The Case of the Missing Hero

Let’s take a break this week because I want to share something rather epiphanous, at least for me. Though I may have shared some of these thoughts before, I’m not certain I divulged them with the same clarity.

Recently, I tried a return to fantasy as I stumbled upon what appeared to be a next great hit of a series full of wonder and adventure and maybe even a little bit of romance. Of course, I’ll review that book soon here, but something struck me as I dived deep into its pages and secondary world.

All the fantasy books out there today are the same.

No, really—they are.

Either they’re too lofty and literary in diction, weighing down their worldbuilding and slowing their pace (I’ve started plenty of those, but haven’t been able to finish any because they’re just so dull), or they’re copying whatever trends are selling at the moment.

The greatest trend we have, which everyone seems to be gorging on, is the SJM, or Sarah J. Maas, trend.

What I mean is the formulaic tropes of a female protagonist who is some sort of assassin, hates everyone and everything, with some sort of tragic past, who crosses paths with some male, usually fae, alpha that upends her woebegone isolation and misery she’s in denial about, usually while she’s on the path to revenge or survival, all because they’re some sort of fated lovers or mates that are predestined and foretold to save the world from certain doom. Oh, and don’t forget the found family either.

It was this realisation which hit me upside the head as I read this new fantasy, one which I thought would be different. It began with this lyrical, tragic, prologue which I adored. As the story continued introducing the main character, the eloquent prose continued to paint a picture of a unique world different than our own by using its own distinct dialect, and I felt myself falling in love with the story even though some of those aforementioned tropes were used. Despite their presence, I didn’t feel myself groaning in frustration at reading another regurgitated SJM romantasy.

That is, until the love interest was introduced.

I’m halfway through the book in question, finally getting confirmation my suspicions of the main character’s identity were accurate, and decided to “take a break” for the day. When my husband asked why, I asked myself the same question.

Why was I pausing when I had engrossed myself in that world for hours already? Didn’t I want to know more?

Naturally I do, but I found I wasn’t as eager to return and continue on the character’s journey with them as I usually am. As I dug deeper, that’s when I realised it was because I was frustrated with the book for being too similar to all the other trendy, commercial fantasies out there.

That’s the main problem: we’ve commercialized fantasy. This once sacred and protected genre has become nothing but a product to sell to the masses in digestible, watered-down, portions. This has controlled and manipulated the subjectivity of both those in the industry producing stories for consumption as well as dulled the readers to a litany of the same story dressed up in a myriad of ways in a poor attempt to think we’re writing or reading something new. To me, fantasy and sci-fi were the last two genres which held more significant traces of the literary art form. Instead, it’s become dribble. (Then again, maybe I think to highly of it, especially when fantasy is the modern product of oral tradition and folklore woven and spun through the ages. That would also mean these constant retellings are indeed maintaining that tradition, but as usual, I digress.)

When Throne of Glass published in 2012, it was new. It changed fantasy and brought it more into the mainstream of genres. In the last decade, we’ve seen a market shift towards similar stories. There are those who have benefitted greatly from her success.

Holly Black’s The Cruel Prince was released the same year as the conclusion of that series, which was a huge commercial hit and resulted in a spin-off duology and more. Even though she had written a trilogy in this same universe starting in 2002 and concluding in 2007, it didn’t garner as much widespread acclaim as her new trilogy in Elfhame.

Then there’s the Grishaverse by Leigh Bardugo. Her first book in that series, Shadow and Bone, came out the same year as Throne of Glass. I wouldn’t go so far as to say it was eclipsed, but I think they helped each other sell more books. (Think Harry Potter vs. Peter Jackson.) I would go so far as to speculate whether or not they influenced one another in the years succeeding their stardom as fantasy authors.

Those three are who I think have been the most influential and impactful in the markets based on sales alone. There are, of course, many other series I could name which followed suit, most closely to the Throne of Glass formula.

I think what made Throne of Glass so successful was it represented fantasy from the female gaze, but evoking the same atmosphere, the same gritty epicness, as Game of Thrones, which had aired as a TV show the year before in 2011; though, the books had been on shelves since 1996. She also made her female main character not a typical damsel in distress. Usually for SJM, her damsels cause the distress.

Sarah J. Maas, in a way, reinvented fantasy for women. One could say we owe her a great debt, but what if for a second, putting aside my earlier suggestion that constantly mimicking her creativity, of making Cinderella an assassin, as holding true to the tradition of telling and retelling folklore—we consider the traditions and archetypes she remixed, we instead focus on the hero’s journey and what it represents.

There are archetypes we expect and know to be inherent to fantasy. Joseph Campbell outlines them eloquently in his The Hero with a Thousand Faces. For example, Luke Skywalker is the standard hero (and why The Last Jedi is an atrocity, but I’ll refrain from that rant). Now while I’m no purist in that it must be the same formula every single time, I’m growing bored, now frustrated, with these new imaginative reinventions which try to recreate the archetypes into an evolved, maybe more modern, representation in our main characters. This new trend to have an anti-chosen one, or “reluctant” chosen one, or even an anti-hero has become the norm. It is not longer a trend but a standard, maybe even a subgenre of fantasy.

Unfortunately everything I read these days seems a regurgitation of the same tropes established in Throne of Glass. I wouldn’t go so far as to say all of SJM’s work is the same formula but with different settings and character names since I haven’t read all her books, but I don’t think that’s too inaccurate an assertion. I’m not bashing SJM. She popularized fantasy! What I detest is how when someone comes along and “changes” or “reinvents” a genre, then everyone has to copy the same thing because in this volatile subjective industry—that’s what sells.

Unfortunately, rare if not gone are the tales with a “traditional” hero or heroine, an archetypal chosen one. Few and rare are the magical tales of wonder and hope.

This is why starting Lynn Kurland’s The Nine Kingdoms series last year was so invigorating and refreshing. Those are the types of fantasies I crave and miss and want to see more of, and yet that’s not what is trending, that’s not what sells. (Okay and I’ll admit selfishly, it’s also what I write, and only makes trying to sell a more traditional epic fantasy with romance much more difficult to sell and unattractive to potential agents.)

For me, this whole gritty trend, which I think started widespread after Batman Begins’s global success, has glorified darkness, death, violence, gore, and more. It’s the reason why it’s called “grimdark,” and I’m sick of it. Maybe I watched too much Disney as a kid (or not enough), which was a perfect seedbed for Tolkien’s work. (Then again, though, Tolkien wrote hope in the face of failure. Frodo fails! It’s not necessarily his failure, though—I’m digressing again…)

In contrast, I don’t experience this frustration with any other genres I read, whether mystery or the few romance I’ve added to my shelves. Sure, romance you have to have a Happily Ever After, otherwise what even is the point? Mystery can be a bit more diverse. Weirdly, though, they are even more formulaic than fantasy, and yet I don’t get frustrated. Perhaps it’s because they are predictable and my autistic brain hates this new trend because it doesn’t follow the formula??

I don’t know if these musings have a conclusion or not, other than a heartfelt plea for more authors like Lynn Kurland and Robin McKinley, more traditional fantasies like Tolkien and Lewis and MacDonald. I miss them.

What do you think? Do you share my frustrations? Or are you loving this trend? Tell me what and why in the comments below! Share your thoughts; I’d love to hear them!

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