When I started writing, I was reading Stephen R. Donaldson, Peter S. Beagle, and Tad Williams, after years of immersing myself in science fiction by writers like Arthur C. Clarke (the master of the short story) and Ray Bradbury. We also read The Lord of the Rings around the dinner table when I was a child, so that is perhaps inescapable. When I'm working on a new novel of my own, I rarely read fiction at all—I read history, mythology, anthropology.
What should a good fantasy be? That's a great question. Hmm. I love the depth of Tolkien's Middle Earth, but the heart-felt adventure of Donaldson's Mirror of her Dreams. Right now, I am in awe of Rosemary Kirstein's Steerswoman series (which may be SF after all), and Daniel Abraham's first novel, A Shadow in Summer, which is one of the most original worlds I've wandered through in a long time. He also has a marvelous grasp of resonance, something I'm trying to work on.
Shortly before the first book came out, I went on a family vacation and brought along one of the review copies of the book to show around. At some point, my uncle sat down and started reading it. I found it extremely disconcerting, and couldn't sit in the same room while he was doing so. I realized that having this book out there, in print, meant that anyone could open it up and delve into my imagination, the people I knew so well who had, until now, lived entirely inside of me. I think the effect is worse with relatives because they are not simply reading a book to enjoy or not—but also uncovering something about the author whom they thought they knew. It can be hard to separate the work from its creator, and I wonder now if some of my family are looking at me askance wondering how I could think up these things, or DO those things to those people. What kind of person am I really? And how come they didn't notice until now?
Other readers, of course, know my work before they know me. I'd like to think they are not judging me based on the book, but only judging the book itself (although for certain reviewers, this is clearly not the case. . .) It is still an uneasy feeling, not knowing how my most intimate friends (the ones I created myself) will be received by total strangers, but now I can also share the delight of their lives and discoveries.
More from Elaine is here and here.