In a letter to Richard Woodhouse on 27 October 1818, Keats wrote:

What shocks the virtuous philosopher, delights the camelion [sic] Poet. It does no harm from its relish of the dark side of things any more than from its taste for the bright one; because they both end in speculation. A Poet is the most unpoetical of any thing in existence; because he has no Identity-he is continually in forming–and filling some other Body–the Sun, the Moon, the Sea, and Men and Women who are creatures of impulse are poetical and have about them an unchangeable attribute-the poet has none; no identity-he is certainly the most unpoetical of all God’s Creatures.

The letter is short, and worth reading in full. Keats makes several observations here which, almost two centuries later, are still highly pertinent to writing in general, and to the writing of speculative fiction in particular.

The above passage parallels the Buddhist concept of anattā, loosely translated as “not self.” The concept, as its translation suggests, denies the existence of a permanent self as set apart from the world. Along with anicca, the idea of impermanence, and dukkha, the presence of unhappiness or suffering, anattā is one of the central precepts of Buddhist thought. I do not know whether Keats had any exposure to Buddhist texts, but a quick Google search reveals that I’m by no means the first to point out such a connection.

To some extent, Keats’s assertion flies in the face of the dictum of modern writing teachers to “write what you know.” This rule reflects an underlying that the self, the writer’s outlook, knowledge, and experience, forms the basis of good, solid writing. Even teachers like Julia Cameron and Natalie Goldberg who embrace a more “universal” approach to writing sometimes unintentionally fall back into this comfort zone. But “writing what you know” precludes the joy of discovery, the “gusto” for embracing the new that Keats hints at in his letter.

Of course, speculative fiction presents its own set of challenges to the “write what you know” axiom. Very few of us, I’ll wager, have encountered ice dragons or interstellar warp drives during the course of our everyday experience. In the absence of purely empirical knowledge, the writer of SF must fall back on, yes, “speculation.” Imagination comprises a large part of the speculative process, but it isn’t the whole story. Good writers not only imagine their creations into being, but spend some time inhabiting them. of “filling some other body,” as Keats put it.

I’m not trying to completely discount the “write what you know” premise; it serves as an excellent starting point, and not without reason do writers of urban fantasy set their tales in cities with which they’re familiar. I’m merely suggesting that writers of speculative fiction, and I’d argue writers of other genres as well, succeed when they push their boundaries beyond the known, get out of their own heads, and experience the world–both real and imagined, seen and unseen–from an objective universal perspective.

Julia Cameron, author of The Artist’s Way, would answer in the affirmative. One of the first concepts she introduces in her book is that of the “shadow artist.”

Too intimidated to become artists themselves, very often too low in self-worth to even recognize that they have an artistic dream, these people become shadow artists instead. Artists themselves but ignorant of their true identity, shadow artists are to be found shadowing declared artists . . . Shadow artists often chose shadow careers–those close to the desired art, even parallel to it, but not the art itself (Julia Cameron, The Complete Artist’s Way, pp. 42-3).

For me, this description holds a lot of painful truth. For a long time, I’ve wanted–or at least claimed I’ve wanted–to write fantasy novels, yet I haven’t penned much beyond a couple short stories and a few tentative chapters. Yet I’ve poured out tens of thousands of words on this and other blogs, extolling the virtues of other writers, lambasting the flaws of others, and expounding upon nearly every facet of the writer’s craft. Even as I write this, I can’t help feeling that I’m turning away from my own creative process. I can’t help but wonder if this is true for other bloggers as well. The writing on many review blogs I frequent is sprightly, inventive, and readable, and I find myself imagining what marvels would spring forth if these creative minds turned their hand to fiction.

On the other hand, Cameron’s writing shows a bias against critics which must be taken into account. It’s my hope that as a reviewer I play a valuable role in facilitating discussions among readers, and even between readers and the authors themselves, and I derive real pleasure as a part of that community. And even review writing, even academic writing, demands creativity of its own sort. Rhetoric may be a neglected art, but it certainly isn’t dead.

The two aren’t necessarily mutually exclusive, either. Many editors and agents go write their own novels while holding on to their current posts. Among the blogging community, I know Aidan over at A Dribble of Ink has written several short stories and, last I heard, was nearing completion of his first novel.

For me, I suppose the ultimate litmus test comes down to whether I feel fulfilled. Ever the Libra equivocator, I’m afraid my best answer at this point is that it depends on which day you ask me.

Lest I put words into the mouths–or fingers–of other readers and reviewers, I’m curious to know how you feel about the supposed existence of “shadow artists.” Feel free to comment below.

I’m not sure this is so. Recently I’ve been rereading Lord of the Rings, as I do once or twice a year like clockwork. Gandalf’s magic, and the magic practiced by the book’s other Powers, is never fully explained. It’s just there. I thinks this works to Tolkien’s benefit in a couple of ways. First, mystery comprises one of the epic’s major themes. In this respect Tolkien captures the essence of John Keats’s negative capability.

I had not a dispute but a disquisition, with Dilke on various subjects; several things dove-tailed in my mind, and at once it struck me what quality went to form a Man of Achievement, especially in Literature, and which Shakespeare possessed so enormously – I mean Negative Capability, that is, when a man is capable of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason-Coleridge, for instance, would let go by a fine isolated verisimilitude caught from the Penetralium of mystery, from being incapable of remaining content with half-knowledge. This pursued through volumes would perhaps take us no further than this, that with a great poet the sense of Beauty overcomes every other consideration, or rather obliterates all consideration.

The countless allusions and references to people, places, and events in Middle Earth’s past which are never explained within the text force the reader to remain in a constant, low-level state of uncertainty. A prime example of this is the idiomatic reference when Aragorn says of Gandalf, “He is surer of finding the way home in a blind night than the cats of Queen Berúthiel.” Though Tolkien expounds on this figure elsewhere, the reader of Lord of the Rings never learns who she is, and hence she becomes part of the richness and depth of Tolkien’s world. In a similar way, Gandalf’s magic suggests whole realms of unexplored lore.

Secondly, though Gandalf’s magic is never fully explained, it is clearly finite. In perhaps the closest Tolkien comes to developing the workings of the wizard’s craft, Gandalf grumbles, while the Fellowship toils through the Pass of Caradhras, that “I cannot burn snow.” Tolkien rarely resorts to employing Gandalf’s magic as a deus ex machina device.

Having said that, I’ve also enjoyed fantasy authors who systematically approach magic in their novels. I found David Eddings’s construction of “the Will and the Word” to be one of the more enjoyable aspects of his Belgariad series, and of course the symbolic, sympathetic magic of the Harry Potter series, recalling Plato’s definition of forms and the “as above, so below” approach lends itself to hours of erudite exploration, even though the books themselves are at times juvenile.

I suppose my conclusion is that the extent to which a writer chooses to develop or not to develop a world’s magic system largely depends on the novel’s style and tone. In whimsical fantasy like Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings and Patricia A. McKillip’s Od Magic, to over-analyze the magic would actually detract from the world rather than add to it. But in other fantasy sub-genres, which in extreme cases might almost be called “science fantasy,” a sound logical foundation for the book’s magical workings are mandatory. The crime novel style of Jim Butcher’s Dresden Files demands that wizard Harry Dresden employ his powers of deduction in reasoning out the magical mechanics behind supernatural misdeeds.

But enough from me. I’m curious to know what you think. Discuss in the comments.

J. R. R. Tolkien: I’m sure Tolkien figures heavily in the favorites for fantasy enthusiasts and fantasy writers alike. Not without cause. In both The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings, he tells wonderful tales of the hero’s journey, in the Joseph Campbell sense, though the style and themes of these works are quite different. My parents read the novels to me when I was six or seven, and I’ve reread the entire opus at least biennially since. Tolkien was seminal in my appreciation of language, history, and culture.

C. S. Lewis: Ditto. When I proved receptive to Tolkien’s writing, my parents thought they’d move me on to fellow Inkling Lewis. While Lewis doesn’t hold the same lofty position in my literary pantheon as Tolkien, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe had a profound emotional impact on my young mind. I don’t remember this personally, but my parents recently told me that after the death of Aslan, I became so depressed and despondent that I wouldn’t let them read any further in the book. Finally, they convinced me that all would turn out well, and finished reading the book to me.

Lloyd Alexander: The first fantasy writer I discovered in my own right, Lloyd Alexander wrote the enchanting children’s series The Chronicles of Prydain, based on Welsh mythology. Alexander held mastery over archetypes, and the coming-of-age story of Taran, Assistant Pig-Keeper, was the escape I needed from my own private elementary school hell.

David Eddings: In High School, I received a random book from Recorded Books for the Blind called Belgarath the Sorcerer. I found myself fascinated by the story of the sly, whimsical, powerful “Old Wolf” of a sorcerer, and when I learned the novel was a prequel to The Belgariad series I devoured those books in short order. What drew me to Eddings was his wry sense of humor, which provided me a respite from an otherwise-serious life.

Terry Brooks: Eddings awoke in me a desire to find more epic fantasy, and the Shannara books were the next port of call. Brooks’s world, filled with dwarves, elves, trolls, and mysterious wizards, felt like meeting an old friend after years of absence.

Robert Jordan: Around the same time, I discovered the mammoth Wheel of Time cycle. The series drove home to me how much fantasy could be a vehicle for political and cultural discourse.

I’ve since read novels by dozens of other fantasy authors. Some are, in my opinion, better at the craft than those I’ve enumerated here. But as I said earlier, these are the writers who forged and fused my fascination with fantasy. After reading these “classics”, there was no going back.

Who were your inspirations in the world of speculative fiction? Share in the comments below.