Creating that special fiction world readers want to spend time could be akin to some higher power creating a new and intriguing world people might wish to inhabit, or at least until the two-headed, methane-breathing Gogalons descend upon them from the surrounding hills. Of course, there are similarities and differences between these two creation types. When gods create a world, or more a universe, they’re not handicapped taking much time to do so. After all, there’s nothing or no one (unless perhaps a Zeus or Sango or the like) above them, calling their shots. And if they have doubts or frailties, who’s to question them, except maybe another henpecking deity? Even our Christian God only took six days, and He had the pleasure of knowing, at the end, it was all very good. What’s not to envy? Unfortunately, human creators, in this case fiction authors, are not so lucky. After all, they’re human, with so much above them, below them, around them, or within them, that usually impedes the process. Meanwhile, our creative options are endless and mindboggling, while, unlike a god’s vast array of powers and tricks up his or her sleeve, our only tool to manage our creation is our own mind, hopefully well-marinated within the juices of whatever knowledge and experience we’ve managed to pick up along the way. To say the least, it’s an unfair competition, which I, for one, would not have any other way.
Normally when you talk about fiction world-building the first genres that come to mind are fantasy and science fiction worlds and such, which makes sense. These are unknown worlds brought to life that pertain to far more than just the setting of the story, but rather the entire critical and necessary existence of those worlds and beyond, from alien societies and cultures, to the shapes and spacy accents of the purple trees and how the toilet water gets recycled. For the most part, my own worlds happen to be a little closer to home, as from the beginning I’ve always been fascinated and intrigued by how little we know or understand about our own existence, human or otherwise, and the physical and metaphysical world or worlds it occurs. Unknown worlds are certainly speculative, but I don’t think any more so than the land, sea, air, and space we witness daily, or even visit in our dreams. Regardless, whether the character in your world happens to be called Harry Potter or Anna Karenina there’s one thing they have in common. That is, unless the visitors to their worlds to some degree believe in them and that which surrounds them, or otherwise suspend their disbelief to that degree, and embrace and empathize and possibly identify with their fictional plights, there’s not much more to be said. Fictional disbelief gets books slammed shut, thrown against the opposite wall, and no one is having a good day anymore.
When I start to world-build, the single premise I maintain is that anything is possible, but not necessarily useable. My new and special world must relate to everything within it, and everything within it must relate back, making it as believable and extraordinary as possible. And by everything I mean the entire story-scape of setting and detail, plot and color, character and motivation, dialogue and nuance, tone and voice, theme and metaphor and meaning must build and create a world far more incredible than the one I just left behind, now entering my writer’s mind, morning cup of coffee in hand. And even though I don’t normally sketch out faraway planets of pointy-eared aliens or fantastical tales in the land of Mordor, doesn’t mean I avoid exploring and metamorphosing the unbelievable into the believable for my reader’s entertainment and contemplation. As I’ve said before, we have no final idea, no conclusive proof, about what total levels of existence or layers of reality there are, or whether or not we can float through wormholes from one spacetime point to another, holding tightly to our long-deceased great-auntie’s clammy fingers. I use whatever I think works for my world, and that allows the reader to see that world (they thought they knew) in an entirely different way. After all, in some instances magic is only magic to the uninformed and unencountered. Those doubting uninitiated that probably don’t read much fiction anyway.
One of my favorite writers is the historian Will Durant, who said, “Nothing is impossible to gods and authors.” That’s a pretty brave comment, but one, I feel, that throws down the gauntlet in a manner as exciting as it is wonderfully provoking. As a writer, if I’m going to compete with the gods and offer readers a new world they find they just can’t leave behind until they’ve explored it to the last page, I realize I can’t have any doubts about where I’m going and how I’m going to get there. What I mean is, there will initially always be doubts and questions about every aspect of the creative journey. That’s part of the agonizing fun of writing. But at some point (and the sooner the better) I have to resolve all this and know to my bone this is working. This amazing new world is working, the gods stand apart with looks of envy, and my precious readers are in it for our long, shared haul.