Scotland. November 1991. Honeymoon.

They warned us: don’t go to Scotland. Not in November. So cold and dreary. So depressing.

We went anyway. We rented a car and drove from place to place, sleeping in quaint little hotels and eerie old castles.

Glasgow. Oban. Fort Augustus & Loch Ness. Wick. Thurso. Inverness. Crieff. Edinburgh.

‘They’ were right. Sort of.

The days were short, and by four PM darkness wrapped around us like a damp, heavy cloak.

‘They’ were also very wrong.

We had the time of our lives. Scotland’s untamed nature, the majestic highlands, the single track roads, and of course the wildlife: reindeer and highland cows, which we were lucky enough to see up close. Several times.

Bookshops and Daydreams

Of course, you can’t go honeymooning in Scotland and not buy a souvenir or two. Or twenty. So we bought a cute Nessie soft toy. It still sits on a side table in my bedroom.

In the same little shop where I bought Nessie, I spotted some books. Not a lot, really—this was a souvenir-shop after all—and most of these books weren’t all that interesting either, but then I spotted this title:

Castle of Wizardry.

I had never heard of the author (David Eddings), and didn’t even notice it was the fourth book in a series (The Belgariad), but I was sold. Instantly.

After practically devouring that book, I went ahead and bought the entire series. And the entire Malloreon series for good measure too.

To be frank, it wasn’t the prose that hooked me. Though not as clunky as some other fantasy prose (let’s not name names), it wasn’t exactly stellar either. But the story was entertaining enough, and I actually liked the characters. A lot. Especially Silk. Brilliant character.

A Voyage Into Fantasy

While I wasn’t a complete stranger to the fantasy genre—I’d read the entire Narnia series several times over—it were Eddings’ characters who made me want to venture deeper into the magical realms of fantasy.

Enter Robert Jordan’s The Wheel of Time—a series he never got to finish; that honour fell to Brandon Sanderson. And somewhere along the way I read Lloyd Alexander’s Chronicles of Prydain, Robert Nye’s retelling of Beowulf, and the entire Dragonriders of Pern series, by Anne and Todd McCaffrey. Then came George Martin, and we all know what happened to A Song of Ice and Fire…

Meanwhile, I published some books of my own, and my interest in the commercial fantasy genre dwindled. Which on the surface, seems funny, because don’t I write fantasy, too?

Well, yes and no.

My stories take place in a fantasy setting: a multiverse of interconnected worlds. There’s magic, dragons, gods, kings, some fighting. Lots of fantasy elements.

BUT…

I don’t have those sprawling casts. No bazillion POV-characters to keep track of. And, while part of an overarching series, each of my novels can be read as a stand-alone work. My focus is on character. Not on plot—which means my plots can be deceptively simple. And my prose? Readers consistently describe it as beautiful. Smooth, and elegant.

And that brings me to my problem with modern commercial fantasy.

Clunky Prose, Enormous Casts, and Unfinished Business

Looking at the (double) rows of chunky fantasy novels in my bookcase, I spot them easily: the titles I started and never finished.

To be honest, I don’t think I actually fully understand why I DNF’d these books. Rhythm of War is the most obvious. I read its predecessors and simply decided I’d had enough.

Enough of the twenty-bazillion-and-one POV-characters. Enough of the drawn out fight scenes, the hard magic and its rules, the epic worldbuilding. Most of all, I’d had it with the clunky prose.

I opened the book, started reading and then… boom! Enough. I closed it and never looked back. I simply stopped caring.

Tigana. Where do I start? Bought it because several of my author-friends recommended it for its beautiful prose. And yes, the prose is, indeed, to die for. The characters? Not so much. Can’t remember any of them. Totally unremarkable. Storyline? I’m afraid I didn’t make it far enough into the book to figure out if it even has one.

The Name of the Wind. Opened it. Closed it again. Because…

Why should I even bother starting another series that will likely never get finished? (Looking at a certain other author here.) Sure, they don’t have to finish their series if, for any reason, they can’t or won’t. I fully understand that.

But here’s the deal: I don’t have to read their books if I anticipate they may not be willing or able to finish the series. Simple as that.

Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell. I’m sure I read an entire chapter. Perhaps even two. Can’t remember. The prose was actually OK. The characters? I remember their names: Jonathan Strange, and Mr Norrell. That’s it.

Is There Still Hope For Modern Fantasy?

I don’t hate fantasy. I still love Narnia, and return to the series all the time. In fact, I’ve read these books so often, they are quite literally falling apart.

What’s more: I write it myself, even though I don’t actually call it fantasy any more. These days, I prefer to call it literary speculative fiction. Because that’s more accurate.

I still love fantasy. The beautifully written kind, with memorable characters, a limited cast, worldbuilding sprinkled in just where needed, and for the love of all the fantasy gods, no endlessly drawn-out narratives. I’m an old guy. I don’t have twenty years to read just one series.

Give me fantasy. But give me the good stuff.