Worldbuilding in Revision: Part 2
Do Witches have Daddy Issues?
Last time, I talked about consistency and consequence in worldbuilding and how that can be more important than historical accuracy, especially if the atmosphere of your piece supports a version of reality that is cooler, funnier, sexier, or simply more… more than reality. I also promised tips and techniques to help keep your worldbuilding consistent as you revise. Let me start, as I like to do, with a case study from my world of Tovar.
A Case Study from Tovar
For years, when someone would give the standard advice about limiting magic systems, I’d throw a temper tantrum and pout because I live for wild and irrational magic. I am sometimes embarrassed that it took me until grad school, when I’d already gotten two novels published and written countless others, to finally permit myself to have a magic system that utterly overwhelmed the world. Luckily, it was around that time that I got to take N.K. Jemisin’s course and I began to build myself a matriarchal magical meritocracy. Before I wrote my draft, I knew:
Magical powers are a natural talent that can be refined as a learned skill (mother to daughter, apprentice-style, or in later eras, in a school)
Young witches join covens as Maidens/workers, later, after bearing a child, Mothers are considered more capable of managing things and take on more leadership, and Crones form a council to judge, advise, and lead.
A witch can be a member of many covens (like serving on a board), but she had certain loyalties and duties to each, and her mother's coven or family coven will always take priority.
Merit is, of course, the power of your magic (augmented by the connections of your coven and the wealth and popularity of your family).
Lane described this initial story as “Sex and the City with witches”, but very quickly this light-hearted story grew teeth as I filled in my outline draft and discovered more of my world.
Covens valued certain types of magic. Talent/natural magic is superior to learned magic (spells, potions, etc). Certain types of magic are considered impure and uncoven-like (prophecy, transformation, and healing).
Men are not welcome in the coven system and are not allowed to practice magic. Inheritance would pass through the daughter, so sons are disposable warriors, farmers, and child caretakers.
Childbirth became political once becoming a mother granted more power and privilege. Powerful, beautiful, and fertile daughters reflect well on their mother and lead to higher connections within her coven. Sons become commodities useful for their skills and sex appeal.
Since like all my worlds bi-sexuality is the norm, beautiful sons and daughters are both lures to attract younger witches to be allies and apprentices.
Magical manipulation impacts childbirth. Other witches hex or curse a powerful maiden to prevent her from conceiving. Children's magical potential and sex are tested in the womb. Potions can either suppress magic or strengthen it to reinforce the norms of society.
If a woman is from a long-standing family coven, there is incredible pressure on her to have a magical daughter, but a long lineage of witchcraft means some girls are born too magical to live and die shortly after being born.
All of this emerged because I needed the world to torture a particular boy in a very specific way—and the logic rippled outward. These new facts informed other stories in the book, then shaped other books in the world. Structurally and plot-wise, Tovar suddenly offered really intriguing challenges to all sorts of people: a boy born with magic, a girl born without magic, a witch who lived outside of the coven system, etc.
New family dynamics started to emerge. For example, I realized some city witches might have pretty drastic age gaps between their first and second-born children as mothers pressure their daughters to have children while they were very young to launch them into the next stage of their careers. Likely, a combination of prophecy and potion would make sure these ‘throw-away’ children were boys, then about ten years later, once the witch was properly established she could find herself a nice handsome younger man and start her real family, bear her magic daughter, and her son would raise his little sister who would, of course, inherit the property. In no way can this system lead to abuse, since all mothers love their children.
I followed that logic to other family dynamics, as well. Imagine a daughter born without magic who is then trained to be a martial protector or an accountant, but never really introduced at parties because she doesn’t matter as much as the ones who cast spells. Or the witch's daughter who refuses to have a child because she fears her mother’s ambitions, or one who falls in love and becomes pregnant without checking the runes, and now is terrified because what if it’s a magic boy? I invented the Motherless Coven, which is run by crones and exists entirely to protect young witches from their abusive mothers. Another called Daughters of Gaia operates much more like a social club, where members are fashionably dressed, wealthy ladies running charity drives and giving away magical miracles to impress each other.
On a sentence level, my worldbuilding choices also impact my descriptions and word choice as I revise. For example, if I have a young witch riding her broom at the edge of the wilderness, I might instinctively write her as being afraid when she encounters a grizzled old man in the wilderness because I live in our world. But when I view that encounter in the world of Tovar, I need to realize the threat doesn’t come from men. Power in Tovar is tied to magic. She isn’t going to be afraid of a man. In fact, her initial descriptions of him will likely remark on how handsome he must have been in his prime, or how unsafe it is for such a man to be alone. If she asks if he needs help, the man might be afraid of her.
All this to say, follow your worldbuilding to the full consequence and then apply that consistently.
Tips for Revising Your World
1. Track the Weird Stuff
Make a living document of your world’s oddities. This not only reminds you of spelling and definitions, but keeps these inspired elements at the forefront of your mind. Know for yourself how your world departs from our world. Don’t get hung up on formatting particulars.
These might be two documents. I’ve been known to have a Word doc that contains the world bible with things like N.G. Gate (obviously different from ngGate) in addition to post-its on my desk with a reminder like SET UNDERGROUND! NO SKY! NO STARS!
There’s no shame in building out expansive notes on your world, and there are lots of online tools to help with that. WorldAnvil is pretty cool, and I, the queen nerd, have lots of stuff on Airtable and other spreadsheets.
This can also be fun. I have notes on my world in character from the POVs of in-world scholars who are characters in various books
Sometime before your next rewrite for the draft, take a moment to think about what makes your world weird (or uniquely you if you prefer).
Write down a list of elements to highlight.
The flavors of the world.
Unique terms.
Setting flair (high gothic sci-fi set in Neo Belgium), narrative atmosphere (cynical/sensual), or even dialogue style (witty/fast-paced).
Important dates and facts
Even irrelevant dates and facts (that tickle your fancy and keep you in the right mindset)
DARK WARNING.
DO NOT use Worldbuilding as a tool for procrastination. Worldbuilding is not writing. It’s ideating, it’s fun, and it’s wonderful. But it doesn’t count towards writing time.
2. Write and Follow Your Own Rules (Break Them Judiciously)
Nothing is more exciting than seeing a new story that uses the three laws of robotics. Isaac Asimov’s three little rules have offered so much narrative drama, play, and interpretation because you never know how someone is going to follow them in a new way. I’ve seen a few tales where the “laws” were ambiguous, and it was delicious.
So I’m a big fan of setting up clear rules and then playing with them, especially with magic systems.
Tell me something is not possible. Let me see the character struggling, fighting, and barely pushing past what can be done. Having them break free of your constraints is just *chef’s kiss.*
Since you’ve written your draft, you should know the rules of your world. Still, before you get going, instead of asking “what is allowed,” try rather “what is not allowed.”
From here, follow the logic. What are the consequences of these rules? Can you tweak things to make them more extreme? How might they be interpreted by someone more intense? Someone who is more legalistic? Someone cruel, greedy, lazy, opportunistic? Alternatively, how might someone break these rules in the world for the same reasons?
3. Be Consistently Inconsistent
When it comes to plot and what happens next, the author should generally know what happened and what is real.
And for the important stuff, so should the audience and the characters.
For the important stuff.
I love it in fiction when the characters don’t agree about history, current politics, or known science/magic/ etc. I’ve never met two people who agreed on anything. Full stop. I don’t know why any characters in fiction ever know who won the fight, or how magic works, if this god operates in this particular way, or why.
Obviously, the audience needs to know when the hero hits the doohickey that the thingamajig is going to zap and the giant evil ball of doom will explode, and everyone will be saved. But whether that’s because of The Force or the Deep Magic is up for the bearded old guys and whoever cares about the technical terms to debate.
4. Clean Up Your Timelines
If you’re writing historical fiction, double-check your dates for every piece of technology you name-drop. If being called out on that kind of thing matters to you. It would drive me crazy if I did the kind of research required to write that sort of book and was right, but not all the way right (like the thing existed but hadn’t gotten to that part of the world yet).
I, on the other hand, tend to obsess over seasons and days of the week in my fantasy and sci-fi. Long-time readers will note the many seasonal and week-based stories. It’s kinda my thing. So I do make calendars and timelines for my individual stories, and I highly recommend making notes that include the age, the years, and how long ago it was from the main event of the story to avoid traumatizing yourself by having to do math while referencing it while rriting. For example:
1985: Jeff 5 Bob 0: 40 years ago. Jeff’s house burns down, and he moves in with his grandmother next to Bob’s parents.
1990: Jeff 10 Bob 5: 35 years ago. Bob’s earliest memory of Jeff punching Sid’s (15) nose when Sid poured sand on Bob’s head and called him a girl. Bob feels a strange, intense love watching Jeff’s violent defence of him.
Final Note:
Worldbuilding doesn’t end after the first draft—it just starts suggesting sequels, prequels, and new books. What details need to ripple outward to continue fleshing out the world? What truths need to anchor this story? Who has the power, and who’s quietly terrified of a girl on a broom?
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