Tolkien, in many ways, invented modern high fantasy literature. As an expert in the history of the English language, it was natural for him to create entire languages and cultures for his characters, which has become a high bar for fantasy writers ever since: if you can’t do it as well as Tolkien, then you should think hard about doing it at all.
This is a good thing. The invented languages of Middle Earth are an essential part of its reality, evident for those who read Tolkien’s additional work. But I confess that for me they lead to some slow-going. I am confident I am not the only Tolkien reader who skipped over those multi-page poems, and I’m betting even the most faithful reader is secretly happy they weren’t presented in the original Elvish. Everything should exist to tell the story. Novels allow the luxury of language invention and exposition in a way screenplays do not, but it is primarily a luxury for the writer, rather than the reader, and should be used with caution.
The original draft for LHOSA had many more invented words, as well as passages of exposition, than the final version. I am grateful to Jasmin Kirkbride, my editor, for her skill in pointing out those that should be eliminated, which was most of them. Those that remain, especially the invented words, are there because there are no words for them in English, or because similar words evoke the wrong image.
Tanjium, for example, is a metallic ore that does not exist outside of Lhosa. It is an important enough concept that it requires its own word. There are a couple of words from the Polfre language which are in the text, for the most part to indicate that the Polfre people are unique enough and isolated enough to retain their own language. (I most certainly have not invented an entire Polfre language.)
LHOSA is a coming-of-age story. Ologrin, the protagonist, experiences *formal education fairly early in the story. I labored long over what to call the two schools of learning in the great city of Antola, finally simply accepting “school” as appropriate for one of them. For the other, I tried various forms of college, university, and Latin-sounding derivations before grudgingly giving in to an invented word: Sophenary. At least it has its origin in a real Greek word: sophizesthai, which means “becoming wise.” (It’s interesting that “sophistry” now means to tell false tales, but that’s for another day.)
An equally difficult challenge was eliminating common words which do not belong in the bronze-age world of LHOSA. Their post-apocalyptic culture has not yet re-invented accurate time-keeping, for example, resulting in many re-readings of my manuscript to eliminate where “hours” or “minutes” had slipped in. Similarly, they measure the passing of days based on the periodicity of the small moon they call the Sojourner, which results in a twelve-day span known as a passage. Thus, I had to be careful not to let the word “weeks” slip in.
The downside of using well-known words for most concepts in a fantasy world is the risk of looking lazy. The reader can be forgiven for wondering at the amazing coincidence of finding bison and willow trees and books and castles existing in another world far, far away. But, of course, they are there because using familiar words helps tell the story. And ultimately, the language should be our language because all stories are our stories, even if we inhabit invented words, places, and worlds.
*The concept of even sending my protagonist to school was fraught with plagiaristic issues, as two of the most famous works of fantasy, of course, have to do with their characters at school. Practically everyone alive knows about Harry Potter. But if you have an interest in this genre and haven’t read Patrick Rothfuss’ The Name of the Wind, then your own fantasy education remains incomplete.
LHOSAWORLD 