A sense of place
In Terry Pratchett's fifth Discworld™ novel, Sourcery, there is an amusing little frontispiece that reads:
Way back in the dim and distant, when I first started putting together the epic that has become Sir Benfro, I drew myself a map of Gwlad (which is just Welsh for 'land' or 'country' and is pronounced exactly the way you think it should be). This wasn't for eventual publication, just a quick visual reference to remind me of where everything was in relationship to everything else.
I sketched the rough plan on a cheap piece of A4 paper, using that favoured tool of the drafts man, the black biro. Names were scribbled in, sometimes with enigmatic question marks alongside them, sometimes just the questions mark. It was handy to know how long it might take to get from one place to another, compared with getting from other places back to the original and so forth.
Then the story grew and the map had to be updated. This time I used blue red biro and pencil, not to mark out that these additions were for book two so much as I had a red biro and a pencil to hand when I was drawing them.
This week I have almost thrashed out what is going to happen in book three, and so I took out the map once more to try and settle everything into place. My scrappit bit of paper's getting a bit scruffy now and I think I'm really going to have to give up and start a new map on a bigger sheet.
I'm no great artist, nor cartographer for that matter. I don't really understand geology either, so I've doubtless made all sorts of fundamental errors in my world creation. But it doesn't really matter because I never meant for there to be a map to go with the book. It only exists to stop me getting my east mixed up with my west (as has happened a couple of times in the writing, though never in the real world, strangely enough).
But if I go to the effort of making bigger, better copy, perhaps using pencils and a bit more effort, then maybe it would be good enough to add in. After all, Tolkein has his maps of Middle Earth, Robin Hobb shows us Buckkeep and the Six Duchies, Tad Williams paints a pretty picture of Osten Ard, Ian Irvine has drawn Santhenar in great details. Even Stephen Donaldson has a map of The Land.* So if it's good enough for them, shouldn't it be good enough for me?
Well, I have a theory about these maps, and the inevitable appendices and glossaries that are tagged onto the end of fantasy novels. This is the grunt-work, the background stuff that the author has dredged out of his imagination and corralled into some semblance of logical order before** embarking on the actual writing of the story. They're put in as an added bonus for the reader, but also to make the writer feel that all the effort wasn't wasted.
After all, if the writing is good enough, I don't need a map to give me a sense of place; I don't need a glossary to remind me who all the characters are. I certainly don't need dictionaries of imaginary languages.
So my map is there only for me. It's a window I can gaze through to remind me how things fit together, and occasionally throw up unexpected possibilities. You don't really need to see it at all.
You do?
Oh, all right then.
* Those are just the ones that are close to hand. I could bore you with many more if I wanted to.
** And quite often during, and after.
This book does not contain a map. Please feel free to draw your own.
Way back in the dim and distant, when I first started putting together the epic that has become Sir Benfro, I drew myself a map of Gwlad (which is just Welsh for 'land' or 'country' and is pronounced exactly the way you think it should be). This wasn't for eventual publication, just a quick visual reference to remind me of where everything was in relationship to everything else.
I sketched the rough plan on a cheap piece of A4 paper, using that favoured tool of the drafts man, the black biro. Names were scribbled in, sometimes with enigmatic question marks alongside them, sometimes just the questions mark. It was handy to know how long it might take to get from one place to another, compared with getting from other places back to the original and so forth.
Then the story grew and the map had to be updated. This time I used blue red biro and pencil, not to mark out that these additions were for book two so much as I had a red biro and a pencil to hand when I was drawing them.
This week I have almost thrashed out what is going to happen in book three, and so I took out the map once more to try and settle everything into place. My scrappit bit of paper's getting a bit scruffy now and I think I'm really going to have to give up and start a new map on a bigger sheet.
I'm no great artist, nor cartographer for that matter. I don't really understand geology either, so I've doubtless made all sorts of fundamental errors in my world creation. But it doesn't really matter because I never meant for there to be a map to go with the book. It only exists to stop me getting my east mixed up with my west (as has happened a couple of times in the writing, though never in the real world, strangely enough).
But if I go to the effort of making bigger, better copy, perhaps using pencils and a bit more effort, then maybe it would be good enough to add in. After all, Tolkein has his maps of Middle Earth, Robin Hobb shows us Buckkeep and the Six Duchies, Tad Williams paints a pretty picture of Osten Ard, Ian Irvine has drawn Santhenar in great details. Even Stephen Donaldson has a map of The Land.* So if it's good enough for them, shouldn't it be good enough for me?
Well, I have a theory about these maps, and the inevitable appendices and glossaries that are tagged onto the end of fantasy novels. This is the grunt-work, the background stuff that the author has dredged out of his imagination and corralled into some semblance of logical order before** embarking on the actual writing of the story. They're put in as an added bonus for the reader, but also to make the writer feel that all the effort wasn't wasted.
After all, if the writing is good enough, I don't need a map to give me a sense of place; I don't need a glossary to remind me who all the characters are. I certainly don't need dictionaries of imaginary languages.
So my map is there only for me. It's a window I can gaze through to remind me how things fit together, and occasionally throw up unexpected possibilities. You don't really need to see it at all.
You do?
Oh, all right then.
hint: click on the map for a bigger version.
You can see what it's all about then.
You can see what it's all about then.
* Those are just the ones that are close to hand. I could bore you with many more if I wanted to.
** And quite often during, and after.
Comments
l'd rather the directions just make sense in my own head.
Your verification hates me.