Worldbuilding

on liminal fantasy and researching place

This letter is the first of two that reflect on the process of building fantasy worlds out of our own. It’s an extension to the post below, where I talk about my need to re-read fictional landscapes from my childhood as a way of compartmentalising grief:

Groundings

I touched on my love for Alan Garner in my previous post. This is a love that knows no bounds. Garner is, and always will be, my greatest inspiration. He takes the world we know and infuses it with enough fantasy that it - somehow - feels closer to the inner landscapes of human feeling.

There’s a lesson in this. Fantasy works best when enmeshed in the quotidian landscapes of the world. It should pull at the seams a little; until the fabric is thin enough to see what’s behind. Fantasy should be kaleidoscopic. Sure, portal fantasies and epic quests are thrilling. But isn’t wondering whether the sparkle in the stream might truly be a glimpse at something behind the veil where the real magic happens?

I’ve been playing with the idea of ‘liminal fantasy’, where readers ‘hesitate between a natural and supernatural explanation’ (Todorov 1973).¹ This is where ‘the fantastic [....] lurks at the bottom of the garden’ (Mendelhson, 2013, 184).²

My own writing of late (and the B I G project - more on that soon) untangles the myth of Demeter and Persephone. It is a rumination on death and rebirth, structured around the turning of the seasons. In this process, I’m using fantasy and worldbuilding to excavate my own feelings around bereavement. I can only hope the world(s) I make will be a space of solace to some readers.

What follows is a reflection on the way these palimpsestic worlds have been built through the writing, layering, re-visiting and reading of specific places. I talk about maps and ekphrastic encounters with various artworks. In a later letter, I will revisit my own photos of these places.

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