My latest manuscript, a fast-paced urban fantasy that deals with the theme of the good of the one vs. the good of the many, deals directly with death. It means I’ve had to really dig through mythology and religious texts to create a modified hybrid of rules, histories and myths that work for several characters directly and the world in general. Why? Because frankly, death isn’t something anyone seems to be able to agree on. It’s like every mythology, religion, sect or civilization found different ways to define and deal with it, creating rituals, parameters and societal rules to make death manageable. The sad reality? Death isn’t manageable, and it never will be.

Given this truth, it conversely fascinates me to find that, globally, we all grieve with similar basic reactions, regardless of our belief system. It only goes to reinforce my repeated assertion (read here: soap box ramblings) that, as human beings, we’re more similar than some care to acknowledge. That’s a post for another time, though.

Back to death and my story. So what is it about fiction that requires a writer to research specific mythologies, religions, etc. if all she’s going to do is mix it all up and create new rules anyway? Here’s the thing: even if what we’re writing is fiction (created), it has to be grounded enough that the reader accepts what we establish as truth. What, exactly, does this mean? Basically, even the stuff we make up has to be carefully crafted so that it makes sense, fits into the world we’ve created and can be examined from a variety of directions without its armor of creation displaying transparent spots. Face it: no one wants to write the proverbial Emperor’s New Clothes. Great kids’ story, horrible thing to have happen because you didn’t do your homework. (My personal armor would undoubtedly display transparencies of the ass. It’s the way my dice roll.) One of the easiest ways to make sure your story’s bare bum isn’t left showing is to take facts from different areas of established reality and meld them together to make something new. It’s sort of like taking six different colors of Play-Doh and squishing them together really, really well. You end up with a new, unique color that’s offers a cohesive surface, interesting striations, and is larger than all the pieces you started with. See? You’ve created something unique that serves a, um, purpose. What you intend to do with that Play-Doh is totally up to you. I was just using it as an example.

Hopefully you see how important it is to create something that withstands the scrutiny of readers and reviewers. But the questions still remains — why pull from reality? Let me tell you that there’s  no right answer here, just what works for me and my writing, combined with my own experiences in writing multiple series. Here’s a simple fact: if you “borrow” facts from a pre-established source (i.e. the Book of Revelation in the Bible), you are using information that is pre-established and, therefore, can be validated, or authenticated, by the reader. It can help lend a type of immediate believability to your world. (Sidenote: this isn’t a religious lesson or debate. You may not believe the Book of Revelation but it exists and can be referenced.)

If you create your own realities (or mythologies) entirely, which is completely reasonable, you must enable the reader to slip into your story and accept rules, creatures, characters, etc. as absolute. You must create concrete points of reference and anchor your reader in the story. Keep in mind, I’m not promoting one approach over another here. I really only want to stress the author’s responsibilities to readers regardless of the approach you take. I’ve approached storytelling both ways, creating and borrowing established mythologies, but you must commit to providing your reader with a structurally solid foundation for their suspension of disbelief. Regardless of which method you pursue, make sure you keep notes and are consistent in your application of facts — both established and those you establish — so that readers are able to develop absolute faith in you that you’ll take care of them. Nothing ejects a reader from a story more thoroughly than an author who mixes up his/her own facts.

What it all comes down to is this: choose the method of approach that works best for you. And what about me? If you read any of my stuff you’find I just tweak the color of the Play-Doh a little lot.