A Fantastical Passion - Lucy Coats

I have a passion for fantasy—both reading it and writing it. There, I’ve admitted it—stood up to be counted, stuck my head above the parapet, ready to defend myself against any verbal bullets and brickbats. I too am a purveyor of lies (see previous post), as well as a traveller into the arcane worlds of the imaginary, and I am proud to say so. My childhood was full of hobbits, fauns with umbrellas, and weirdstones, but I discovered almost all my favourite children’s fantasy authors well after I had grown up and, perhaps, might be thought by some to be too old for such indulgences. I find, looking in my bookshelves, that most of them are women, and I would like to pay tribute to the sisterhood of ‘sheroes’ here—they are the ones whose work encouraged me in my fledgling desire to create and write about fantasy worlds of my own.

I was in my early twenties and a very junior editor at Heinemann when I came across the indomitable Damarian heroines of Robin McKinley, then published by Julia Macrae. I’ve just received her new book—Chalice—and am hoarding it like a dragon does its treasure until I have proper leisure to savour what I know will be its joyously sardonic humour. Something in Robin’s very particular style of writing spoke to me—showed me that it was possible to dance to a different fantasy drum. We have corresponded sporadically over the years, and have found that both of us like the discipline of creating gardens and pruning roses—and getting the nature bits in our books right, even if they are made-up bits of nature sometimes.

Diana Wynne-Jones was a latecomer to my bookshelves too—most of my editions of her works are American hardbacks, bought in the ‘80’s from the chaotic but lovely Books of Wonder in its old home in New York on 7th Avenue. I visited its new incarnation a few months ago, and was delighted to be able to discover new fantasy authors and eat cupcakes at the same time. Wizard Howl sets my teeth on edge at times with his arrogance, but I love Sophie in all her incarnations—and most of the Chrestomanci books are works of fantasy genius. It was a delight to discover a new one—The Pinhoe Egg—last year, and to renew my accquaintance with the Chant family.

How did I miss out on Ursula le Guin’s Earthsea trilogy for so long? I suspect that I was too involved with the high-flown works of literature I had to read for my degree when they first came out. Again, it was a delight when more novels in the series appeared fairly recently, and I could find out what happened to Ged later in his life, and to all the inhabitants of those myriad islands which are as real as the Cyclades or Sporades to me.

Last, but by no means least for me, came Tamora Pierce and her Lioness. What she has created in Tortall is a saga ranging back and forth over several generations. There is always a danger of disappointment when authors write about their characters’ forbears or descendants, but Pierce manages the transition from main teenage hero or heroine to parent of the next generation with deft grace. It is wonderful to meet old friends from previous books and to hear what has gone on with them in the intervening years. I can’t wait for the next.

All of the above is why, having vowed I wouldn’t do it because I couldn’t see how, I am now writing a sequel to my own fantasy novel, Hootcat Hill, at the urgent request of many of my readers. I feel all those admired and looked-up-to ‘sheroes’ at my shoulder urging me on. Besides, I understand only too well the position of the reader who wants to know ‘what happened afterwards’—and I want the huge excitement of finding that information out for myself as I enter into yet another world of my own creation. So far it’s already quite a journey!