things relating to the history and geography of the city, I mean. Researching the settings was really enjoyable and exciting.

Anger—particularly women’s anger—is a very hot topic at the moment, and in many ways Someone Like Me is an exploration of the pros and cons of rage. Whereas Liz’s passivity puts her life at risk, Beth’s unrestrained fury is a blunt-force weapon that endangers her and her loved ones as often as it protects them. What role do you think anger plays in the life of a healthy person?
I think it’s both useful and dangerous. There are times when anger is the only sane response to a situation, but even then it’s very much a question of what you do with it and how you channel it. It’s volatile and dangerous stuff, as we’re seeing in political and cultural forums at the moment. I used to fly off the handle really easily when I was younger, but I always felt terrible afterwards. I suffered from a kind of emotional hangover of shame and self-disgust. These days I lock myself down more tightly, and I don’t think that’s a bad thing. I know the conventional wisdom is that you shouldn’t repress emotion, but you have to be aware that when you let it out, there are going to be consequences.

Right now I look around me and anger is pretty much all I see. Most of it is inexplicable to me. People seem to be experiencing emotional earthquakes about very trivial things. We now know that some of these earthquakes are deliberately stoked by Russian bots and hackers, but still. What are you doing with your life if developments in a movie cycle or TV series reduce you to incoherent rage? If anger and the expression of anger become the cornerstone of your social identity?

Yeah, the more I think about it, the more I’m in favour of bottling it up.

You were a comic book writer long before you became a novelist, and you wrote the screenplay for The Girl with All the Gifts while you were writing the book. Do you see Someone Like Me having a life in another medium?
It’s funny you should ask! The rights have already been optioned, by Hillbilly Films, and I’m in the process of adapting the novel into a TV miniseries. It’s been a really exhilarating process so far, and we all seem to be on the same page as to how the story should be structured. Inevitably the TV version would be different from the book, but the changes we’re making feel organic and positive. It’s enormously exciting to discuss how Lady Jinx would be rendered in a live action drama, and how we might go about dramatizing Liz’s interactions with Beth during the various stages of their relationship. That’s always part of the challenge, of course—pinpointing the things that have to change, in crossing to another medium, and finding ways to preserve the things that are essential. As far as that goes, working in comics has honed my instincts for visual storytelling in some really useful ways.

You work with a number of perspectives in this book. Which was your favorite to write?
Probably Fran’s. It’s strange how it came to be her story at least as much as it was Liz’s. She wasn’t even in the original pitch. She came along afterwards, when I was thinking about how Liz’s crisis would spill out to affect the people around her. I thought how good it would be, potentially, to repeat some of the same ideas in a different key. And there, very suddenly, was Fran. And Fran brought Jinx with her, and that was that.

What I relished more than anything in writing her was allowing her amazing strength and courage to be revealed slowly. When we first meet her, she’s folded herself into this very small space just to survive—and then when she needs to she unfolds and stands up tall, and you realise how much more there is to her. That’s the effect I was aiming for, anyway.

Incidentally, this was another big change that came in around about the same time that I started to focus on female protagonists. I made the shift from single point of view to multiple, and I’ve never looked back. I love the freedom and flexibility you get from being able to light up your story from any angle you want.

And yet, now I think of it—the next novel, the one that has the male narrator, also goes back to a single point of view. The story tells you how it wants to be told, in some ways. If you’re lucky.

 

ALSO IN BOOKPAGE: Read our review of Someone Like Me.

Author photo © Charlie Hopkinson.

M.R. Carey has left the zombie apocalypse world of his novel The Girl With All the Gifts in favor of modern-day Pittsburgh, where battered mother Liz Kendall may or may not be having a breakdown.

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Many advocates for Prohibition believed that alcohol was sinful—but in Molly Tanzer’s Creatures of Want and Ruin, one particular batch of moonshine is quite literally demonic. The second book in a loose trilogy that began with last year’s Creatures of Will and Temper, Tanzer’s latest historical fantasy follows Long Island bootlegger Ellie West as she tries to uncover the secrets of the dangerous hooch. During her quest to protect her family and community from the diabolical people who brewed it, Ellie joins forces with visiting socialite Fin, who has her own struggles to overcome. We talked to Tanzer about why she shifted the supernatural action in her series from Victorian London to Roaring ’20s America and what demonic alcohol would taste like.

One of the things I loved about this book is the yin and yang relationship of Ellie and Fin. Do you see them as two sides to the same coin? Or shades of the same sort of person?
Thank you so much! I really enjoyed writing their dynamic, and was eager to showcase two women on Long Island living very different lives while living only one or two streets away from one another, so I’m glad it works.

That said, I’m really not sure how to answer this! I don’t think I intended them to be yin/yang . . . they both have flexible ethics and believe in doing the right thing even when it’s hard—though, understandably, their different backgrounds mean they come at those problems in different ways.

It’s funny—Fin’s character was so hard for me to get right. I really struggled with finding her a believable toehold with Ellie, in spite of their similarities. It really didn’t “get there” for me until I realized that giving Fin a mild criminal past would do a lot to soften Ellie up.

Prohibition, as we know, didn’t mean the absence of alcohol. It seems like everyone had a bottle at home. Did this historical perspective make for some interesting character decisions? For example, having the character of Jones, a cop who was meant to enforce the law but was still buying booze from Ellie?
Creatures of Want and Ruin is taking its cues from H.P. Lovecraft and F. Scott Fitzgerald but also crime fiction of the era. I love the trope of the cop on the take . . . the combination of risk and safety a corrupt law enforcement official presents to a protagonist is always so delicious. Keeping Ellie off balance in regards to not knowing Jones’ feelings about her added even more spice, I like to think!

I think my favorite perspective I gained while researching Amityville under Prohibition informed setting rather than character. When I visited the Amityville Historical Society, I got talking with them about the volume of tunnels in Amityville that were all purely for bootlegging liquor. They pointed out a few homes that still have them today, and when I heard about that, I knew I had to incorporate a shed and tunnel into the novel as at least a minor set piece!

What was it like being a woman in Long Island during this time? Are Fin and Ellie direct reflections of those experiences?
The Roaring ’20s is a favorite time period for writers and readers—it’s a period of social change and transition, the art and literature of the time still feel very modern and relevant and frankly, the clothes were super cool. Long Island is the setting of one of the most iconic novels of the period for a reason: The disparity between the working-class and moneyed residents made it a compelling “America in miniature,” and what could be better for someone commenting on the American dream?

I picked it as a setting for some of the same reasons—Long Island’s population in the 1920s was made up of the rich and the poor, people of various races and religions, those who came to America on the Mayflower and those who emigrated somewhat more recently. And of course, it also had women and men that fit into all those different groups! What I’m getting at here is that “being a woman” on Long Island was deeply informed by race, class and social standing, and I’ve definitely done my best to represent and honor that in the book. That said, I was indeed inspired by the real lives of the women of Long Island! Ellie is a pulp reboot of my own grandmother, who was a baywoman of Amityville and a nature poet. While my grandmother might not recognize herself in some of Ellie’s more hard-boiled character traits, she was the “tomboy” of her family, who used to hunt duck with her father and always went out with my grandfather to fish for snook and dig for clams.

In the same vein, Fin and Ellie are both sexually empowered women and their sexual experiences help inform each one’s sense of self. What was it like writing about this freedom with this particular era in mind?
In Creatures of Will and Temper, I had two fairly traditional romance plotlines, so in Creatures of Want and Ruin, I wanted to do something a little different. I had been thinking about how it’s easy to get people together in books, but it’s harder to keep that spark alive between two established characters. Thus, I gave Ellie a fiancé, and gave them both some specific but fairly common deviant interests, just to keep things interesting—for them and for us. Fin’s romances are a bit less wholesome, it’s true, but the thing is every generation thinks they invented sex and scandal. Matters of the heart were just as lurid back then; they just weren’t spoken about or spoken about in ways we can easily understand.

Basically—and speaking more to my drawing on the pulps—I wanted to create two co-tagonists who behave like the pulp protagonists they’re modeled on. Sex was a big part of the pulps, and while it might have been a little less explicit—or, well, “consent-forward,” let’s call it—I wanted to incorporate that same element into Creatures of Want and Ruin in honest and naturalistic ways.

Something I found myself thinking about while reading was belief. That is, the threshold at which we believe what we see. And the characters here see some pretty unbelievable things. How do you navigate what is believable for the character? Is it a conscious choice you make as a writer to say, “This character has to believe what they see now?”
I struggle with this every time I write a novel about supernatural or fantastical things happening to everyday people!

Truthfully, I think I’d melt down and experience a psychic break if I had to deal with pretty much anything my protagonists need to deal with, but hey, fiction is often aspirational! And people are actually so much more capable of coping with the absurd and the terrifying than we give ourselves credit for. So, in the interest of moving a story along, I often draw on the strength of my characters and do a bit of hand waving. While I have enjoyed stories about people being unable to cope with the paranormal—I mean, I did in part base this book on the works of H.P. Lovecraft—at the end of the day, I was telling a story about people rising to the occasion, not failing to.

Both Ellie and Fin are compelling, intriguing people. Do you see more pieces of yourself in one versus the other? What’s the benefit of writing multiple perspectives in a story like this?
I do tend to incorporate my experiences into my writing, but it’s rarely autobiographical. That said, I do identify more with Fin than Ellie. Ellie is so self-confident; she’s so sure of herself and secure in her identity. While that’s #goals for me, it’s not my reality. Fin’s struggle to figure out who she is is much more relatable to my life. But it isn’t activism that is my core, it’s writing. The multiple times I’ve lost my way in my life, writing has brought me back to myself in the way that activism does for Fin.

As for the other part of your question, the benefit of multiple perspectives is just that—multiple perspectives! I couldn’t have told this story just from Ellie’s point of view, or just from Fin’s. At its core, this is a book about how we must not set aside, but rather work through our differences in order to come together and effectively fight our battles, thus I had to make that bridge-building a part of the tale.

When you look back on the writing process, what moments in the story do you remember writing most vividly?
I remember writing the summer luau sequence during a freak late-season snowstorm here in Colorado. I built up a fire in the fireplace to warm my place up, put on ukulele music and tried to imagine summer!

What do you imagine Ellie’s demon-hooch really tastes like?
Probably super gross! You know, a few years ago, there was a movement to make moonshine whiskey the hot new artisanal booze out there on the better liquor store shelves. I’ve had exactly one fancy white dog worth drinking; the rest always makes me feel like someone is hammering nails into my eyes but through the back of my head. (Also, none of it can hold a candle to the apple pie moonshine a friend’s former roommate used to make in a pressure cooker on the stove, but that still also made me feel like nails were being driven into my skull.) I imagine the usual moonshine “tasting notes” of Gojo and burning hair would be augmented if not enhanced by the taste of the water you pour off canned mushrooms. I think I also invoke kerosene, so let’s go with that!

 

ALSO IN BOOKPAGE: Read our review of Creatures of Want and Ruin.

Author photo © Max Campanella.

Many advocates for Prohibition believed that alcohol was sinful—but in Molly Tanzer’s Creatures of Want and Ruin, a batch of moonshine is quite literally demonic. The second book in a loose trilogy that began with last year’s Creatures of Will and Temper, Tanzer’s latest historical fantasy follows Long Island bootlegger Ellie West as she tries to uncover the secrets of the dangerous hooch, and protect her family and community from the diabolical people who brewed it. We talked to Tanzer about why she shifted the supernatural action from Victorian London to Roaring Twenties America and what exactly demonic alcohol would taste like.

Interview by

Libraries are (obviously) always important. But in Genevieve Cogman’s Invisible Library series, a library is what keeps all of existence in balance. Tasked with keeping the peace between the noble, orderly dragons and the chaotic, untrustworthy Fae, the Librarians reside outside of time itself and maintain the balance between all possible worlds. Sometimes, this even involves stealing extraordinarily powerful books whose effect will too drastically alter the status of their world. In the fifth installment of the series, heroic Librarian Irene is summoned to solve a murder in an alternate-reality Paris before it derails a historic peace conference. We talked to Cogman about the future of her series, and which alternate-reality book she’d love to steal.

I love the concept for this series—two supernatural species, kept in balance by Librarians who can alter little pockets of reality and go about stealing disruptive books to keep them safe in their Invisible Library. Where on earth did it come from?
It came from a whole mix of things, really—law and chaos at opposing ends of the universe, and mysterious interdimensional libraries [of] Terry Pratchett, Neil Gaiman and other sources. Like a lot of authors, I pulled out the bits I liked and put them together in a new way.

The plot of The Mortal Word relies in some ways on its setting in Paris. Did the setting or the story come first, or were they in balance, as it were?
I picked Paris because I particularly wanted to use a specific location in Paris. (I’m not saying which location it is because I don’t want to spoil the story, but anyone who’s finished the book can probably guess.) So I suppose the setting and the story were mostly in balance. But Paris fit in other ways—it was convenient for the peace conference and luxurious enough to keep the participants in a good mood. I suppose the peace conference could have been held in Antarctica in an abandoned science station, where nobody would have known about it, but imagine how certain people would have reacted on being asked to accept local inconveniences.

Have you read any books that you’re surprised a Librarian hasn’t stolen? And are there any alternate reality books youd be tempted to steal?
Well, I have a copy of Ursula K. Le Guin’s translation of the Tao Te Ching, which I would think anyone would want to steal, but that’s not actually fiction. If we were to consider unique books which never got written in this world but might have been written in other worlds, I’d love to read a version of The Tale of Genji which actually went into how Genji died—in our world, that chapter is left blank, but who knows how the story goes in other worlds?

Each Fae has an archetype or a character that they follow, and their actions are prescribed by the nature of that character. Since they’re at war with the dragons, what do you think would happen if a Fae adopted a draconic archetype?
Unfortunately (for them), a Fae can’t actually turn into a dragon. (I’m sure it’s been tried!) It is quite possible for a Fae to adopt a noble, virtuous archetype, and in that case, they would behave in a noble and virtuous way. I’m not sure any dragon would trust them, though . . .

I got the impression that when the Fae’s stories get too many reboots, they’d turn out a bit like the Countess, with their personalities shattered and shot through with contradictions. Has that ever been done deliberately or tactically in the Invisible Library’s world?
It’s more the opposite—some Fae deliberately restrict their archetype in order to stay more focused, human and sane. Others prefer to go for the heights, and often go out in a blaze of glory. And there are always other Fae coming along after them, willing to take over the identity or imitate it on a smaller scale. There are probably half a dozen other would-be-Countesses out there, less powerful than the “acknowledged” one, lurking in their castles and dreaming of power.

I was struck while reading by the connections between the dragons’ characters and their elements, but also the connections between elements of related dragons. (For instance, Ao Ji’s affinity for ice and Kai’s affinity for water.) Are dragons’ elemental affinities tied to their personalities, or are they more hereditary or familial?
That is an interesting question to which the dragons don’t have a definite answer. It is considered fortunate for a dragon to have the same elemental affinity as one of their parents (Kai’s father also has an affinity to water), but it’s far from always the case. However, a dragon who has a strong affinity for a particular element will usually organize their life and surroundings to be conveniently close to that element—both for preference and for strategic reasons.

The Mortal Word feels a bit like an episode of a long-running serial, and the series could theoretically go on for as long as you want it to. How much more of the Invisible Library world do you think you’ll end up exploring?
I’m not sure at the moment. I do intend that the series will have an ending, and I have a rough plotline up to the end of book eight. Beyond that, I can’t be certain. (Or there is the possibility of exploring other parts of that universe—Irene isn’t the only Librarian who gets into trouble.)

There’s a reference to a Library cataloging system, in which worlds are given numbers, and one number, in particular, is very prominently mentioned. What world is Beta-001? Or is that something you can’t tell us right now?
It’s the first world that the Library has cataloged in the Beta series—the worlds that the Library considers to be magic-dominant. That may or may not be something important in the long run . . .

 

ALSO IN BOOKPAGE: Read our review of The Mortal Word.

Author photo © Deborah Drake.

Libraries are (obviously) always important. But in Genevieve Cogman’s Invisible Library series, a library is what keeps all of existence in balance. We talked to Cogman about the future of her series, and which alternate-reality book she’d love to steal.

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With The Winter of the Witch, bestselling author Katherine Arden has crafted an utterly fantastic, truly satisfying end to her Winternight trilogy. Fans who have fallen in love with the fantasy series’ stalwart, magically gifted heroine Vasilisa Petrovna will be thrilled to return to Arden’s fairy-tale vision of medieval Russia, where the wonder of the setting is undercut by danger at every turn. We talked to Arden about completing her first trilogy, the roots of her love for Russian folktales and culture, and why she can’t stick to an outline.

You are about to complete your first published trilogy. How do you feel?
I’m feeling a lot of relief and excitement. I started the Winternight trilogy in 2011, and I knew how I wanted the first book to begin, and I knew how I wanted the last book to end, but I wasn’t totally sure what was going to happen in the middle. I didn’t know anything about writing trilogies, and I am not the best at outlining, so I had to get it right mostly by trial and error. There were times, honestly, when I was sure I wouldn’t get it right, and I had to just power through that feeling.

As a writer, the fact that all three books make sense, follow an overarching plot arc for the trilogy, have individual arcs for each book and resolve the three major intertwining conflicts of the story, is just amazing to me and I am proud of myself for pulling it off. No one wants to disappoint their readers, and, especially for the final book, I knew I had to stick the landing. The Winter of the Witch does so, I believe, and that is satisfying.

I am also so very excited for readers to be able to read the end of the story. The three novels of the trilogy are set back-to-back, so really they form one giant narrative, and I feel like you have to read all three books to get a sense of the whole design, and I am excited for fans of the series to be able to experience that.

Many of us are very unfamiliar with Russian folklore. Could you go into some detail about how and why you chose to set your books in Russia and heavily root them in its fairy tale history?
I was a Russian major in college and studied abroad in Moscow when I was 19, and again when I was 22. I had always loved books based on fairy tales, and when I decided to try my hand at a novel, writing a book based on a Russian fairy tale seemed sensible. I based the books in historical Russia because I wanted to add a sense of realism that history can give. I wanted my books to be clearly set in Russia, not a Russia-coded fantasy land. That was part of the reason I chose the Middle Ages, a time before the Tsars, before onion domes, and samovars and troikas, and all the clichés that we associate with Russia. I wanted to approach the subject from an unusual angle that might make people reconsider their Russian stereotypes. Also, the Middle Ages in Muscovy are not well documented, and it was easier, in that setting, to create a sense of possibility, that history and myth could coexist.

Other than the ones directly referenced, are there any fairy tales that you think we should read to gain some context?
The ones directly referenced in the text are the fairy tales King Frost (Morozko), The Snow-Maiden and Marya Morevna. There are also indirect references to Vasilisa the Wise, Vasilisa the Beautiful, Ivan and the Firebird, Koschei the Deathless, Finist the Falcon, and Ivanushka and Alyonushka. There might be more that I’m not recalling; all three books are full of fairy-tale easter eggs, for people who are into that sort of thing. I’d recommend reading an anthology of Russian fairy tales—it is absolutely worth it.

Vasya cannot seem to catch a break. She even starts this book with burns and a broken rib! Why do you hurt her so?
I’m not sure people would read 400 pages about Vasya just frolicking happily in the woods with her magic horse, although perhaps I’m wrong.

The magic in Vasya’s Russia is very mystical, like tugging on the strings of the forces of nature, with a few notable exceptions like Kasyan and Vasya’s ice knives. Did you decide on a specific system of magic, or did you intend for the nature of magic in your books to be more loosely interpreted?
I wanted magic to be about how people view reality. The more plastic your view of reality, the more plastic reality becomes. But the downside is if you go too far in that direction, you have no sense of what is real at all and start to go insane. So it’s not a system so much as a trick of viewing the world. And it felt very real to me. I think a lot of what we are able to do in life depends on our starting view of reality.

Any plans to return to Vasya and company in the future? What about a different story also set in Russia?
Not currently. I would love to do a fairy tale collection at some point, either in translation or original, but I don’t think that will happen anytime soon. I am sure I will revisit Russia in future novels, even if they are not about Vasilisa.

What are you reading? Have there been any specific books that helped inspire this trilogy?
Right now I’m reading The Kingdom of Copper, which is out soon, and I am really enjoying the second installment in Daevabad trilogy. I love the fairy tale retellings of Robin McKinley, and those really inspired me. Also Pushkin, Bulgakov, Gogol, Lermontov—the great Russian writers who mix realism, Russian folklore and fantasy. Another writer who inspired me is Dorothy Dunnett, whose historical fiction is both richly textured and incredibly intricately plotted.

Your recent middle-grade novel Small Spaces was a significant departure from your trilogy, but it was still playing with some of the same eerie themes. What did you enjoy about writing a novel for children?
It was a break. It was a chance to use a different voice, to set a book in the present day, to not have to do extensive research, to set myself a technical challenge (being scary but not gory) and to just have fun with writing. Your imagination is like a little kid: force it to do the same thing all the time and it gets stale and resentful. Every author, I think, really benefits from changing it up and I certainly did. It’s also great talking to young readers. Kids experience books in a more immediate way than adults, and it is so fun to see someone taking in your work in that way.

How do you write your books? What does your process look like?
Sit down with a notebook and pen and see what happens. I wish I could be more systematic, but part of my process is letting the process surprise me. I do a lot of research concurrent with writing, and the research informs the writing. I might scribble an outline halfway through, but then I don’t stick to it. Not for lack of trying, it just never seems to work.

If you could tell a reader to remember one thing while reading The Winter of the Witch, what would it be?
That no one is wholly good or wholly evil and we are all human.

 

ALSO IN BOOKPAGE: Read our review of The Winter of the Witch.

Author photo © Deverie Crystal Photography.

With The Winter of the Witch, Katherine Arden has crafted an utterly fantastic, truly satisfying end to her Winternight trilogy. Fans who have fallen in love with stalwart, magically gifted heroine Vasilisa Petrovna will be thrilled to return to Arden’s fairy tale vision of medieval Russia, the wonder of which is undercut by danger at every turn. We talked to Arden about completing her first trilogy, the roots of her love for Russian folktales and culture, and why she can’t stick to an outline.

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Sponsored by Baen Books.


One of the pioneers of military science fiction, David Drake has drawn on his combat experience in Vietnam and his education in history and Latin to create fictional worlds that feel vitally, immediately real. His latest series, Time of Heroes, takes the classic characters of Arthurian legend and transports them to a chaotic universe where humanity is attempting to build a better, safer future. The Storm, Drake’s second installment in the series, follows the heroic and goodhearted Lord Pal as he embarks on a quest for his missing mentor. We talked to Drake about his favorite fictional world, his ideal library and more.

Which fictional world would you most like to live in? Which fictional world would you most hate to live in?
The world of Clifford Simak’s The Big Front Yard in which like-minded members of many—perhaps infinite—universes form a community of positive, problem-solving people.

The world of Asimov’s The Caves of Steel, in which the people of overpopulated Earth live and die in human Habitrails in which there is no hope for a different future.

For you, what is the most difficult aspect of world building?
Finding the world I want to use as a template. I almost always start with a place that is or has been real.

Who are your favorite heroes of fiction?
I guess Ned Beaumont, hero of The Glass Key by Dashiell Hammett. Beaumont is very smart and competent, but he’s not trying to run anything. He’s completely loyal to his boss—even when the boss is willing to sell him out.

He leaves when he’s treated badly enough, but he remains loyal—saving the boss as his final act before leaving.

Beaumont is a man of principles and sticks to them even when those around him fail him and fail themselves. That’s their business; he’s responsible for himself.

What do you need to get into the zone while writing?
Ideally I have a photo or drawing of the setting for the current scene laid out beside my computer.

What is the ideal snack/drink to pair with your latest book?
Pal, the hero of The Storm, is a kid from the sticks. He has simple tastes. He prefers ale to lager, and either to wine, which goes to his head.

The author is from Iowa and avoids alcohol because things went badly for those of his ancestors who were not abstainers. This book was written on tea.

Which books were your gateway drug into science fiction & fantasy?
The Angry Planet was the first real SF I read at age 11. It’s a YA, but the themes were utterly adult. Kids stow away on their uncle’s spaceship to Mars. They find a battle between good and evil, which they join on the side of good.

Evil wins, completely and horribly.

This showed me that SF is capable of thinking the unthinkable.

What is the hardest passage you have ever had to write?
A scene in which the viewpoint character of Igniting the Reaches confronts a pair of men who have betrayed him and his friend, and reaches a friendly accommodation without violence.

I came back from Vietnam with a great deal of anger. Describing a man who is well used to violence stepping away from it was very hard—but I knew it was what I needed to do.

Which of your characters would you most like to get a drink with?
Pal, of The Storm. He’s a decent and polite man who isn’t trying to run other peoples’ lives.

Describe your ideal library.
A lot of classical texts—the Greeks in translation.

A lot of memoirs, many of them military. Relatively few biographies. Some secondary history, but mostly those that are memoirs by participants.

Lots of classic SF and fantasy, including magazines.

What’s the first fictional world you came up with as a kid?
Oh, I don’t know about world exactly, but a jungle place with vine-covered ruined cities. Lots of exotic animals.

 

Order The Storm now from: B & N | Amazon | BAM

One of the pioneers of military science fiction, David Drake has drawn on his combat experience in Vietnam and his education in history and Latin to create fictional worlds that feel vitally, immediately real. His latest series, Time of Heroes, takes the classic characters of Arthurian legend and transports them to a chaotic universe where humanity is attempting to build a better, safer future. The Storm, Drake’s second installment in the series, follows the heroic and goodhearted Lord Pal as he embarks on a quest for his missing mentor. We talked to Drake about his favorite fictional world, his ideal library and more.

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The dreaded sophomore novel is always a telling test for a new writer. And the most difficult incarnation of it may be the second novel in a super-hyped, highly acclaimed fantasy series. S.A. Chakraborty’s The City of Brass was a superb introduction to both the author and her intricately detailed, vividly realistic world inspired by Middle Eastern legends and fairy tales.

The Kingdom of Copper begins five years later, with former Cairo grifter Nahri ensconced in the dangerous court of Daevabad, her once-friend Prince Ali on the run from his father and an unknown new threat growing stronger on the horizon. An emotionally devastating, character-driven novel that also succeeds in building out its complex world, The Kingdom of Copper is further proof that the Daevabad trilogy is on its way to becoming a modern fantasy classic. We talked to Chakraborty about the mythology that inspired her novels, why she added a new point-of-view character and more.

How was writing your second book in this series different from writing the first?
I was writing to a deadline! My first book began as this personal, private project that meandered all over the place and took nearly a decade to write—the second book I turned around in eighteen months. And while I was grateful for the opportunity to dive back into the world, it was very difficult to adjust to the crunch.

Some of the conflicts in this book are over questions of historical accuracy (what happened) and of historical interpretation (how we should feel about it). How did your passion for history influence how you deal with these sorts of questions?
It’s the constant reading of different sources. I very much believe history is written by the victors—we can look even today how different media outlets frame current events. And I wanted the characters and the world to reflect that. They’re deeply attached to their version of the past—it’s their truth, what shapes their politics and everyday lives, and yet so much of it rests on a very shaky foundation. I feel like every day I read a new interpretation of some historical fact I’ve always taken for granted, and I wanted the background of the world to seem just as volatile.

In The City of Brass and The Kingdom of Copper, Nahri is forced to deal with living under two separate occupations, first in Cairo and then in Daevabad. Why did you choose to contrast those particular regimes?
There is a bit of a spoiler for the third book in this answer that I’d like to avoid, and I don’t think we see enough of Cairo in the first book (it takes place in the earliest weeks of Napoleon’s invasion), to be able to offer a contrast just yet. That being said, I wanted it to feel like a bit of a portal fantasy that stepped back in time. Nahri’s Egypt is entering the modern era whereas the magical world is a few centuries behind humans—more so than usual because they’ve started to turn inward.

One of the things that feels different about this book is the choice to set it five years after The City of Brass concludes. So often trilogies tend to stack one book after the other with very little breathing room between. What led to the decision to give your characters that much space?
I always knew I wanted to give the characters that kind of breathing room. Nahri and Ali are fairly young in the first book when their worlds are turned upside down and they’re thrust into very different hostile environments. To me, it was a bit more interesting to pick up later—when they’ve learned to adapt and survive and train in their respective specialties (it was also important to me to show that Nahri’s medical training would take years)—and show their growth through even worse challenges.

The City of Brass is told from Nahri and Ali’s points of view. Why did you add in Dara’s perspective in The Kingdom of Copper?
The book deals with the consequences of choice. Injustice and oppression are not the sole responsibility of tyrants—they require a lot of regular people to either tacitly endorse such systems or turn a blind eye. With Dara, I wanted to introduce a character I knew people would come to love, who would be rightfully understood as a hero, as a love interest, as a fundamentally good man—and then show how someone like that can commit great evil, without ever justifying it to the readers. For the second book, it felt more effective—though heartbreaking—to accomplish this from his perspective.

I love the tribal and regional nature of magic within this series. Did the distinctions of which tribes do which kinds of magic come out of your research, or was it more of a narrative choice?
Both. In the history of the book’s world, the djinn are separated into six tribes by the Prophet Suleiman, stripped of much of their magic and cast off into the human world. They survive in many ways by quietly grubbing off the local humans they’ll later look down upon and adding what remains of their magic to human technology. So djinn who awoke in wealthy trade cities on the coast end up taking local ships and enchanting them to fly, becoming premier traders in their world.

If Ali didn’t have to deal with palace intrigue and the threat of assassination, what do you think he’d prefer to be doing with his time?
I think under different circumstances, Ali could have found happiness in the djinn village of Bir Nabat. He’s the consummate do-gooder and here he was able to help people in a far more straightforward, tangible manner—dig a well, start a school. I could see Ali making a quiet life, starting a family to replace the one he lost in Daevabad and being generally content. Unfortunately for him, his author had other ideas.

One of the things I love about this book is that the city of Daevabad is as complex a character as any in the series. How did you go about crafting a setting as complicated as Daevabad?
Haha, I worked on it for a decade! But honestly, I just tried to make it realistic, as vague as that sounds. It’s a messy, chaotic place born of centuries of occupation and forced migration—but it’s also a thriving metropolis where tens of thousands of people are just trying to get by. Magic or not, you’re going to need some order in the marketplaces, a service to pick up the trash and places where regular people socialize.

You can really feel the depth of research behind The Daevabad Trilogy as you’re reading it. Often it feels like there are stories lurking around every corner that we just aren’t privy to as readers. Can you talk about a historical story you found in your research that you loved but that just didn’t fit with the trilogy?
This is fairly silly, but I’m a big fan of the old regional folktales such as 1001 Nights and Tales of the Marvelous and News of the Strange, and one trope I’ve yet to find a place for are its murderous automatons. Sometimes they’re ancient sculptures that come to life with magic, other times they’re the metal creations of brilliant scientists—an early form of steampunk. Either way, if a character comes across an eerie armed statue in one of these stories, someone is definitely about to be murdered. I haven’t been able to work one in yet but I’m still hoping!

 

ALSO IN BOOKPAGE: Read our review of The Kingdom of Copper.

An emotionally devastating, character-driven novel that also succeeds in building out its complex world, The Kingdom of Copper is further proof that the Daevabad trilogy is on its way to becoming a modern fantasy classic. We talked to S.A. Chakraborty about the mythology that inspired her novels, why she added a new point-of-view character and more.

Interview by

Nearly seven years after the publication of her debut novel, Alif the Unseen, G. Willow Wilson returns with a spellbinding follow-up. The Bird King is a sweeping historical fantasy set against the backdrop of the last remnants of Muslim Spain during the Inquisition, and follows two dear friends as they set out on a dangerous adventure guided only by a mysterious talent, a jinn and their own faith. Wilson, who is also the author of the Hugo Award-winning comic book series Ms Marvel for Marvel comics, chatted with BookPage about her new novel, how working in superhero comics has affected her novels and about her own faith in stories.

What kick-started this novel in your imagination? Did the fantasy come first, or the history, or the characters?
I think what came first was the desire to write a platonic love story, and what came second was a fascination with 15th-century Spain, since the cultural and political upheaval in that time and place parallel our own in so many ways. There was also my ongoing obsession with maps and the way our particular points of view influence the way we describe our physical geography. When you’re writing, you can never be quite sure what follows what—so often, ideas are intimately connected in ways you don’t anticipate.

When and how did you realize the story of the Bird King, which Fatima and Hassan take as a kind of personal fable for themselves, would become so central to this book?
The story-within-a-story of the Bird King is drawn from an epic poem called The Conference of the Birds by the medieval Sufi philosopher Farid ud-Din Attar. On some level, it’s a teaching story—a way of describing very complex ideas about the nature of God and the role of the believer through allegory. Yet on its face, it’s also a story about longing for something lost, which made it a very poignant touchstone for Fatima and Hassan, since in the book, the only world they have ever known is coming to a rapid end.

In researching and writing about Muslim Spain, what did you learn about the people of Granada (or the people of Christian Spain) that surprised you the most?
I think what was most surprising to me was how contemporary all their concerns and preoccupations felt. Spanish Jews and Muslims faced a choice: whether to stay in Spain and convert to Catholicism or leave for North Africa or Italy and abandon their homeland. That brings up questions of identity and belonging that I think many of us today would recognize. How long do you have to live in a place before you are “from” there? Some Muslim families in Spain had been there for five or six hundred years, yet they were essentially being told they were foreigners and undesirables. And the questions they were asking Islamic scholars in Morocco—is it OK to pretend to be Catholic in order to stay in Spain?—suggest that a lot of them really, really didn’t want to leave the only home they had ever known, even if it meant living under hostile rulers.

The jinn is a well-known creature in Islamic mythology, and yours is a particularly memorable one. How much did you draw from traditional accounts for the character, and how much did you simply invent?
Stories about jinn are so varied and colorful that it is almost impossible to make stuff up. Nearly anything you come up with will have been described in some jinn story, somewhere, at some time in the past. Jinn who transform into beasts and birds, jinn who steal corpses and walk around in them, jinn who are tricksters, jinn who are very pious and good. It’s all there in the folklore—and in some cases, in the Quran itself. So I feel hesitant to take credit for anything.

Hassan’s talent for mapmaking is so fascinating, and yet the way it truly works is so instinctual that it seems obscured even from him. How much did you personally have to know about how his gifts worked while writing the book? Do you understand it any better than he does?
Like Hassan does in the story, I had pretty intense synesthesia as a child, though I didn’t have a word for it or realize it was something unusual. Coming from a comic book-writing background, I did try to have a few concrete “rules” to govern Hassan’s gift, the way you would come up with rules for the powers of a superhero—if you don’t have some kind of reasoning or boundaries, the temptation is to make the character more and more powerful, and as a result, less and less interesting. So I like to think I know more or less how Hassan’s gift functions, but don’t ask me to describe it . . .

In telling the story of the Bird King to each other, your characters discuss how a story’s ownership changes after the original author sends it out into the world. You’ve had a lot of experience with fandom and even writing characters you don’t technically own. How have your views on the ownership of stories evolved over time?
I’m not possessive of the things I write. After I write them, they belong to the reader. Or, not to put too fine a point on it, the large entertainment corporation I have written them for. So I can’t get too attached. Or maybe that’s not quite right—I don’t get attached to the story, but I do get attached to the readers. They inevitably see things in the story that were completely invisible to me as I was writing it. And I find that perspective incredibly valuable. I care less about ownership than I do about that conversation.

Your story is rich in historical details and realism, but it’s also a story in which mythological creatures and magical abilities are simply taken as a given. What do you feel was the most important thing to remember when it came to achieving verisimilitude with this particular novel?
You know, it was really challenging to write a story set during a time period in which most people believed in the literal truth of the unseen—God, angels, demons, jinn, sorcery, etc. Even for me as a fairly religious person, it was hard to make that level of credulity feel realistic. When you write fantasy or magical realism set in the present, there’s a level of sustained shock—the modern person, who fancies herself very rational, continuously reacts against the presence of the unexplained. The medieval person, after an initial shock, would just accept it as part of the natural continuity between the seen and unseen. That’s a pretty big experience gap.

You’ve had a lot of experience writing in the realm of superhero comics since your last novel was published. What did superhero comics teach you about your own writing that you were able to apply to The Bird King?
Superhero comics taught me that writing is a communal exercise, even when you do your bit in isolation. I may write a script in complete silence at my desk, but when I’m done, it goes through the interpretive lens of the artist and the colorist and the letterer, and with every new iteration, the story changes. It teaches you that no matter how good you get, you will never be able to beam your thoughts straight into the mind of the reader. There will always be that interpretive distance. It’s very humbling—it means that you are not running this process; this process is running you.

The novel deals frequently with themes of faith—faith in God (or lack thereof), faith in friendship, faith in love and even faith in stories. What did writing The Bird King teach you, or help you realize, about your own experience with faith in your life?
I think that when we’re comfortable, we don’t really know for sure what we believe. We might think we know, but we don’t really find out until we’re tested. It’s easy to believe that the world is an inherently good place when things are going well, but what about when things have gone horribly wrong? What about in times of upheaval and chaos, when good people seem to suffer and evil to flourish? It was cathartic to write about a time of intense spiritual and moral crisis while we’re going through our own time of intense spiritual and moral crisis—it allowed me to extrapolate a hopeful ending.

 

ALSO IN BOOKPAGE: Read our review of The Bird King.

Nearly seven years after the publication of her debut novel, Alif the Unseen, G. Willow Wilson returns with a spellbinding follow-up. The Bird King is a sweeping historical fantasy set against the backdrop of the last remnants of Muslim Spain during the Inquisition, and follows two dear friends as they set out on a dangerous adventure guided only by a mysterious talent, a jinn, and their own faith. Wilson, who is also the author of the Hugo Award-winning comic book series Ms Marvel for Marvel comics, chatted with BookPage about her new novel, how working in superhero comics has affected her novels and about her own faith in stories.

Interview by

An 848-page fantasy novel is a daunting task for any writer. But an 848-page standalone novel, completed in the middle of another bestselling series? Preposterous. Which simply makes Samantha Shannon’s The Priory of the Orange Tree even more astonishing. Written in between installments of her extremely popular Bone Season novels, Priory is a wonderfully complex, female-driven fantasy novel with dragons, ancient evils and just the right amount of political intrigue. We talked to Shannon about reimagining mythical creatures, which of her fictional worlds she’d like to live in and what prompted her shift into high fantasy.

Your latest book has the kind of heft and scope that seems to demand a secluded week or two from the reader, but that’s nothing compared to the undertaking of writing. How many years did The Priory of the Orange Tree take to complete?
Over three years—April 2015 to June 2018.

What inspired you to take on high fantasy? Who are some of your creative influences in the genre?
I wanted to write a book that explored some of the history of our world—particularly the 16th and 17th centuries—but also to incorporate myth and legend, and to have the freedom to create my own countries and events. Epic fantasy was the best genre for that. Most of my influences for this book were historical (e.g. The Faerie Queene by Edmund Spenser, various versions of Saint George and the Dragon, the Nihongi and the Kojiki), but some of the authors I admire within speculative fiction are N.K. Jemisin, Zen Cho, George R.R. Martin, J.R.R. Tolkien and Laini Taylor.

You give a great deal of care and attention, not only to the characters, but to the creatures they encounter, embellishing common fantasy animals with your own zoological quirks. Which was your favorite to reimagine?
The ichneumon! They’re mentioned in literature of old—sometimes under the name echinemon—as the enemy of the dragon or serpent. In Priory, they’re huge, loyal, mongoose-like animals that have teamed up with human mages to fight wyrms. They have powerful jaws with teeth that can pierce scale, and their bones can be used to fashion weapons.

You’ve been hard at work on The Bone Season and its sequels for years. What made you take a detour from that series to create an entirely new world?
I started The Priory of the Orange Tree during an interlude in the Bone Season series, where my editor had the manuscript of The Song Rising for quite a while and I was unable to start work on the next installment. Since I’m a full-time author and needed to occupy myself while I waited for notes, I decided it would be the perfect time to start writing a re-imagining of the legend of Saint George and the Dragon.

You veer between a number of characters in this story. Which of the voices or perspectives came to you most naturally? Which was the most rewarding to work with?
Tané was the first of the four perspective characters to step into my head. Out of all of them, she’s most like me—an anxious workaholic with imposter syndrome. Ead and Niclays came next, and finally, Loth. I loved taking each of them through their arcs and unpicking their various backstories, but Ead was the most rewarding to write overall. She’s shrewd, brave and certain of her beliefs, with a bit of a dry sense of humour, and her story is bursting with court intrigue and ancient secrets. Ead is also the character whose story is most connected to the title.

If you could live in one of the civilizations you invented for this book, which one would it be?
Tough one, but probably Seiiki. It’s a beautiful country—a mountainous island of deep forests and black sands, surrounded by the limpid green-blue waters of the Sundance Sea, where glowing dragons roam the skies and swim beneath the waves. It’s also home to the calendar trees, which bear different coloured flowers every season.

Do you plan to write any more books or stories set in this universe?
I would love to, yes. The world of Priory has more tales to tell . . .

 

ALSO IN BOOKPAGE: Read our review of The Priory of the Orange Tree.

Author photo credit Louise Haywood-Schiefer.

An 848-page fantasy novel is a daunting task for any writer. But an 848-page standalone novel, completed in the middle of another bestselling series? Preposterous. Which simply makes Samantha Shannon’s The Priory of the Orange Tree even more astonishing.

Interview by

One of the most dazzling new settings in science fiction, Arkady Martine’s the City, capital of the Teixcalaan Empire, is a giddily complex combination of the Byzantine empire and Mesoamerican civilizations spread out over the vast expanse of an entire planet. Martine’s debut novel, A Memory Called Empire, strands novice diplomat Mahit Dzmare at the center of the City without the benefit of an imago-line—the memories and experiences of her predecessor, accessed via a brain implant. Now totally lacking the mysteriously deceased Yskandr Aghavn’s guidance, Mahit must investigate his death and advocate for her small mining station home’s independence.

We talked to Martine about faster-than-light travel, the joys of creating a complicated naming-system and which historical figure’s memories she’d like implanted in her brain.

Your background as both a historian and an apprentice city planner really shines through in A Memory Called Empire, especially in your beautifully complex depiction of the City. What were your inspirations for it?
The City—the Jewel of the World, the heart of Teixcalaan—is an oecumenopolis, a world-city: essentially a planet that has been fully urbanized aside from its oceans and its natural reserves. City-planets are quintessentially space opera for me—Star Wars’ Coruscant, for example, but also any number of others. I love the visual of the idea. All that architecture, a planet that would glow like a jewel, lit up with glass and metal and lights. But cities aren’t just visuals. They’re real, complex, messy places, and a planet-size city would be complex to the point of near-ungovernability . . .

Which of course is where the algorithm-driven subway system and other city-ruling algorithms and artificial intelligences that I created for the Jewel of the World come in. And because I study history, and because I work in city planning, I knew when I began thinking about those algorithms that they were going to be biased, be about panopticon control, be about making citizens of Teixcalaan visible to policing and governing forces . . . and making noncitizens either invisible or singled out for persecution. Because that’s what algorithms tend to do, because algorithms are written by human beings.

The other deep inspiration for the City comes from the fact that I’m a New Yorker, in that deeply obnoxious sense of being a New Yorker who thinks there aren’t any other real places in the world, if you’re asking me honestly. (Yes, yes, I know.) But also I love my city very passionately. And I have also studied Byzantium’s capital, Constantinople, and been very aware of how similar the concept of city-as-center-of-the-universe was for Constantinopolitans as it is for New Yorkers, so I wanted to play with that as an element of how my characters related to their setting.

How did you come up with the Teixcalaanli naming system?
The number-noun naming system of Teixcalaan is a direct reference to the naming practices of the Mixtec people of Oaxaca, who, like many Mesoamerican peoples, were named for the day in the 260-day cycle of the year on which they were born: a cycle of 13 numbers and 20 signs (animals, plants and natural phenomena). For the Teixcalaanli names, I have a very extensive document of “how to do a Teixcalaanli name correctly,” but the simplest version is as follows.

Each Teixcalaanli personal name has a number part and a noun part. Both parts have symbolic meanings. The number part of the name is a whole integer (i.e. no negative numbers, no decimals or fractions, and irrational numbers like pi or e are only for jokes). The range of numbers is almost always between one and 100, with lower numbers being more common. (Numbers over 100 are a little like naming your kid “Moon Unit” or “Apple.” Except that “Apple” is a perfectly normal Teixcalaanli name, and “Moon Unit” is only a little weird. . .)

The noun part of a Teixcalaanli name is always a plant, an inanimate object or a concept (in order of likelihood). No animals and no self-propelled inanimate things—i.e. “boat” is an acceptable noun, but “self-driving car” is not. (Honestly, though, both “Boat” and “Self-Driving Car” are names that Teixcalaanlitzlim would laugh at.) A lot of plant names are flowers and trees, including some unusual ones, like “Cyclamen”; object names tend to be related to the natural world (“Agate”), astronomical objects or phenomena (“Solar-Flare”) or common objects, often ones that can be held and manipulated. Tools are highly represented, like “Adze” or “Lathe.” Occasionally object names refer to architecture—“Five Portico” is only a little bit odd as a name. (Something like “Two Paving-Stone” would be odd, but no odder than a kid named “Winston.”)

This is probably more information than you wanted to know. I went deep on the world building on this bit because it was so damn fun.

Where did the jumpgates come from?
So, wormholes (or “hyperspace”) as a solution to faster-than-light (FTL) travel are a classic sci-fi trick, and the jumpgates are functionally wormholes. If you imagine a wide-bore needle that pokes through a piece of fabric and then picks up a different part of the fabric on the other side, and holds them together, that’s what a jumpgate does. You can go in either direction, but you can only get from point A to point B or vice versa at each individual jumpgate, and point A and point B have no actual contiguous bits except the jumpgate. This produces a kind of patchwork of interstellar travel, where System X and System Y might be hundreds of light-years away but very well connected through jumpgates, and thus part of the same political and even cultural unit, but System X and System Z could be only three or four light-years away but not connected through jumpgates, and thus very divergent in politics and culture.

In the Teixcalaanli universe, there isn’t any FTL that doesn’t involve jumpgates. They can go pretty fast! But not faster than light. And the physics of it all is pretty normal—they experience relativistic effects when traveling near light speed, so really they want to take jumpgates as much as possible.

But none of that answers why. The why is: I wanted to mimic the communication and travel difficulties of a medieval empire, while having my empire be In Space. And the jumpgates essentially function as mountain passes: narrow places that only a little bit of an army can go through at a time. It creates real constraints on how, where and why an empire can expand . . . and that’s what I wanted to be able to play with.

So basically, I made up some very complex physics so I could reproduce the situation of a Byzantine army trying to get into the Armenian highlands in 1054 CE. ☺

The threat of an alien species is a major part if A Memory Called Empire’s plot, but you don’t describe any other encounters with actual nonhumans directly. How do you think any contact between humankind and alien species would go? Would any of them be amicable, or would they all be like the ones with the three-ring ships?
I think it depends very much on the aliens. I can imagine there are aliens we can talk to, and aliens we can’t; aliens who we think we can talk to, and we aren’t really communicating with at all; and aliens who we simply don’t have anything to say to, don’t share any resource concerns or desires with.

I hope the first set we meet are kind and smart and savvy, and also mammals who breathe oxygen and have hierarchical structure, because otherwise we’re going to not be able to figure out how to say anything useful and understandable, and if they’re not kind, they may decide they’re better off without us.

Humans have some growing up to do before I’d trust us with interstellar negotiation, basically.

If you were part of a historical figure’s imago-line, who would it be and why?
This is genuinely the hardest question anyone has asked me recently, because it’s so hugely self-revelatory. Um. I’d be honoured to be the recipient of James Tiptree, Jr./Alice Sheldon’s imago, and I think we’d be a surprisingly good match on aptitudes, but also I’d be scared as hell to take on a personality that is as strong and unique as hers. I love her work though, and it’s an enormous influence on mine.

For a more historical figure, I’ll be grandiose in my ambitions here and go for Börte Ujin, the Grand Empress of the Mongols, first wife of Temujin a.k.a. Genghis Khan, who ran the court in the center of the Mongol homeland. She was one of her husband’s closest advisors and a powerful ruler in her own right, a civilization builder and a politician. I’d like to be in the imago-line of her successors: a whole sequence of people who know how to create and manage a culture at a time of profound change, and did it through relationships and connections.

There’s one question that is explicitly raised in the book but never answered, so I thought I’d ask: How are the Sunlit made? Or is that a trade secret?
I am sorry to tell you that that is absolutely a trade secret, and you must stay tuned to find out. But you wouldn’t be wrong if you started thinking about those subway algorithms, and other ways of being a shared mind . . .

What’s next? Will there be more stories about Teixcalaan, or in Teixcalaan’s universe? Or something completely different?
There is a direct sequel to A Memory Called Empire, titled A Desolation Called Peace, coming out in 2020, which is a book about unwinnable wars, incomprehensible aliens and apocalyptic violenc—and also space kittens, unwise kissing and interstellar mail fraud. It’s the second part of Mahit’s story, and I’m very excited to be telling it. I absolutely don’t rule out writing more Teixcalaan books, either—the universe is enormous, and I love it quite desperately and have lots of ideas for books I could write. We’ll see how these two books are received and what my publisher is interested in!

But I’m also working on two other non-Teixcalaanli, novel-length projects. One is a “science fantasy” co-written with my wife Vivian Shaw, which contains, in no particular order, a post-nuclear war desertscape, mass-concentration-inducing minerals, a dead city that talks, a political romance, a pre-fab imperial colony town, a steppe kingdom with a city on a mountainside, a possibly alien or possibly magic local king and a geologist/mining engineer who ends up becoming a cartographer (among other things).

The other is the novel I’m currently calling “the one about drought politics, the Santa Ana winds and arson investigation,” because I’m terrible at titles. That one is my cities-and-climate-change novel, and to my fascination and despair, it seems to be about Los Angeles. As a New Yorker, I find this a bit distressing. But that’s what I get for really thinking about how Raymond Chandler books work, and whether they could fruitfully be combined with Peake’s Gormenghast and Tana French’s The Trespasser.

I’ve also got some plans in the works for a nonfiction book wthathich is about narrative-making, Byzantium, politics and possible futures—stay tuned, that’s a 2021 sort of thing.

 

ALSO IN BOOKPAGE: Read our review of A Memory Called Empire.

Author photo by Karen Osborne.

We talked to A Memory Called Empire author Arkady Martine about faster-than-light travel, the joys of creating a complicated naming-system and which historical figure’s memories she’d like implanted in her brain.

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