Naming Names in Epic Fiction Pt 2

In my last blogging twitch I revealed how I didn't like the name my parents gave me but gradually accepted it for tax purposes and more. I believe the consternation at my own name has influenced how carefully I name characters in my books. Especially in stories set on other worlds or fantasy lands where the usual English names should not apply. There, a name unfamiliar to us may yet carry some weight, be loaded with symbolism, and annoy its bearer to no end...right?

You would think coming up with names in a fantasy story would be easy: just throw some letters together and voila a character is born! You could do that, but does the name sound like that character's name? Does it make the reader believe this character will act a certain way? speak in a particular dialect? think in strange ways? Who can say? That is what makes naming more difficult for fantasy and science fiction. 

The easiest way to choose names is look at drugs. Xanax is a powerful commander of the Prilosec fleet of intergalactic warships. Or try choosing a "normal" name and changing a letter or two. Tom, Dick, and Harry could become Tam, Wick, and Darry - three Hobbits in a new fantasy tale. Back to THE DREAM LAND Trilogy: I made my own formal rules for "alien" names, partly to keep them straight in my head, whereby male names ended with consonants and female names with vowel sounds. For example, Samot and Aisa, two legendary figures in Sekuatean mythology. (Did you see what I did there? I reversed two letters so it is not Asia, the continent, but Aisa ["Eye-zuh"] the girl.)

Even in EPIC FANTASY *WITH DRAGONS names are important to the characters. Our hero is Corlan, a name I toyed with and finally settled on as something a rough and tough hero might be called. Surname? I hesitated for several chapters, then in a flash of inspiration I "unwhited" him. Or so I thought. Diversity being all the rage these days, I thought to make him "Asian" in a make-believe world with no Asia. I let him bear the family name of Tang. It sounds like a Chinese name and yet on an invented setting it could be anything. His auburn hair wouldn't exactly fit an Asian name, however, but that would just add to the mystery, eh? His name is eventually explained in the story - and makes perfect sense, of course.

I stayed with that scheme for the city of Covin, an all-women city where the few men allowed there are either slaves, dinner, or sometimes briefly a sire. At that point in my writing of the novel, the setting had shifted from something completely invented, like a slightly less Middle Earth, to a futuristic American landscape. So there was definitely no Asian anything - except as may have been "left over" from the world we know today. Who can say for sure? The Queen of Covin is named Hiro Ka, which sounds Japanese. All part of the story. Later we learn that these "trendy" names are just corruptions of longer names. For example, we learn that the Queen of Covin's original name was Hillary Kavanaugh. Make of that twist as you will, perhaps the "white" person wishing to be more exotic? Another twist, another mystery. And Covin is clearly meant to be the old Covington, Kentucky, right? Everyone can see that, true?

At one point in the tale, our band of heroes encounters the manly men city of Luval where they persuade the local regent to form a flotilla to go down the river to kill dragons. What is needed most besides ships are river pilots. And important river pilots must be given names. As they had limited yet crucial scenes, I needed to imbue them with a sense of personality with just a name and barely a sentence of description. My head was stuck on two-syllable names at that point in the writing so I decided on single-syllable names just for expediency: Bant, Durk, and Lond. During revisions, they grew on me and so I awarded them a second syllable, so they became Bantun, Durkin, and Londrel. As I put the names together I envisioned how each man would appear. For Bantun, I saw a shorter, chunkier man with a beard yet a bald head, a serious type. Durkin was livelier, a jester, while Londrel was tall with a hooked nose, and much too serious - and cowardly. 

There is a running commentary throughout the novel recounting the history of the age before the one in the story, called the Age of the Five Princes. This feature actually was to be a sub-story weaving through a much longer novel. Instead, it became a mere mention here and there. But the five princes "long ago" are instrumental in setting the context of the present story. In the medieval-themed novel I had planned as a teen, the princes were Terrens, Nicholas, Dellus, Ulrich, and Argus - and I have no idea why I chose those particular names. However, in transforming them to a make-believe world, I could not use "Nicholas" or "Ulrich" which are perfectly good Earth names. So I shifted them to Teran, Nilas, Darus, Urix, and Agor, which sound more exotic. It seems Urix made the greatest impression as our hero Corlan finds many people since that time named their sons after Urix  - to our hero's constant annoyance. 

And even our hero Corlan's sidekick, the boy from the palace kitchen named Tam, has a longer, more official name: Tamondarus!

“Who were the other princes?” asked the boy.

“There was Teran, the eldest, a half-brother only. And Urix, and Agor. Teran was the poet, the artist. Urix was the power broker, the mediator—alas, unsuccessful in the end. Agor was the general of the army of Nilas. Agor escaped from Inati during the trials. They all died in the end. Nilas lived the longest yet always in pain.”

“Oh.” Tam frowned.

“My grandfather and his grandfather were both named Urix after that ancient prince,” said Corlan automatically.

“I’m named after my mother’s grandfather!” sang the boy.

“Tam is a good name,” said Corlan.

“No, it’s really Tamondarus!”

Corlan laughed at the boy’s boisterous declaration. “You’re right. Tam is much better.”

“You can call me Tamondarus if you want to.”

“No, I’ll call you Tam. Or just boy.”

“It’s like that other Darus, the prince who died.”

“He was the evil one, you know,” said Joragus. “That’s the story. Stole Nilas’ betrothed, he did, then made a union with her, the poor maiden. That’ll start a war, all right!”

“Then what happened?” asked Tam.

“Nilas asked for her back. Darus refused.”

Corlan was ready to stop yet the glow on the boy’s face said he wanted to hear more. 

Every epic fantasy must have a wizard or a mage or, better yet, a magus! The one in my novel is named by little better a method than flipping cards into a hat: Joragus. As the chapters unfolded, however, his name began to have other associations. Being more than three-hundred years old, he can remember a lot. He recalls the way people in his past called him. Instead of Joragus, he is actually Jorge of the U.S. - with the name being pronounced as the Hispanic name "Hor-hay".

And then there are place names. In realistic fiction, we simply check a map. In a fantasy setting we throw some letters together - but again, does the name reflect the characteristics of the place? But sometimes there are places which are not shown on maps - big places which no god or goddess has needed to have mapped. In the novel, the interludes together tell the story of a little princess who flees her island home. Eventually she comes to understand through her lessons the true nature of . . . well, of literally everything. Using the egg-shaped "birthstone" - a magic object which every epic fantasy story must include - the goddess reveals the places only a goddess would understand:

She knew that nations were made of cities, and worlds were made of nations. Furthermore, the worlds she knew and worlds she did not know were all wrapped around things called planets, and they all spun around things called stars, which all surged within a mighty maelstrom called galaxies, which floated in a thing called universe, which balanced on the tip of a thing called O, which was kept locked away inside a small treasure chest called...what was it called? She suddenly forgot, and Hidel [her dragon] shifted awkwardly beneath her as if he sensed her distress.

There were other goddesses, of course, so she did not have to do everything herself. Yet it was quite clear that this land over which she soared was meant to be cared for by her. The goddess Sei Bo had told her so, and when a goddess tells you something, you believe it and you remember it—

Ah! The treasure chest is called Ah! And every person carried a piece of it inside themselves, said the birthstone in a strange new language she was still learning, full of squiggles and dots and checks and lines cut into pieces. They filled her head, made her want to sleep, even though she knew there would never be any sleep for her. The days extended for ages and the nights even longer.

Did you see what she did there? The universe is something sitting on the tip of something larger, vaster - which is contained in something very, very small. Thereby adding mystery to the story - and perhaps a new religion. Who can say? Epic fantasy is all about names, putting the right name to the right character, place, or object, thus bringing it into existence for the first time. Epic fantasy has a way of starting things, at least for those who can subtly sense its finer nuances. And understand the meanings of names given surreptitiously between sips of coffee on a Sunday morning. That's how the O turns sometimes. You know? 

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(C) Copyright 2010-2017 by Stephen M. Swartz. All Rights Reserved. No part of this blog, whether text or image, may be used without me giving you written permission, except for brief excerpts that are accompanied by a link to this entire blog. Violators shall be written into novels as characters who are killed off. Serious violators shall be identified and dealt with according to the laws of the United States of America.

Three stories we are sick of...

As we touch the mid-point of the spring season, I am reminded of three things: 

1) Put away everything of value so the next tornado cannot blow it all far and wide.

2) It's too late to plant that garden so no reason to get out the tools, seeds, and fertilizer.

3) The book writing business is not suitable for man nor beast, so why bother? 

Right away I will likely get rebuttals. Some may ask why I stay in this gods-forsaken alley of wind and I bluntly repeat "The Day Job! The Day Job!" Others may decry my sniveling rant as an affront to the precious Gaea and her bouncing bosom, an excuse the lazy pull out whenever it suits then, green thumbs or not. And there are those who would chastise me for supposed Puritan vanity, as though only my books suffered the outrageous slingshots and arrows of cliches. Enough said then!

Throughout this new year, I have been able to ascertain there are three stories, types of stories, or story memes retold that nobody is willing to welcome any longer, and henceforth should be exiled to the dustpins of hosiery! Here they are in all of their unspoken glory--and beware the variations, too.

The love story. Emotional linkage. Moreover, two young romantics slathering over each other. Worse yet if one of them is of some special, protected category such as ghost, gremlin, zombie, homeboy, vampire, wolfboy, fairy, fairytale meme, or English teacher. It is enough that we recognize that people have this flaw, this need for completion, this urge to copulate with another person or "person"; must the rest of us read all about it? see it splayed open across the grand screen? discuss it through the night on social media, as though it were a traditional recipe for disaster? Sure, we have the so-called "anti-romance"--but isn't that just another sheep of another color than black? Let them do what they do in private and leave the rest of us alone, thank you very much. 

Variation: The love story set in a dystopian society where good is evil and black is white and everyone is out to get everyone else because that is the way of the world and nobody is better or worse than anyone else and the equal ones are slightly more equal than the others who are not. Often they must play a game to determine who is most equal.

Example. A Beautiful Chill, an oft-repeated cliche of campus unions and reunions where Art and Letters rejoice in depravity unyielding up to the final revelation of slaughter. Woe is me, sayeth the love-lorn Author. (Credit for keeping it real; that is, on Earth and in modern times.)

The discovery of a new world. In this avenue I would add all the usual doorway, portal, gateway, wardrobe, tunnel, and wormhole stories where one of "us" goes somewhere else and woo-hoo it's almost like where we came from or it's quite different and aren't we amazed! And what does our hero/heroine do there? Exploit the darn place to within an inch of its lifeline! Such stories have been foisted upon us as warnings of what we have become or what we shall or might become if we do not pay attention, pay through the nose, or pay the first-born child of every family in debt to our fanatical financials and lords of leisure! And yet we take no heed and continue to fall into our dubious inheritance. No more! "If it ain't here, it ain't real," quoth one long-lost quotation master. Who should care for a world of pure invention?

Variation: The parallel universe, the time travel story, the dystopian tale--all of them poor representations of the main theme, all relying on our knowledge of our existing set of circumstances in order to make pun of all that we hold close to us and dreary. They mean to trick you. Smoke and mirrors, just smoke and mirrors. Mind not the poor excuse that is what you have now, for life could be far, far worse over there.

Example: The Dream Land, a lengthy tome [read 'trilogy'] ostensibly of interdimensional [read 'doorway, portal, etc.'] intrigue [read 'political skulduggery'], alien romance [see above complaint], and world domination [yet not, thankfully, in a sexual bondage sort of depravity]. Too many giant war rabbits to my liking.

The medieval family clash. As a variation on new worlds is the old world meme. I speak here of our vainglorious return to the days of yore as they stick in our craw and decay forthwith. Either said stories are poor recreations of history mismanaged or they are faux pas histories which serve only the purpose of greasepaint stages of perversity. Need we more of that? There is good reason those days of yore are done, and none too soon: we who represent the greater good in our species are simply too embarrassed by what we are capable of bestowing upon our peers. While we may wish to relive the highlights and even selected lowlifes, the sum total of all our aspirations is a rousing return to that which never was and cannot be all in the name of trying it again for the better and falling, indeed, crashing from great dragon-borne heights to the fire-pit below! Then we know the mirror has finally broken and we lie splintered and bleeding.

Variation: The story that hides in a return to mythological creations and through them and their unfolding narrativity seek to impress us with the drudgery of life in those ancient days. Be glad of the life you have now and forget those of long ago. Yet such creatures and the winsome gods and goddesses themselves make for poor judges of our tastes today. Be not fooled or made a fool!

Example: After Ilium, where the narrative necessarily parallels the standard liturgy yet is viewed through the rose-colored lenses of a neophyte (often called 'the lucky loser') for the purpose of excising emotional dewing from unwary readers. Quite dubious in the depiction of an infamous battle. The major sex scene is a fruit basket of delights, however.


Solution. Seek not for such misguided diversions but instead search out only the fair and acceptable solutions to the diversions you crave, for they do exist. Break free and live a life beneath a tree, in the fields of the locust, all barefoot and squishy, with fluffy-bunny clouds overhead and the wind in your hair, like all good little munchkins who have survived remakes of wizard-themed films. And if that fails you, then there likely is little hope; you might as well embrace your day job (night, whatever) with hardy gusto, for you are not worthy of being entertained by the likes of we. Good day to you, Sir!


[The preceding was discovered by a couple of lovers whilst they sojourned on a newly discovered world after reading about ancient wars and played a game of trumps. Authorship has yet escaped confirmation. It is presented here solely for amusement, for it has no other discernable use.]



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(C) Copyright 2010-2014 by Stephen M. Swartz. All Rights Reserved. No part of this blog, whether text or image, may be used without me giving you written permission, except for brief excerpts that are accompanied by a link to this entire blog. Violators shall be written into novels as characters who are killed off. Serious violators shall be identified and dealt with according to the laws of the United States of America.

Got Goddesses?

First, let me sincerely apologize to those dear readers and followers who were made uncomfortable by my previous blog post. I did not realize the portion of people prone to Leporiphobia was so high. Sorry to shock you with so many bunny pictures. I just really, really wanted to celebrate the arrival of spring in what I thought (and polls had backed me up on this) was the best way possible. For me, and many others (again, the polls support this), the bunny is the epitome of spring icons. Perhaps I did go a little overboard, but if you can't go overboard with "itty bitty bunny wabbits" then what can you go overboard with? I ask you!

Sooooo, as a kind of self-flagellation, I have found I needed to regain some religion. Not necessarily the usual brands, of course. (I cannot do anything ordinary; even my posting of itty bitty bunny wabbit pictures is rather an ordinary act, granted.) No, I refer to the seven gods and nine goddesses followed, if not actually worshiped, by the various peoples of the planet Ghoupallesz, which is the location (along with Earth) of the tales recounted in THE DREAM LAND trilogy. That's right: fictional religion. At least to you and me, not to them.

Sooooo, returning to my Work-In-Production, we find our heroine, the unstoppable Gina Parton, a.k.a. Jinetta-d'Elous, faced with a whole host of obstacles--as every heroine usually is when stuck in a work of fiction by an unscrupulous author.

In the present scene, Gina has just escaped from an airship crash and the attack of a mob of religious fanatics bent on destroying technology and killing the scientists who make technology, including the hated interstellar spacecraft intended to evacuation some of the population in advance of a catastrophic comet. (Was that a spoiler?) Fleeing to an inn with the wounded co-pilot (naughty gal!), she connects to the Overlord (a.k.a. the governor of the city-state that is the Kobarel metropolis) via comm link. Because of the airship crash and the destruction of the fuel cell she was bringing to the Overlord, Gina fears she will not be able to free her young adult daughter from the re-education facility; the Overlord was supposed to grant that in exchange for the fuel cell, but you know how things go in science-fiction stories....

Anyhoo, Gina was previously captured and examined by the Overlord's staff, based on an unflattering report by Gina's nemesis/colleague Hanar-Santorak. They found interesting data from the lab report. The co-pilot from Gina's airship also suspects she's not quite the ordinary Ghoupalle woman she has been maintaining she is. Certainly, she could not be someone from a place called Earth! Long story short, they suspect Gina may be one of the goddesses come down to challenge them in their darkest days. And they may be correct!

EXCERPT from THE DREAM LAND Book III "Diaspora" Act IV

. . . “Are you a goddess?” the Overlord asked [via the comm link] in a suddenly different voice, a stream of phonemes coated in sugar, running fluidly from his tongue as though he had rehearsed the question for a week. “And if so, which goddess are you?”

* * *

The clanking she heard she knew to be the wheels that turned to raise or lower the metal gates of the castle in heaven where mortals were invited to stay for all eternity if they sufficiently displeased the gods and goddesses. Torture was routine, agony the order of the day, hopelessness the new blood flowing out of their veins. Not many had managed to return from such fate. Certainly not Interdimensional Voyagers, no matter what their class might be. Gina was a First-Class Voyager, but it had been so many years now since she had traversed a tangent that she was not very confident of being able to do so. She feared that instead of stepping through to an Earth she barely knew, she would find herself there outside the gates of heaven and see the chains pulling up the bars and the huge Guardian Iur-Fax swinging his thick, muscular arm toward the castle, a bull voice roaring “Sata!”—Welcome!

Gina remembered the lessons of her children, lifetime after lifetime, teaching them what all good Ghoupalle children should know.

Nourii stands tallest among the goddesses, presumed the eldest of Great God Zaul, red hair and pink skin, scars of war across her chest, breastless (one lost in battle, the other the result of self-mutilation after being outraged by the cheating god, Katoux); long, sharpened teeth and fingernails; rides a three-wheeled chariot pulled by three bintur—giant red badgers. People pray to her for strength during difficult times, though she seldom listens.

 Pemaa, the quiet sister, loves to cook and enjoys a clean home; plays with small animals; eats only three plants: eguo, blith, and resh, usually together in the same meal. Believed to care about young lovers, popular with girls who are popular with boys. She sleeps with snakes and plays with fish, often acting as a mermaid and tricking sailors.
   Roloura is the smart one, the scientist of the family, the holder of stars and worlds, the measurer of everything, the decider of days and nights and lifetimes. People call to her for longer lives, shorter work hours, extra tries in sporting events, and a full growing season for crops. She seldom grants favors other than a single extra day for the truly righteous people who lie upon their death beds.

Garou has hair blacker than night, eyes of red, hands that sweat blood with six fingers each, feet with six toes each; long feet and long legs that stride the world, from kingdom to kingdom; who hovers over croplands to water the soil from her loins; who calls women to bow to the earth before giving birth. Mothers-to-be sometimes sacrifice to her, leaving one of their fingers buried in the soil of a garden.

Emmau is the child of innocence, the irrational waif who prefers to play games than take the fate of mortals seriously. She is often chastised for her lack of concern. She responds that eternity is long enough for both work and play; she will do her work later. The lazy people of Ghoupallesz pray to her, begging for excuses to skip work or school or come home to spouses after cheating on them. She laughs a lot, and almost always at inappropriate moments.

Furanna, the matron saint of the Furank people, is a warrior goddess with a silver shield who lives deep in the forests and rides a jalo. Always surrounded by fairies, often sung to by birds, given fish and fowl for food by mountain gnomes whom she prefers as bedmates. She carries a silver spear that can penetrate anything and is forever sharp. She takes it to bed with her.

Aburra is the happy one, full of juicy fruit and cuddly pet animals, the one who dances across the clouds. She wears flowers and nothing else, and carries small, divine pugua in her arms at all times. She never sits, not wanting to smash her buttocks, and believes her bottom has the most perfect curves in the universe. She is often painted as a nude figure admired by a circle of lusty men.

Sethi is thoughtful, kind when it suits her, helpful with household matters, believed responsible for the deaths of babies when the mothers are unsuitable. Men pray to her for a woman who will please them in the qala; they pray to Pemaa for a good, faithful wife, however. Most young couples have a Sethi icon hanging on the wall over the qala.

Memitha is the ornery one, always looking for ways to hinder progress; she loves throwing obstacles before mortals. Traditionally she has brown hair with streaks of golden locks throughout. Her body is the one men dream of as they mate with their wives, yet were they to be welcomed by her they would die before they could satisfy her. She never takes shit from anyone—god, goddess, or mortal. She loves playing handball with human heads and never loses.

Gina took a breath, let it out slowly, patiently.

“I am Memitha. And you are toast.”

***
The Overlord did not understand her reference to ‘burnt bread’ but he got the gist of her demeanor: the Overlord was nevertheless a mortal and had not been acting very decently in recent weeks. He was therefore subject to discipline and Goddess Memitha had been assigned to dispense it. First, however, she needed to get to Vazak-Mixerran’s country house and fly the aircraft to Kobarêl. Only then could the spanking begin....

 

Now she has to prove it with her special goddess-like powers...somehow. Perhaps storm the high-rise "palace" and capture the Overlord, force him to command the release of her daughter. Or perhaps she could use the jet aircraft, secretly built by her former colleague Vazak-Mixerran (who also built the fuel cell she was trying to exchange for her daughter), to buzz the conference of the International Aerospace Commission as they await the results of the Zetin's attempt to send missiles to destroy the comet. Or any of a number of other possibilities. With a Work-In-Production anything is possible. And everything is possible!


I promise you it will all be sorted out by the time you finish reading THE DREAM LAND Book I "Long Distance Voyager" (available now) and Book II "Dreams of Future's Past (coming this summer). Book III "Diaspora" is anticipated for early 2014.

NOTE: The accompanying pictures of goddesses are not intended to represent those particular deities described. As divine law prohibits any depiction of the gods and goddesses, I sought only to give some visual support to the text. No disrespect to the nine goddesses was ever intended. I shall perform the required penitence if any goddess deems it appropriate as a result of my lapse of decorum.


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(C) Copyright 2010-2013 by Stephen M. Swartz. All Rights Reserved. No part of this blog, whether text or image, may be used without me giving you written permission, except for brief excerpts that are accompanied by a link to this entire blog. Violators shall be written into novels as characters who are killed off. Serious violators shall be identified and dealt with according to the laws of the United States of America.