When I was in grade school, my library had a point system that encouraged children to read by making it competitive. Kids could read a book, take a short quiz to confirm that they had indeed finished the story, then would get awarded a number of points determined by the book’s length and difficulty. I was already an avid reader before the introduction of the point system, but those ingenious librarians pushed me into the depths of obsession. I read nearly every novel in the library (short of the romances and other girly books) in my fiendish desire for more points. My mania eventually drove me to a little used corner of the library, where a dusty volume of the Illiad sat. That epic was my first introduction to mythology, and I’ve been hooked ever since.
In the thirteen years since that day, I’ve kept a steady stream of mythology in my reading diet. I’ve primarily read the myths and legends of Europe, and in my reading I’ve found something peculiar. Many people are aware of the themes in ancient stories, even if they have never heard of the stories themselves. For example, most people would say the nightingale has a plaintive song, even if they have never heard it. Listening with an objective ear, one can recognize nothing particularly sorrowful about the nightingale’s song, leaving us to wonder why the association. Few people know the Greek tale of Aedon and how she mistakingly murdered her own sun, then was changed into the form of a nightingale to mourn for all eternity. The symbol of a nightingale has imprinted on the psyche of western Europe, so that most of us feel that its song is melancholy.
I’m fascinated by examples like the nightingale, themes and symbols that have left an indelible mark on the thought of western civilization. I’ve begun calling this collective of ideas the “western mythos”, a system of beliefs that pervades our lives without most of us knowing it. When I began writing, I determined that I would use the western mythos to my advantage. I began scrounging the most ancient texts I could find for more examples, more themes that seemed so familiar and strong. I love the feeling that the mythos creates when used well: a peculiar sense of familiarity akin to deja vu. It’s almost as if one has read the story before, which makes it seem to be in the same class as those original myths. Like Tolkien, I want to create a story that can substitute for myth or even expand upon it. Tolkien’s conception of elves and dwarves changed forever the way we imagine those creatures, an effect that has colored every subsequent fantasy work to use their names.
When crafting my tale, I drew on as much of the mythos as I could grasp. I even wanted the names to sound familiar, harkening back to the Proto-Indoeuropean root that all European languages share. Reflected in the name of Danuliel, water goddess of the Myri faith, are the Danube, the Dnieper, and the Don, the great rivers of Europe. I also drew heavily on themes from the mythos: the mysterious forest, the elusive elves, the great but flawed kingdoms of men, and the cycle of the seasons. Even in my poetry I mimicked styles from the Kalevala and other great works.
I think the result of my research and incorporation of ancient themes is a book that is as familiar as it is fresh. The story of Kellan the Fey is far from finished, but I hope that its completion will mark the end of a story that has been within the great tradition of storytelling. Perhaps it even may make its own small contribution to the development of new themes that will flow ever onward in the current of the western mythos.