Using Magic as Metaphor in Fantasy Novels
I never expected to become a fantasy author. As a young reader, I was fairytale and fable obsessed, consumed with Hans Christian Anderson, the Brothers Grimm, and Disney in equal measure. I spent most of my free time imagining myself in enchanted libraries filled with talking candlesticks, as a mermaid desperate to experience land, as a princess in glass slippers, as a little girl wandering the woods to get to grandmother’s house. Yet it wasn’t pure escapism. There were lessons to be learned from these tales: to stay true to oneself, to be careful what you wished for, to not judge a person by their appearance.
Despite my love for the fantastic, when it became time for me to pen my own stories, I set my work exclusively in contemporary settings. I didn’t know how to make room for my characters’ gigantic feelings in worlds where there were literal giants, magic beans, and geese who lay golden eggs. It wasn’t until I was brave enough to return to my fantasy-reader roots that my work truly began to come alive. It was by immersing myself in the genre that I was finally able to admit that fantasy worlds are, at the root of themselves, works about humanity’s most basic instincts and deepest desires.
As an author of books for young adults, I constantly consider how best to reflect the experiences of my target audience within my work. As teenagers come of age, they spend time in a world that is constantly changing, one that does not always meet them with kindness or offer itself to them with open arms. Often, they face challenges that can be painful to navigate and difficult to accept.
Just like those fairy tales that consumed my youth, like those fables and parables that taught my young brain how to navigate morality, I want my novels to contain those same, underlying connections to reality. I want to ensure my readers can see their own fears, feelings and experiences reflected on the page, even amidst settings that are worlds away from our own.
Yet sometimes, readers don’t wish to see their struggles laid out so plainly on the page. Instead, they hope for entertainment, for worlds brimming with whimsy and enchantment, for darkness and villains to take on a far less realistic slant. But no matter the genre, readers still seek connection. So how can fantasy authors give all of this to their readers: escapism and reality; connection and distance?
I turn toward metaphor. My preferred conduit for that metaphor is magic.
Magic as a concept is elusive and enigmatic, consistent only in its inconsistency. It can be gained any number of ways. A person can be born with magic. Magic can be earned, gifted, or bargained for. Magic can be wielded indefinitely or can be utilized for only a brief window of time. The possibilities are endless. But no matter how a character gains their power, once they possess magic, it changes them irrevocably. This change—both the way a fantasy world responds to a person with power and the way that person perceives themselves—is just as much the heart of a story as the actual spells that are cast.
Sometimes, of course, characters with magic are revered and treated with respect. But more often, those characters face scrutiny, suspicion, and vilification from those around them. How these characters are treated can become intentional metaphors for nuanced, real-life scenarios.
Biases against characters with magic in a novel might reflect biases readers face based on their race or religion. A witch born to a family who reviles magic might resonate to a child in a conservative household who is beginning to explore their sexuality or gender expression. A character who earns magic through difficult trials and honest means may resonate with a reader who knows what it feels like to work hard and make sacrifices in the name of achieving their dreams. A character with unwanted magic may grapple with their sense of self, may feel monstrous and wrong the way teenagers do as their bodies, brains, and hearts change.
Using the metaphor of magic to connect to a character’s life experience and emotions can make it easier for a reader to confront their own feelings. That layer of separation allows them to make a choice: to investigate and explore, and internalize the deeper meaning, or to gloss right over the metaphor, should the reader wish not to engage with that fantastical reflection of self.
In my first novel, Sweet & Bitter Magic, there’s a scene towards the end of the book where Wren, a girl who is made of magic, admits to her magic-fearing father she has been keeping her power secret her entire life. Throughout the course of the book, Wren has also fallen for a girl, a witch named Tamsin. The world of Sweet & Bitter Magic is intentionally free of homophobia, as the girls have quite enough to reckon with along their journey, bigotry notwithstanding. But this scene where Wren confesses her secret, when she shares this integral piece of herself with a father she fears might disown her for it, is reminiscent of a coming out conversation. The way Wren talks about her magic might reflect the ways readers feel about their own queerness, but without Wren’s sexuality being weaponized on page. For those who can’t or perhaps don’t wish to relate, the conversation between Wren and her father is about her magic, and nothing more.
In my newest novel, The Third Daughter, I engage with magic in a new but equally personal way: as a metaphor for depression. In the book, Sabine is a girl whose family bottles and sells her sadness. When she holds tightly to her feelings, the tears she cries are magic. But, as with most magic, there is a cost. This comes in the form of a sentient darkness, an ever-present companion that not only speaks to her but is scrawled across her skin. It questions her impulses, it consumes her energy, it causes her to react in anger and fear, rather than with compassion. She tries her best to hide this darkness because she is ashamed. She knows that her family is ashamed of her, too. While her power can ultimately be used to make money, her mother is careful to keep her sequestered inside while her feelings brew, and to always ensure that no one witnesses Sabine’s sadness in its purest form.
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For readers engaging with their own mental health struggles, Sabine’s experiences might offer them a mirror for their own insecurities and uncertainties: it feels like my family is ashamed of me, I hardly have energy to get out of bed, it feels like people can see my sadness on my skin. The metaphor of Sabine’s magic, which is inextricably tied to her emotions, was written to prove that sadness does not make a person weak, but that in fact, it makes them powerful. It is my sincerest hope that readers who relate to Sabine’s experiences can claim that power for themselves. But I also know there will be those who engage with Sabine’s character strictly as the text describes her, who may not understand that underlying metaphor, or who may not wish to see themselves reflected in her struggles. This book was written for everyone. The metaphor of Sabine’s magic was placed there specifically for those who might need it.
Of course, metaphors are not always perfect, and are always left up to a reader’s interpretation. But still, they allow an author to bridge the gap between the fantastic and the true. I write my books for those who wish to exist somewhere in the middle. And it’s through my use of magic as a metaphor that I forge my best connections with readers like me, who feel so deeply and dream so big that this world is not enough to contain them.
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