Category Archives: On Writing

Creativity, Writer’s Block, and the power of “Yes, And?”

Creativity comes from the ability to accept multiple correct options. It’s the ability to look at a thing and ask what else it could be. It’s saying “That works” or “That’s true” to one option and then finding more options which are also functional and true. Also known as the “Yes, and?” game.

The what now you lunatic? I’m sure I hear some of you saying, to which I say “this has its origins in theatre sports” and you probably find that to be all the explanation you needed for the apparent madness. Not that such a thing will prevent me from explaining further anyway.

In improvisational comedy, the “Yes, and…” principle is to agree with whatever idea your fellow improvisor has put forward (to continue the scene they have begun) and add to it, as opposed to blocking them – which would be to break the potential suspension of disbelief by contradicting what has already been created. This non-judgemental approach of accepting ideas and continuing is also the basis behind the concept of brainstorming – the process of throwing out idea after idea without rejecting any of them.

Asking “Yes, and?” instead of making an immediate judgement call is very important to creative thinking – not only does it allow you to keep coming up with new ideas (which, even if all the earlier ideas were good themselves, may yet be better) but it also keeps you from getting locked in to one line (trench, really) of thinking.

If you examine ideas one by one and dismiss them as they come, you begin to convince yourself that something must happen a certain way, that there are no other options, and/or that something cannot be done. This thought process reduces creativity in general, prevents new ideas from being tested and new inventions from making the world a better place (“it’s never been done, so it’s a bad idea” and such thoughts tend to be attached to this) and – most importantly for this blog – is the core of many cases of writer’s block. It’s what happens when a writer is so convinced they must take their character from A to B – because B was the first place they thought of – that they become bogged down trying to figure out how instead of asking why A doesn’t just go to C, D, X, Y, Z, or Albuquerque instead.

Obviously, not ever answer a brainstorming session – or a game of Yes, and? – produces will be viable. But the point of both is not to find The Right Answer, but rather there is no one right answer. There are many right answers and you limit and inhibit yourself if you dismiss them in search of one shining beacon of perfect truth and correctness.

Playing Yes, and? is fairly simple – you simply pose a problem as a question and then provide an answer. Then you say (or, if you have trouble breaking out of the judgmental mindset of automatically analysing each option and dismissing it instead of continuing, you get someone else to say) “Yes, and?” and provide another answer. This pattern continues until you genuinely cannot think of anymore – something which will occur far later than you expect to be unable to think of any more, as your mind (thanks to the right/wrong approach to tests in most educational systems) has been trained to find no more than two options at a time, under normal circumstances (the “right answer” and the “wrong answer”). The point of the Yes, and? game, however, is to remove those normal circumstances. It’s not unlike having a physical trainer tell you to do push ups until you can’t do it anymore and then do ten more.

Here’s an example more suited to fiction:

Your hero is racing toward the tower where his princess is trapped. He comes to the stairway only to find that it was destroyed earlier when he was being chase by the dragon. Alas, you think, now how are you supposed to get the prince up those stairs? He cannot jump it and he cannot fly! And, thus, writer’s block sets in. You find you cannot take your prince up the expected path, but that is the right answer, so you cannot move forward at all. You have become convinced that is the route he must take, so all your efforts come back to finding a way for him to do something he cannot do. You’ve dug yourself into a trench of thought. This is the only way you have considered for him to go, and it is not working, so there is no way to move on. But, of course, he must run up the stairs that’s what princes do. Its “the right answer”. It’s the wrong question.

In this scenario, the true question is: How do you remove a princess from a tower?

Climb the stairs, you answer, but that’s not working. Yes, says the game, and? What else?

…Climb to her window. Yes, and? Build a ramp. Yes, and? Knock the tower down. Yes, and? Ask her to come down. Yes, and? Give her what she needs to remove herself. Yes, and? Lift her out through the roof. Yes, and? Ask a friendly dragon to fly her out! Yes, AND? Disinherit her. YES! AND?

Climb to her window and climb the stairs are the obvious answers, here, given that they are the known, safe, traditional answers tried and tested by most fairy tales. When you think about heroes rescuing princesses from towers, you probably either imagine Rapunzel and her hair, or Prince-What’s-His-Name-Again-I’m-Sure-He-Had-One, from Sleeping Beauty, charging up the stairs after defeating Maleficent as a dragon. But if you stop there your hero will be stuck forever at the base of the tower and your story will be stuck forever in the dark and dusty drawer realms of half-finished manuscripts instead of marching through adversity to publication.

Are all of the options the game created viable for your hero? Probably not. But they are options. It might not suit your story to have the hero solve the problem of the trapped princess preventing anyone from ruling the land by having her disinherited. Maybe he actually cares about her as a person and wants to get her to safety. But maybe it is – to your surprise – the kind of story where the political situation can be resolved by simply disinheriting the troublesome party so that their hostage-taker cannot rule through them. Maybe you can’t convince the dragon to be helpful and rescue the princess – or it’s all too Shrek for you – but you think about the options build a ramp and give her what she needs to remove herself and realise that what the hero needs to do is call up to her and have them together find a way to use her bedsheets to get her down across the vast un-jumpable hole in the stairs. She can slide down part way and he can catch her. And suddenly, right there, you have a solution. The writer’s block in the road has been defeated.


Obviously, it doesn’t work for all kinds of writers’ block, but if you’re stuck on finding a way to make something happen in your story, a round of Yes, and? might just clear it up for you.

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Posted by on November 28, 2017 in On Writing


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The Internal Conflict Games

No person is truly static. No matter how much we try, we still change. The person you were yesterday is different from the person you are today. The person of tomorrow may become someone yesterday’s self would never approve of. That which mattered more than anything a year ago may be utterly pointless next Tuesday.

Time, however, is not our only form of movement. We care – in an abstract sort of way – about the state of the world and what is best for everyone. We care – in a far more definite way – about the state of our loved ones and what is best for us. We do these things simultaneously. We expect the heroic character to, of course, sacrifice their comforts or take a third option for the sake of “the people” – that is; for US. It could be argued that human virtue – in the form of the desire to help others – is an entirely selfish construct.

This is supposed to be a post on writing. Somehow, it has become philosophy. Perhaps, that is, because philosophy (of ethics, of politics, even of metaphysics) is the nebulous ghost of theory, which is then put to the test in the thought experiment we call fiction. After all, “right” and “wrong” sounds all well and good in theory, but the entire concept tends to crash and burn when we attempt to put it into practise.

If there was a true answer out there, we wouldn’t have spent the entire history of the human species fighting over it.

Justice, right, wrong, good, evil, duty, worth, bacon, necktie, these are all social constructs. They are not universal truths. The general agreement in society is that good people try to help as many other people as possible – that the Good Guys are there to help the masses – and the general population will always support stories of this fashion, because it encourages others to protect them in times of crisis. In other words: the common view of right and wrong is inherently biased in favour of personal gain.

Apart from not upsetting your readers, there is no reason you have to hold to this point of view in your writing. If you write a protagonist who believes that people aren’t worth saving, but who saves them anyway, you are complying with this social construct. If you do not comply with this heavily enforced and entirely arbitrary ruling on what “Right” is, your character will be labelled as a villain and you yourself may gain a similar label.

So, what do you do? Do you do what is easy or do you do what is … well, it isn’t “right” is it? It’s just what you believe is right. Do you take the path of least resistance or do you do what you believe in?

Here’s the funny thing about that: it doesn’t matter.

Oh, it’ll certainly matter to you – if you even view the above dilemma as a dilemma at all. What matters in reality is: what you can live with (most people wouldn’t call it a dilemma because they stand to gain from the status quo of what “heroic” means, while I don’t view it as a dilemma because I’m fed up with the status quo telling me to sacrifice myself for others who will never return the favour – and often view it as something I owe them, not that I’ve ever done any hero-ing, but from the philosophical standpoint).

What matters in fiction is the existence of the dilemma itself.

We call this internal conflict. The backbone of character-focused works. The bloody, beating heart of a deep and rounded character. The thing that inevitably spawns dozens of alternative character interpretations and fan arguments about who was “right” – even if the work explicitly says that no such thing as “right” exists.

Internal conflict can be very subtle. What we believe about one thing may clash with what we believe about another – and we may go on believing both until something, from outside or inside, puts them visibly at loggerheads.

It does not have to be as showy as “who do I save” (maybe quit and go have pizza, instead? They’ll both be goners by the time you’ve decided anyway) or “who do I side with?” (again, maybe just go have pizza). It does not exist when a Hero is clearly The Good Guy and the Temptation by The Bad Guy is painfully obvious and the Hero would never do that anyway because he’s on the side of Good.

Internal conflict is subtle. It is murky. It is that grey area where right and wrong are entirely arbitrary ideals which the protagonist is creating, altering, and eventually judging all on their own. If which choice is “the right thing to do” is obvious, there can be no conflict because the answer is, again, OBVIOUS.

What is right? What is wrong? Is there right? Is there wrong? What do I want to do? What do I think I should do? Is what society thinks I should do right? What the heck would society know about it anyway?

Internal conflict – or, as Martin paraphrasing Faulkner put it “the human heart in conflict with itself” – is philosophy. Specifically, it is all those bright, clear theories mercilessly taken away from their loving academics and dropped into a giant, gruesome test simulator by the world’s authors. Because academic philosophy is all nice in theory, but it really doesn’t understand or know how to cope with humanity and reality.

Or, if you want to think of it that way, internal conflict is The Hunger Games for ideologies. Which, let’s be honest, makes it pretty bloody interesting.

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Posted by on October 18, 2017 in On Writing


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Fantastically Disturbing Implications

This is more musing on my part than an educational – or ranting – essay.


Fantasy, as a genre, has become a tree of many different sub-genres and trends – all sprouting, according to most, from Tolkien’s magnum opus. Tolkien, however, based his work heavily on myths, epics, and sagas of real world cultures. In this way, it was inevitable that the genre would have a long history and a deep fascination with heroes and royals and, eventually, knights.

The strange thing, however, is that while most of fantasy has adapted to new, modern, ideas – which has given us all sorts of modern settings – fantasy in general has not parted with the morality to which that focus on heroes, royalty and knights belongs. In this way, we have “modern” stories set in medieval worlds where the female protagonists display cliché, shallow, and period inappropriate feminist ideas, but she almost always turns out to be a princess. That, however, is just one of many, many, examples of residual classism and racism in fantasy.

But the funny thing is, it’s more often the fans than the authors whose ideas display a backwards, classist, belief – one which, I suspect, they don’t even realise they are favouring. Here’re some examples.

In the A Song of Ice and Fire/Game of Thrones fandom, the most popular type of theory is the Character X is secretly a House/Noble Character Z. And that’s the thing, it’s always that they have secret noble (or nobler, in terms of going from one house to another) blood.

The High Sparrow – commoner leading a commoner anti-nobility religious movement? Must secretly be Lord Howland Reed advancing his liege lord’s family’s political goals. He can’t possibly be a lower-class person taking up arms because he’s sick of the nobility butchering the lower classes while they fight over a stupid pointy chair. No way.

The King Beyond the Wall, Mance Rayder: a wildling raised as a soldier by his people’s enemies, returned to his people to lead them to give said enemies a massive headache? Nah, he can’t possibly really be a savage/Pict wilding. He has to secretly be a white Westerosi nobleman. It can’t just be that he is one of many characters who parallel each other – which is a grand literary tradition – because that would mean the northern savages managed to get their act together and pose a real threat without a Mighty Whitey Westerosi to carry the white Westerosi man’s burden and help them. Oh, he is an almost perfect copy-paste-from-history of King Alaric of the Goths – who was once a Roman soldier – and the German national hero Arminius (who also was raised by Romans and proceeded to kick Roman arse)? And in a setting which is basically The War of the Roses + Magic + Sex? Nah, he’s still got to secretly be Prince Rhaegar or Ser Arthur of House Dayne. Otherwise the savages wildlings might not only be competent, but have elected a competent leader where all the noble blooded characters who inherit their power just keep fucking things up.

Likewise, Heroic Bastard Jon Snow can’t possibly really be a bastard. He must secretly have been legitimate (despite the legal impossibility of his father taking a second wife) or legitimised (but preferably legitimate). It’s not like real history has bastards becoming king. It’s not like people call William the Conqueror “William the Bastard” for a reason. Or like King Arthur Pendragon was the bastard of King Ulthor’s rape-by-deception of a foreign queen. Or like Martin’s own fictional history has bastard kings like the one who founded House Justman or bastards of kings who manage to incite half the realm into trying to crown them despite being bastards with legitimate half-brothers like Daemon Blackfyre. After all, he absolutely has to become king in the end, because it’s not like his entire plot line is about how the fight for the spikey chair is irrelevant or how bastards can be just as good as other people…

I think I need to turn the sarcasm off now, before we all drown in it, but I think you get the point.

And sure, you could argue that ASOIAF/GOT is focused on the nobility and has a major character revealed as secretly royalty (or, more correctly, a royal bastard) so it’s only natural that the fans would assume that everyone who has anything important to do – any real effect on the plot – must secretly have noble blood, but it’s not just ASOIAF/GOT fans.

After romance/porn, the second most common plot in Harry Potter fanfics was that Harry/Hermione/other discovers s/he’s secretly the heir of [Ancient Powerful Wizard/Family] or his mother was secretly not muggleborn/she’s adopted and that s/he’s therefore a pureblood… This, I might remind you, was a canon story where the pureblood elitists were the bad guys.

This trend – of justifying how awesome characters are by ‘revealing’ them as having some ancestry of rank and privilege – is disturbing. It’s also prevalent in just about every fantasy fandom (except the children’s fantasy of My Little Pony, where being a Princess is something you explicitly earn by being awesome at friendship).


Fantasy is the genre we run to when we want to escape from our world – where luck is a major factor in whether or not you succeed – and go to a place where the world values us based on what we think it ought to value. What does it say about us, as a society, that our escapist fantasy is not about succeeding because you are talented, or worked hard, or were kind, but where you succeed if you are born of the right – elite and wealthy – bloodline?

How is it that we, as fandoms – as a society – talk of equality and inner value, but our fantasies still support the idea that if you don’t have the right blood you aren’t really worth anything?

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Posted by on July 4, 2017 in On Folklore, On Writing


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Contrast, Foreshadowing, Mood, Ice and Fire

Something that’s been driving me nuts in the A Song of Ice and Fire fandom lately is all the jokes about how George R.R. Martin includes so many food descriptions because he is fat. Somehow, fans have convinced themselves that those two things go together – because “obviously” writers who aren’t stick figures can’t possibly have self-control or the capacity to tell when one of their interests does not belong in their story. /sarcasm.

Now, most fans aren’t doing this, but an annoyingly large amount of them are and it’s them that are driving me batty. But I digress.

During the first few books of ASOIAF there has been a long summer (so there is plenty of food), and only a few wars. Towns are sacked and burned – destroying valuable crops – but famine is a man-maid phenomenon (siege-warfare) and it is only in the very north, beyond the Wall, that lack of food is already an issue. The main characters are all rich and therefore, even in a siege or famine, will be fed first – with extravagent and lavishly described meals which give the readers the feeling of decadence and how much food is available (Arya, the one wealthy character running around outside of her aristocractic background, in comparison is eating worms).

By the end of the last few books (that are currently published) only three out of nine (really ten) areas in The Seven Kingdoms have not suffered lossed crops – due to burnings and armies scavenging, and a lack of workers to collect the crops, which then rot – and of them, Dorne does not produce much food (due to it’s water shortage) and the Vale and Reach cannot support the entire surviving population of the continent – even with all the deaths from the wars. Up at the Wall, there are far to many mouths to feed and not nearly enough food for even the Watch alone to survive a winter. At this point in the story, the rich are STILL described as eating lavishly – because, again, they are rich and have hired knives to take food from the poor – while the poor are mostly starving. Meanwhile, on the eastern continent, Dany’s war on slavery has destroyed the agricultural supplies of Slavers Bay – meaning that, regardless of who wins, three cities there are dangerously close to starving.

In the two unpublished books we can predict some things: mass starvation will become enough of a problem that it will affect the rich, the combination of war in the east crushing the (slave based) economy and the series of wars – causing debt and starvation – in the west WILL result in those between the west and east (The Free Cities) being able to sell food for a massive profit but being unable to keep up with demand, and their will be more war – with more crop burnings and other starvation inducing horrors (remember: armies march on their stomaches) – before the winter even has a chance to properly arrive.

We can guess that in The Winds of Winter and A Dream of Spring the food descriptions are going to be very different. Because there isn’t going to be food anymore. Not even for the aristocrats who make up the main cast.

It’s not technically foreshadowing, but by lavishly describing food while it is available – and describing the lavish meals the rich enjoy while the poor starve, and while the rich fail to understand what starvation really means – Martin has prepped the readers’ mood. He’s prepared us to expect food to be there, to be plentiful (for the main cast), and to sound attractive. That’s going to be one hell of a sucker-punch for the readers when the true depth of winter and famine set in and the rest of the cast have to join Arya with her worms and Bran with his, ehm, “long pork”.

There is no better way to describe the lack of something – and make the readers feel it – than to first contrast it by describing that something in abundance.

I don’t live in his mind, so I can’t tell you for sure, but I’m pretty sure Martin is writing about food so much because he is writing about a world which is about to undergo a terrible winter and an even more terrible mass famine, not because his weight somehow makes him incapable of controlling what he puts into his work.

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Posted by on May 24, 2017 in On Writing


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Naming Villains

If you didn’t grow up reading the Harry Potter books, you probably find the name (Lord) Voldemort to be less ominous and more laughable. It kind of is. It’s also the brain-child of a deranged teenager with ego issues, but that’s an in-universe explanation and this post is about how authors best choose names for their characters which induce dread, rather than why characters give themselves names which are dreadful.

A well chosen villain name can be the difference between the reader shivering every time they are mentioned and a reader coming up with cutesy pet names (like Voldie, Moldyshorts, and many others) …which generally means they aren’t taking your villain all that seriously. Personally, I was always more invested in what would happen when the prose – or characters – of Rowling’s books described the Big Bad as Riddle or Tom, because if nothing else his berserk button would be triggered and shit would get real. (The fact that he was a more effective villain – in carrying out plans – when he was still a somewhat saner child/teen also helped with that, but the point stands.)


So, what do you have to consider if you want to save your villain from being laughed out of the room the moment they introduce themselves? Well, that can be genre dependent. I might do a part two later about realistic genre villains (you know, people who should have normal human names for their culture), but for now this is geared to the various forms of Speculative Fiction, because that’s where most of this nonsense happens. But within that sphere, the best way to save your villain from being a laughingstock is to answer five simple questions.


1) What Does It Mean?

Between Lovecraft’s penchant for the unpronounceable and Tolkien’s fondness for invented language and names, there has been a long trend in speculative fiction genres of simply smashing a bunch of random letters or sounds together and calling it a suitably intimidating villain name. After all, if Cthulhu and Sauron sound terrifying, surely the heroic Eldric’s same-species nemesis Xecodontalzivrek is too, right?

What most rip-offs of Tolkien don’t realise is that his names actually had meanings. They weren’t made up mishmashes. Tolkien created complete languages for his world and every name had a meaning. So names like Sauron (“the Abhorred”, real name: Mairon “the admirable”) and Morgoth (“dark dread” or “black enemy”, real name Melkor “mighty one”) make sense. They have meaning in that world and they fit alongside names like Feänor (“spirit of fire”), Manwë (“Blessed One”), and Curumo (“Cunning”, also called Saruman). Those names sound like they belong together because linguistically they do. And readers will notice if the big bad has a name that not only sounds like it doesn’t belong in that culture but also doesn’t belong in that universe. That being said: most authors aren’t writing complete languages and do not have the time or energy to develop root words and variants and grammar rules. Nor do most readers count such things in when they are emotionally affected by a story. Which means that even though Tolkien’s characters’ names made sense, there was nothing truly dread inducing about them. Likewise, “Voldemort” is made of root words which, together, roughly mean “Flight of/from death” but the name itself sounds like nonsense.

Then there’s Lovecraft. There’s nothing wrong with making an unpronounceable mess of a name if the creature who plays the big bad is a Lovecraftian eldritch abomination – something which would not be obliged to have a comprehensible name because it is not comprehensible to humans. But there is a VERY big difference between naming an eldritch abomination Cthulhu and naming a human or similar species character Cthulhu. If the name supposedly came from a being whose species uses a language humans or human-like species can understand, the names have to follow from that: have to be sounds those species not only could but would make. And, again, no one is scared of Cthulhu for being named Cthulhu. If we didn’t have pop-culture to warn us that he’s an eldritch abomination, we would not be automatically disturbed by the name (bemused and curious if the author suffered a coughing fit while typing, but not disturbed).

And here’s the funny thing, the name doesn’t have to mean anything inherently scary itself. It just has to mean something. Take two classic villain/monster names, which is scarier? Voldemort? Or It? It is scarier, not only because your reader isn’t distracted trying to pronounce it. A creature or person merely known as “It” is disturbing because it implicitly tells the reader that no one is quite sure what It is and humans don’t like things that they can’t define.

If you want a name to be ominous it needs to be an omen of something. Think about it, if you had to choose on name alone and could only flee one, would you flee the one called Asenath or the one called Soulcatcher?


2) How Did They Get That Name?

“From this day forth, I shall be known as LORD VOLDEMORT!” 

“…Tom, you’re drunk, go home.

The failure of the above to happen is quite possibly the least realistic thing in the entire Potterverse.

Unless you’re dealing with a second-generation evil, the big bad’s parents probably did not hold their newborn babe in their arms and think “aww, so cute, this one’s going to grow up to be a genocidal maniac, we need a name that says that”. Sure, you might have a world where everyone has a meaningful name, but in that case you can’t use an overtly evil name – else your back at the “why the heck did their parents call them that?!?” problem. It would have to be something which could, and would, also have less ominous meanings and could be equally likely to be found on a hero, else it wouldn’t be a name in that culture. (Note: some cultures have commonly used names with unpleasant meanings, but in those cases the names are chosen to confuse and ward off evil spirits and the names are as every day and usual as Anne and John are in the Anglosphere, meaning that they don’t actually count as ominous or even unusual.) People name dogs Ripper and ships Dreadnought, but they don’t name their children that.

So when it comes to birth names, the long and the short of it is: villains should still have names you could believably find on regular people.

Now, for the fun bit: epithets, pseudonyms, sobriquets, and nicknames. This is the fun stuff. It’s also the stuff where a lot of people go painfully overboard *cough*Lord-Voldemort-He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named-You-Know-Who*cough*.

Epithets can accompany or replace a name, but have entered into common usage – like a nickname which has become as common, if not more common, than the real name – which a Sobriquet has all but replaced the original name, and a Pseudonym is a disguise. But all of these beg the question: how did they get that name? Generally, if they just started calling themselves something wild other people aren’t going to start doing that and even if they can bully their minions into doing it, they aren’t going to be a very competent player if they spend all their energy trying to make people call them something specific.

If you want your villains to sound intimidating epithets and sobriquets which occurred naturally are probably the best way to go – that means that other people started calling them that and it took off. Like how the monster in IT is just called It. Why? Because no one knows what It is. Likewise, someone called The Impaler probably didn’t start out calling themselves that. They just impaled a lot of people and people came to associate that with them.

Now, you can get away with just using a sobriquet for a villainous character – provided you aren’t giving their detailed backstory or telling an origin story. It also helps to have a social norm relating to this. In real history kings often got epithets so that they could be recognised because the same family names were often used. In fantasy an excellent example of both sobriquet use and social norms is Glen Cook’s Black Company series. In that world true names have power, so wizards adopt pseudonyms which they come to be known by, while most members of the Black Company itself are given a nickname when they join and never after bother with their real names. That being said, the top tier bad guys in that series tend to have names which are more sobriquet than pseudonym – The Limper probably did not call himself that, but he was the one who limps (and Cook thus managed to associate his name with terror when members of the company hear the sound of someone walking with a limp). Likewise Soulcatcher and The Lady have real names and may – although we are never told if it is so – have started out with different pseudonyms, but they came to be known by those sobriquets because The Lady was the evil overlord’s wife (his Lady, the only Lady who needed no introduction) and Soulcatcher …catches souls. By the time the reader meets them these names are long established, but they probably came from frightened enemies trying to identify which of the major villains they were talking about. “Which of the Ten Who Were Taken?” “The limper”, fast forward a few years and that’s “The Limper” as a name.


3) Why So Complicated?

The most common pratfall in naming villains is that authors tend to pile epithets and sobriquets, etc, on top of each other (Voldy again) instead of picking one really good one. What they don’t realise is that epithets and sobriquets are there to make people distinctive, not impressive. If you’re one of many King Peters and you happen to be very short, well guess what you’re going down in history as?

And if you’re thinking, “Well wait a second, if those terms are used to identify that one thing about a person which is most recognisable how is that scary?” You might want to reconsider what about your villain is so uniquely terrifying. Because that’s the point. Vlad the Impaler did a lot of other things in his life, but he’s remembered for impaling people. Lots of people. Soulcatcher is a cunning, manipulative, out of control, utterly mad, super-powerful, nigh-unkillable sorceress. What is Soulcatcher known for? Catching souls. Which becomes creepier when you realise that all the different voices Soulcatcher talks with are those captured souls (and some of them are children). The Joker is a killer and a lunatic, but he’s known for the form in which his kills come (jokes, as he views them). Slapping a dozen or so extra names onto a character (Fanged Deathstar The Magnificient Dark Lord of The Land Of Evil) takes away from the punch and the terror. They aren’t known for one specific stand out screamer, they have a whole list and so are less impressive. Why? Because if no one thing haunts people’s memories, which leads to the epithet or sorbriquet, then none of those things could have left much of an impression. None of them were scary enough to become what they were known for. Less, in this case, is very much more.


4) Why Is It ALWAYS Dark Lord?

Speaking of superfluous terms. Dark Lord (or Dark One, etc) is not just overused, it’s meaningless. Dark Lord – and, for that matter, The/Other/s – worked when Tolkien used it. The only person who is Tolkien was Tolkien. Yes, humans naturally fear the night – and the dark – because we are diurnal. We also are naturally terrified of spiders and disease, but we don’t automatically name our villains Web Lord or The Rot. Using Dark Lord is inherently problematic for a lot of reasons beyond how cliché the Dark Vs Light motif is. For one thing, Lord is a title belonging to a hierarchical system based in feudalism. Is Dark a place? Does this lord have administrative duties? If you’re dealing with a setting where such hierarchical systems are not part of the society (whether they are mere remnants or never existed) or where they are part of the society and in fact are very important, your villain can’t just go around calling themselves lord of something – in one case it is a meaningless addition that doesn’t even impress people around them (and wouldn’t mean enough to them for them to add it) and in the other it has a strictly defined meaning which their more decorative use would make into a point of ridicule (“he’s not a real lord”).

So what about Dark? Well what do you mean by Dark anyway? Please tell me it’s not their skin colour. Is there some metaphysical divide between good and evil that happens to have chosen to define itself by how much light things emit? If there is some knowable inherent difference between good and evil in your world, you’d better have an explanation for how any sane person would choose evil – and don’t just say “they’re mad”. Real mad people are more often victims of cruelty than themselves cruel and the insanity defence is “not guilty on grounds of insanity” specifically because being mad in that sense means being unable to understand what you are doing and why it is wrong.

…Dark Lord. Cliché term for “Wannabe noble who can’t afford a candle”.


5) What Else Can It Mean?

The thing about words is that sometimes they not only mean what you think they mean, they also mean something else. Something you really didn’t mean, but which people will notice. For example, there is only one reason fans of Tolkien remember the orc Shagrat.

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Posted by on April 11, 2017 in On Writing


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Grounding Fantasy

Recently I was asked – by a long-time fan of one of my fanfics, which I am re-writing to be published as original fiction, as it was 97% original everything to begin with – how I manage to make the magic in my fantasy so realistic, subtle, and grounded. This had two results.

The first was that I had a moment of panic because the story they had been referring to is gaining some more …obvious and explosive magic in the re-write.

The second was the realisation that I didn’t actually know how I did it. So, I thought about it for a while and I realised the answer was goldfish. (No, I have not gone mad.)

You see, when I watch or read other works, I cannot turn off that part of be that acts like a belligerent toddler or a particularly sarcastic goldfish. Although I suppose I should specify that I mean a pop-cultural hypothetical goldfish, rather than a real one, as science has disproved the ‘fact’ that they only have three second memories. But I digress. Imagine that this stereotypical toddler is forever asking “Why?” and the stereotypical but snarky goldfish is always asking “How?” and you’ll get a pretty good idea of what goes through my head when I’m observing other fictions.

For example, back when the Lord of the Rings came out in film, I was watching the scenes in Moria and idly noticed that the characters must have superb balance to avoid falling off because there were no handrails in sight. That set the Sarky Goldfish off. Why are there no handrails? What kind of idiots make giants cities over ravines without handrails? Were they made of wood and simply disintegrated? NO dwarves wouldnt have used wood and if they were stone some of them should have remained. Do dwarves just have perfect balance? No elves are stated to have better balance and THE ELVEN CITIES HAVE FREAKING HANDRAILS. Besides, even if adult dwarves had epic balance skills and never, ever fell, dwarven children (you know, the ones who are always portrayed as rare and precious because ever since Tolkien did it dwarves do not reproduce quickly has been part of the Standard Fantasy Setting) would, because all children, in all species, are reckless idiots. Could it be a point of honour? Honour VS Practicality, City Planning Edition, Round One: TOTAL KNOCKOUT, PRACTICALITY WINS.

And on and on it goes. For every “it is this way” that does not match reality, the Sarky Goldfish in my head wants to know How and Why and won’t rest until it has a solid answer. For every “that can’t happen/be done” the Belligerent Toddler wants to know Why Not and will find a way if a suitably reasonable answer is not produced …or even if it is, because if it took too long the Belligerent Toddler will want to prove the answer-giver wrong. “It’s traditional”, by the way, is not a solid or reasonable answer. Nor are “Because” and “Just don’t think about it”. “Why Not”, on the other hand, is – so long as the question was “Why” and not “Why Not” or “How”.

So, you could say – if you’re the kind of person who doesn’t like goldfish – that the answer is really just to think about it. Now, I’m sure some of you are shaking your heads and saying “But it’s fiction! It doesn’t have to be realistic! I shouldn’t have to think about it!” and I have one thing to say to that:

When you played with your blocks as a child you had to think about where to put them or they’d all come tumbling down on your head.  When you paint a picture you need to think about what you’re doing or you end up with a mess of squiggles and badly mixed brown. When you create new music – even if it’s jazz and improvised – you need to think about what you are doing so that you don’t make noises only deaf cicadas would love. And when you write fiction you have to think about the way the world you are creating works or it falls apart on you – but whereas child!You got a bruise when their blocks fell and some adult came to kiss it better, no one is going to tell you it’s okay and not your fault if your fiction falls apart because you didn’t construct it properly. Why? Because if you’re old enough to put it out in public, you’re old enough to take the heat for it.

Writing is hard, guys. Writing is WORK.


But I digress.

The reason fantasy authors like George R.R. Martin and Glen Cook (if you don’t know who that is LOOK HIM UP) can produce such high-quality writing, writing which is praised for being top-notch fantasy, is that the ground their fantasy in realism.

“Great,” you may say, “but not all of us have a goldfish living in their heads. What do we do?”.

Well, there are two things that work to ground fantasy – and all fiction, to be honest – in realism. The first is to treat the world you are writing as if it was real. But it’s just fiction? Not to the characters who live in it, I assure you. Not to the readers who want to be immersed in it, I assure you. It’s just fiction is an excuse that those who are too lazy, or too entitled, to put in effort hide behind when their half-assed attempts are not immediately hailed as the greatest thing ever. If you aren’t willing to put in the effort: you shouldn’t be writing. There’s enough crap on the market without you joining in.

The world you are creating may technically be just fiction, but good writing – and good authors – transcend that. Writers are often referred to as the God of their stories’ universe. What kind of evil, stupid god would you be if you created a real world but treated it like it wasn’t real enough to matter? Treat your fictional world as if it was a real one. Imagine you really are a god and you are creating the world. That means that, beyond the scope of the Adventure or Romance or whatever the story you are writing is, your world needs to make sense. It shows when worlds are invented to suit the whims of the plot and add tension. It shows in a bad way. People notice when you, say, don’t add handrails to a place where handrails ought to be in order to add Tension. So, what do you have to do? You have to think about the mechanics.

That’s the first thing. The second thing, which you have to do at the same time as the first thing, is to apply Logic.

I know. I know. It’s a scary Maths thing and it doesn’t seem fair to drag it into the world of Arts where you ran to get away from it, but it does need to be here.

In order to build you own Sarky Head-Goldfish and start grounding your fantasy in realism, you’ll want to apply three specific types of logic: Induction, Deduction, and Abduction (no! Not that kind! Don’t run off with that!). If it makes you feel better about adding something as icky as logic to your creative endeavours, put on a deerstalker cap and try not to think about the fact that, no matter what the original illustrations implied, Sherlock Holmes did not wear one of those.

Got your cap on? Great, let’s go.

Deduction is the logic system in which you reason out the definite specific from the definite general – i.e. Dwarves never build handrails. Moria was built by dwarves. Therefore, Moria does not have any handrails. Deductive reasoning – when used correctly, which Holmes did not because he said deductive when he meant a different sort of logic – always comes to a logically valid conclusion. Use this type of logic to determine what parts of your world must be like (conclusions), based on your previous statements of fact (premises). If they don’t line up, you’ll need to change either the facts (“dwarves never build handrails”) or the result (remove the dwarvish handrails from wherever you had included them).

Induction is the logic system in which you reason out a hypothetical general from the definite specifics. The conclusion reached by properly applied induction is a probable, but not a fact and not a mere possible. The evidence given by the specifics supports the likelihood of the conclusion being correct – i.e. Handrails keep people from falling off high things. Dwarves think the risk of falling off high things is a matter of honour. Therefore, dwarven cities probably don’t include handrails in dangerous places. Again, if these things do not stack up when you look at your work, you need to change something. Or, given that induction is about probability, to show in detail what element logically accounts for the gap left by whatever components failed to pass this reasoning test.

Abduction is the logic system in which your reason out a hypothetical specific from the definite general. It’s basically deduction, but questionable. It is also known as “inference to the best explanation” and is the form of logic we are all most familiar with. Why? Because if it looks like a duck, and it waddles like a duck, and it quacks like a duck, it’s probably a duck. This, incidentally, is the kind of logic that Sherlock Holmes used – as the conclusions he reached were highly probable but not definite. The sheer complexity of human behaviour meant that Holmes was always speaking as certain (a lady of obviously middling means with callouses on her hands from typing is a professional typist) what was merely probable (she could also be a writer or a journalist, you know). This might not seem like a useful form of logic to apply to your fiction, but it’s actually one of the most important, because it allows you to play out the hypotheticals as you try to explain matters to a realistic conclusion – i.e. Dwarves do not build handrails. Dwarves are facing extinction because their children are few and often fail to survive. Therefore, dwarves are probably going extinct because their children keep falling to their deaths.

Then you apply the realism test to your conclusion. In this case: Would an intelligent species – which dwarves have to be if they’re building cities – really wait until they’re nearly extinct to add handrails? Probably not. All it would take would be one human child falling and, honour be damned, a human city council would be under immense pressure to add safety features. If dwarves are building cities they are probably sufficiently similar in psychology to assume that a similar reaction would occur (see that? That’s abduction again).

At this stage you’d do one of three things. Firstly, you could add handrails to nullify the Plot’s Hole’s cousin: Setting Hole (the adventures just happened to pass through the one place where the handrails have been destroyed and note that in text). Secondly you could make it a point that the dwarves cannot add handrails (or do but they keep being mysteriously destroyed) and are trying to keep their children safely away but they tragically keep slipping away and, er, slipping away anyway – in which case you’ve suddenly developed a new and interesting plot which you can write a story around. Lastly, you can nullify the premise which you find most problematic (for example: dwarves are actually facing an overpopulation crisis and breed like rabbits, so the lack of handrails is a deliberate population curbing method).



And after all of this you are probably wondering “But what about MAGIC? You said you were going to talk about MAGIC!”.

I did, and I did. Whatever rules you give your system of magic – if it even has a system the characters can understand, given that magic is a liminal force that exists in fiction to make us question what we are incapable of understanding and how to cope with the unknowable – you need to treat magic as if it is just as real in your world as practical things like handrails.

Ultimately, the way to ground magic – the way to make it seem like it actually exists – is to treat it like it actually exists.

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Posted by on March 21, 2017 in On Writing


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Slytherins Aren’t Ambitious

With definitions from

[am-bishuh n]

noun earnest desire for some type of achievement or distinction, as power, honor, fame, or wealth, and the willingness to strive for its attainment

2. the object, state, or result desired or sought after

3. desire for work or activity; energy

verb (used with object)

4. to seek after earnestly; aspire to.


Although Ambition has a somewhat tainted original meaning (that is: a negative meaning back in the 14th century) there is nothing technically negative about the modern definition. Originally to be ambitious was to be “going around to canvass for office,” – from 14th century Latin, ambitiosus. It was only in early use that Ambition was grouped with Pride and Vainglory. (For the record, the latter of those two is a 12th century word and is now practically archaic.)

Whatever its origins, ambition now means an earnest desire for achievement or distinction and willingness to strive for it or to aspire to something. In other words: ambitious people know what they want to achieve in life and go after it. Which, when you stop and think about it, actually means that most characters labelled as ambitious are nothing of the sort.

House Slytherin of the Harry Potter Franchise is a very good example of a group of characters who are labelled as “ambitious” but never actually are. All of those old, noble houses (Malfoy, Black, etc)? They cannot be ambitious because they already have what the ambitious person seeks: they already are (in)famous, powerful, and wealthy. True, “honour” – the other major ambition the dictionary lists – is something they might lack, but they aren’t shown seeking honour either. As for most of the Slytherin students shown in the books? They seem quite sure they already have everything, that they don’t need to better themselves, and that they are just going to keep doing what their family does. In other words: unless the Sorting Hat was sorting one-fourth of the students on opposite-day rules, Salazar Slytherin (and JKR) did not actually understand what ambition is. Wanting to follow in the family business is a very rare ambition. Most truly ambitious people would rather strike out on their own and make a name for themselves. See, “achievements” and “distinctions” – the two things which ambition is to desire – are personal goals. They are not group or family oriented. Ambitious people do not want to be “hey, aren’t you part of the X family?” they want to be “OMG YOU’RE [AMBITIOUS PERSON’S NAME]!”

Okay, so what about Voldemort? Obviously he’s ambitious, right? He wants to take over the world? Yeah, but does he? Sure that’s what he says he wants, but throughout the main story his only dedicated goal is “Kill Harry Potter”. If he was truly ambitious and his goal was “take over the world” he wouldn’t waste so much time and so many convoluted plots on something which should have been secondary. You might argue that it was because he was trying to stay alive. However, either his goal was take over the world or it was become immortal, but not both. Ambitious people, when the cards are down, have their desires ranked. This means that something they’d also like will, if they have to make the choice, be put aside if getting it means making their main goal harder to reach. Thus “piss a lot of people off by taking over the world” and “live forever” should be diametrically opposite goals. Oh, and here’s the other thing: goals aren’t the same as ambitions. “Lose weight” is a goal, but it’s not an ambition. “Be a movie star” is more an ambition than a goal (goals are also more specific).

Lastly, not everyone who tries to take over the world is ambitious. This goes back to what I said earlier about how ambition is a personal goal. Some people who try to take over the world – or just a country – are not doing it for themselves. In fact, most of the people who give enough shits to actually bother trying for any sort of conquest are doing it because they care about other people. Unless they’re like Alexander the Great – glory-hounds who run from place to place conquering, leave other people to run things, and whose conquests fall from their grasp almost as soon as they leave because they have no long term plans (which, again, would rule out their being ambitious because ambitious is all about having long term plans) – chances are they’re taking over because they think the state of things must be fixed “for the greater good”. Augustus Caesar is often viewed negatively for abolishing democracy and starting the Roman Empire (untrue, he did place his autocracy over – veto right – the senate, but he never disbanded them) but he took power from the senate and took control because the senate was a completely corrupt career-politician hotbed of wasted taxpayer money, vice, petty squabbles and aristocratic arrogance that couldn’t figure out how to lead a horse, let alone get it to water. Augustus took over because the people who were supposed to be ruling weren’t. They were enjoying the wealth and power that came from having the ruler-ship position, but they weren’t actually ruling. Caesar Augustus did not take power for himself, and thus was not ambitious, and was a good ruler – while the emperors who followed him, and who inherited the position rather than having to strive for it (again, thus not ambitious) thought about their own pleasures and couldn’t rule for shit (with a few exceptions *cough*Marcus Aurelius*cough*).  So even if “Take over the world” was Voldemort’s primary goal, it is not by definition an ambition. Of course, Voldemort is not like Augustus Caesar. Voldemort has more in common with Hitler and his fictional analogue Grindelwald – who believed in his slogan “For The Greater Good” and who was therefore not ambitious. Which makes the question “Did Voldemort believe his blood-purity hype?” because if he did: he wasn’t ambitious.


And this begs the question: If Slytherins – the pop-cultural go-to example for ambitious people – aren’t ambitious, then who is?


Disney Princesses.

I kid you not. Let’s take a look at that definition again.

[am-bish-uh n]


  1. an earnest desire for some type of achievement or distinction, as power, honor, fame, or wealth, and the willingness to strive for its attainment
  2. the object, state, or result desired or sought after
  3. desire for work or activity; energy

verb (used with object)

  1. to seek after earnestly; aspire to.

“As power, honor, fame, or wealth” is just a list of examples, not a complete list of forms ambition can take. Wanting to be loved and wanting to be happy are also ambitions. Ambition can be “the desire for work or activity” – which sounds distinctly Hufflepuff – and have you ever heard of a Disney Princess who wasn’t painfully “earnest”? Moreover, as ambition can thus be “to aspire to honour” have you ever heard of a non-heroic character who strove for that? Honour (however you want to spell it) is a hero-trait in fiction.

So why Disney Princesses? Let’s go over them one by one, shall we?


Snow White: Main songs? I’m Wishing and Someday My Prince Will Come. Snow’s been treated like a servant all her life and no one – not even the nobility who ought to be up in arms about it, nor the royalty of whichever kingdom her mother’s family rule – has done anything about it. But does Snow just sing about finding someone to love? No. She sings about waiting for her Prince. Snow is in rags and has no reason to believe her born social status counts for shit anymore, she’s been run out of her kingdom and being recognised is a death sentence, but she damn well refuses to give up on the “Prince” part of her life-plans. Furthermore, before she meets her prince she isn’t shown doing much to achieve her ambitions, except singing into a wishing well – which is a silly and childish thing to do. Except for two things: as a fourteen year old she was totally still a child and she clearly believed that it would really work. Which, given that her true love immediately appeared, which is way too much of a coincidence to have been an accident (seriously, foreign prince rides right by local capital castle, which the royal family is currently inhabiting, and no one fucking notices?) it’s entirely possible that Snow was 100% right about that wishing well, in which case she was going after her desires. That’s Ambition.

Cinderella: Here’s an interesting line from Cinderella’s song So This is Love “The key to all heaven is mine”. Ambitious people about themselves firstly – I want, I have, etc – which makes this line rather telling. She’s not in heaven, the key to heaven is hers. Now, you might argue this can’t be true because Cinderella is not selfish – she is kind and giving and helpful – but selfishness and kindness are not mutually exclusive. Likewise, ruthlessness and selfishness are not mutually inclusive. Ambition is a selfish thing, in that it puts the self first, but ambitious people are not automatically unkind, or unhelpful. In fact, people who are determined to achieve their dreams (ahem, “Whatever you wish for, you keep/Have faith in your dreams and someday/Your rainbow will come smiling through”) are more likely to help others to achieve theirs because they know how much that would mean to them. And because most of the time ambitious people aren’t idiots. Ever heard the term “you catch more flies with honey than vinegar”? Well, apart from the fact that real vinegar catches more flies than real honey, what the metaphor means is that – generally speaking – stomping all over people doesn’t get you as far as being nice to them. Furthermore, wanting and going after nice things or achievements for yourself in no way obliges you to turn on everyone else. Ambitious people only view others as a problem when those others are standing between them and their goal. Cinderella, who has grown up in an abusive household and likely doesn’t have the emotional ability to save herself by walking out the door, is kind to those around her and it works in her benefit. Sure, she goes to tears after her dress and dreams are torn to shreds, but that doesn’t indicate a lack of ambition. Someone who didn’t have goals or ambition wouldn’t have been anywhere near as distressed to have their dream crushed right when they thought they were going to make it. Cinderella could not have achieved her happy ending on her own, but nowhere in the definition of ambition is that a requirement. She tried, earnestly, to go after her dreams. That’s ambition.

Sleeping Beauty: Okay, I got nothing. But in fairness, she does spend most of the movie named after her ASLEEP.

Ariel: Do I really need to spell this one out? Mer-girl wants to achieve being human (she met Eric AFTER becoming obsessed with humanity, remember?).  Mer-girl sings entire song about how damn much she wants to be human – to be Part of Your World – and Mer-girl signs deal with first person to make that an option for her, after being explicitly forbidden to keep thinking about humans by the autocratic ruler of her country. That’s ambition. Sure, mer-girl absolutely fails at guile, but guile and ambition are not mutually inclusive.

Belle: Ambition and the desire for adventure (or bravery or courage or whatever you want to call it) are not mutually exclusive, no matter what Harry Potter might have implied. Belle’s introductory song – which is also the first time we see her – is about how she wants to get out of this “poor, provincial town” (and how the townsfolk think she’s weird). Allow me to repeat that with clarity: within moments of being introduced to her, Belle complains that the town she lives in is “poor” (ambition for wealth) and “provincial” (ambition for social standing). And if you need further proof of that, here’s a bit from the reprise of That Belle: “Not me, no way/I guarantee it/ I want much more than this provincial life! I want adventure in the great wide somewhere! I want it more than I can tell. And for once it might be grand/To have someone understand/ I want so much more than they’ve got planned…” Ambition is all about “I want”. And sure, you might say that Belle gives up her ambitions for her father – but Belle’s an avid reader: she, of all people, would know that being offered the chance to switch places with a prisoner in an enchanted castle is a standard beginning for adventures. You know, the thing she wants? That’s ambition.

Jasmine: Well, she wants to see the world beyond the palace and sneaks out in order to do it, but that’s not really all that ambitious. Of course, that’s because Jasmine – like Sleeping Beauty – isn’t really the main character of Aladdin. Aladdin himself though? Well, the whole wishing to become a prince thing really says it all. Why? Because it would have been far easier – no need to pretend to not be a street rat – if Aladdin had wished for the Genie to change the laws so that he could win the princess’ hand as himself. Aladdin immediately viewed his social status as what needed to be changed. Not to mention the cut song Proud of Your Boy, which was all about how he wanted to make his mother proud – her pride was the achievement he earnestly sought.

Mulan: Although it becomes secondary to the goal of keeping her father from going to war and dying, Mulan starts off with the ambition to meet the social standards of her era so that she can make her family proud. Or, rather, she starts with the ambition to make her family proud and goes about it by trying – and failing – to meet social standards, which turns out to have been the wrong way to go about it. The distinction she earnestly seeks – and then sings about being unable to fulfil – is to be “the perfect daughter”. That’s ambitious. Also, ambitious people are not, by definition, only ambitious if they go about seeking their aspirations the right way. Sometimes they think they’re doing it right and aren’t.

Pocahontas: Has a whole song about not being sure what she wants out of life. Pass. Not ambitious. Sure, there’s “prevent a war” but that’s more a goal than an ambition. Ambitions – desire to achieve – are by definition construction (make something new, attain something new) not destructive or neutralising (prevent war – which preserves an existent status quo).

Tiana: Do I really have to explain this one? Miss Works-Herself-To-The-Bone-Even-When-Turned-Into-A-Frog-To-Get-The-Restaurant-She’s-Wanted-Since-She-Was-a-Toddler basically oozes ambition. (Especially if you look at what she imagines for her restaurant – it’s at least five-star – that girl doesn’t just want to have a restaurant, she wants a rich restaurant for fashionable people. She wants to move up in social class/wealth and fame and she wants to prove to the world how good she is at what she does.) Here’s where Potter fans tend to confuse truly ambitious people with the idea that ambition (Slytherin) and hard work (Hufflepuff) are mutually exclusive. But here’s the thing: by definition ambitious people are willing to EARNESTLY GO AFTER WHAT THEY WANT. Earnest, incidentally, means “serious in intention, purpose, or effort; sincerely zealous” as well as “showing depth and sincerity of feeling” and “seriously important; demanding or receiving serious attention”. If you are ambitious you are BY DEFINITION hard working …in order to get what you want. This means, by the way, that all the “ambitious” characters in fiction who will ruthlessly cheat, steal, and lie to get to the top? …Aren’t really ambitious. Why? Because they aren’t earnestly going after their aspirations. Hufflepuffs are more ambitious than Slytherins.

Rapunzel: Is probably more goal-oriented than ambition-oriented, given that “see the lights” is more of a one-time information gathering quest than a self-improvement-based aspiration. Unless her ambition is “happiness” in which case she might count. Nevertheless, the girls songs are primarily about feeling unfulfilled that she hasn’t achieved anything (When Will My Life Begin) and what she wants out of life (I Have A Dream). So while she’s not as ambitious as some in this list, she still counts.

Merida: Wants the power to make her own life choices. She also wants her mother to understand her, but that’s not an ambition, it’s a desire or goal.

Elsa and Anna: Elsa’s not an ambitious character. Her desire to get her powers under control is motivated by fear and necessity. Anna’s ambitions, on the other hand, drive much of the story. The love of her sister is the achievement she mostly seeks – which might not seem like much of an achievement, until you realise that she spent her childhood talking to a closed door out of the desire to be noticed by the one she loved. She also spent much of her time completely isolated, which makes her aim a sort of narrow form of ambition for fame – the desire for fame, after all, is the desire to be notices and acknowledged as special …which is exactly what Anna is trying to get out of the people whose opinions she actually cares about. To be loved is, in a way, to be famous to a single person. Fame is the love – in a shallower form – of the distant people.


In closing: Ambition is not mutually exclusive with kindness, hard work, generosity, and honesty. Ambitious people do not have to be, by definition, guileful, liars, ruthless, or selfish to the detriment of others. The desire to take over the world is only ambition if done for the sake of the self rather than in order to make the world a better place – which is the more common reason people try, whether or not their beliefs ultimately prove destructive when viewed from outside. The only things ambition is mutually exclusive with are aimlessness and laziness. People who cheat their way to the top are not ambitious because they do not go after their aspirations earnestly. There is nothing inherently evil about knowing what you want out of life and going for it.

So. There you have it. Disney Princesses are more ambitious than Slytherins.

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Posted by on December 25, 2016 in On Writing


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