Tag: writing

Using Science in Worldbuilding: Sand, Silica, and Surfing Jinn

Published on by Leigh

When I first started imagining the jinn realms, I didn’t want to lean purely on folklore because if jinn were around in the time of Alexander the Great (as they were), then surely they would have evolved just as much as the human world did, right?

I love legend as much as the next fantasy writer, but I also love grounding my magic in something that feels like it could be real if the stars aligned, and well, magic really was running rampant. Enter science – the salvation and bane of my existence.  

So – trick question – what’s abundant in the regions traditionally associated with jinn?
Sand.
Endless, shimmering, heat-blasted sand.  And camels, but more on those in a later post.

Sand means silica, and silica has hi-tech potential. Years ago, I saw this video, and sometimes a spark of inspiration isn’t recognized as such until SUDDENLY IT IS!  I had the seed of a civilization whose technology wasn’t based on metal or electricity, but on heat-shaped glass, crystalline structures, and silica-based energy systems. A world built from the very substance that humans have access to as well, but the jinn are way ahead of us.  I wanted the world to feel familiar and possible, and glass gives me that.

The next question was: Keep the flying carpets?

Of course, when you’re drawing inspiration from a region filled with deep folklore, you bump into those classic motifs:  Flying carpets. Bottled spirits. Mischievous wish-granters.  I’ve already accounted for the last two, but those carpets were a hurdle…because some legends slide naturally into a fantasy world and others…can feel trite.

But that’s what fantasy writers do.  We make those hard decisions:  Keep what readers expect, or let it go if it doesn’t serve the story?

Flying carpets have a certain charm — portable, whimsical, and instantly recognizable. But in a silica-tech world? Did they fit? Would they feel too easy?  Too literal?

Then I realized something that Pops has told Ari dozens of times:

Stories don’t appear out of nowhere. They’re rooted in some real observation, however distorted.

Which got me wondering…

What If the Flying Carpet Myth Started With the Jinn Themselves?

Maybe humans glimpsed something extraordinary and explained it the best way they could.

A distant shimmer.
A figure gliding over the desert.
The mirage-like wave of dunes moving under something that shouldn’t have been able to move that way.

“Flying carpet,” they might have said, because what else is flexible enough to float and glide over terrain?

But what if they weren’t flying?
What if they were surfing?

Not on water, but on sand.  Using what was available because of their magic and affinity with fire?

Suddenly, the origin of the flying carpet makes perfect sense (if you can get over that whole magic thing – which I have no problem doing).  Remember – magic was once the default answer for anything that didn’t make sense!

Humans saw a silhouette moving across dunes fast and smooth enough to defy belief. Imaginations did what imaginations do – related it to something familiar (carpet) and then it got a little magical glow up – poof! – genies on flying carpets!

Science + Myth = My Favorite Kind of Magic

At the end of the day, that’s the sweet spot for me in worldbuilding: the place where science deepens myth rather than replaces it – and somehow makes everything seem possible.

It’s also pretty cool that I can make surfing jinn a thing.

Meet the Muse…

Published on by Leigh

Interview With My Muse: The Woman Who Hijacks My YouTube History

Interviewer (Me): Thank you for agreeing to this interview. You’ve been lurking in my creative process for… what, several years now?

Muse: Decades, darling. I’ve been around longer than your browser history. You simply didn’t notice me until you started researching where that pesky sword could have gone to. Now, you’re looking for entire armies! You’ve certainly branched out.

Interviewer: Yes, about that. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about the way you hijack my YouTube recommendations lately. Last week you sent me from “10-Minute Yoga for Tight Shoulders” to a three-hour documentary the lost army of Cambyses.

Muse: And you’re welcome. The shoulder tension was emotional. Your protagonist needed to get grounded in the myths. If you don’t know where they start, how can you possibly track them through all of those shifting dunes?

Interviewer: You also interrupted my grocery shopping to insist I watch that Egyptian Magic lecture in the parking lot.

Muse: You didn’t even remember to bring a grocery list, so you were just begging for an excuse. Besides, you only really need bananas and coffee, and you can’t expect inspiration to wait for wi-fi.

Interviewer: Since my readers haven’t met you yet, how would you describe yourself?

Muse: Oh, I do hate labels, but for you, darling, I’ll try. I’m the kind of person who always smells faintly of sandalwood and old books. I take my cues from the world at large, sampling all of the history and characters that have walked the timelines, never ruling out an interesting conversation with anyone who happens by. You never know when you’ll stumble on a bored coyote looking for a new partner and an adventure.

Interviewer: That… is scary accurate. How did you get assigned to me?

Muse: Assigned? Darling, I chose you. I saw someone who loves history, mythology, and pretending they’re “just going to skim one article.” You were ripe for a different path, and it worked – but you did take your time making the commitment, didn’t you?

Interviewer: I had obligations. What would you say is your main job?

Muse: To nudge you. To whisper. To drag you by the sleeve into the deep end of research when you thought you were just checking your email. To point out the archaeological footnote you almost ignored. To insist that you write stories with bones in them; stories rooted in real people who lived and dreamed long before you found their memories.

Interviewer: I’ve noticed you usually work at inconvenient hours.

Muse: Inspiration is a feral creature; it does not obey office hours – and you should be one to talk! The neighbors are talking darling, they see your lights on at four a.m..

Interviewer: Do you ever think about giving me a heads-up before you strike?

Muse: Absolutely not. Where’s the fun in that? Besides, your best ideas arrive when you’re trying to do something sensible and ordinary, like sleep.

Interviewer: One last question: any message for my readers?

Muse: Treat history like a mirror, mythology like a map, and your imagination like a half-wild garden – don’t weed it too soon because something interesting might bloom. And if your YouTube history suddenly develops an obsession with ancient irrigation systems…
(smiles)
…you’re welcome.

Snarky Markety

Published on by Leigh

I know I need to market. But marketing for indie authors like me is a life of keywords, spreadsheets, and acronyms like CTR and CCP – and that just makes my brain hurt. I try. Really.

But I spend a day analyzing, creating, posting – and PAYING – and then all I’ve done is create MORE work for myself because the following week, I get to “look at the data” and do it all over again. A day of marketing is not only unpleasant for me, but it sucks time out of my writing. Let me tell you about my marketing journey and why I’m choosing NOT to market at this point (much to the detriment of my bottom line).

When I started this full-time writing career, I had visions of working for myself, publishing on a regular basis – and once Shattered Magic was out in the world, I turned my attention to my biggest failure – marketing.

I’m terrible at it. I’ve tried TikTok and Pinterest, I run ads, and I’m pretty reliable at posting on Instagram – but all that time is a swing and a miss in terms of moving books. When I sit down to look at the data, I feel like a total failure—and that mindset affects my productivity as a writer.

So when I made the switch to authorhood, I found someone whose work in book marketing I respect and admire – someone I love to watch and whose advice I trust – and I signed up for a course. I worked that course to the best of my ability – but as much as I loved the creator, I just couldn’t get excited – so I plodded through lessons and homework and webinars for a full 30 days and guess what happened to my next book?

Nothing.

And by nothing I mean I didn’t write a single sentence in 30 days. I just couldn’t. I was so frazzled and beat down by the marketing stuff that I had zero left to give my books.

That 30 days cost me 90 days of writing because I was so discouraged and defeated I had zero joy left for my craft.

Zero, people!

But the stress-quotient was off the charts! My writing space became a place I actively avoided, rather than a place I ran to for refuge.

I could tell because my desk was obsessively clean. Things were filed. Things were labeled. My fancy gold binder clips sparkled while keeping my marketing plan, task lists, and keyword notes all neatly contained. And my computer folders were labeled with spreadsheets, comp authors, and data, data, data.

The clean desk was a sign I was in deep trouble.

It was not the course creator’s fault. That person is amazing. It is a matter of temperament – MY temperament.

A temperament that was cultivated over years of doing exactly that sort of data-driven, spreadsheet-based work in an entirely different profession. A profession I left to write books.

So, I dropped the course. Then I did 60 days of “marketing detox” and realized something: I can spend days writing ad copy and get ZERO joy, or I can spend days writing new adventures. If they sell – great – but I’m not going to sell anything if I can’t write – and if marketing kills writing then I need to banish marketing.

Maybe this will change, but for now, my goal is words on a page. Not ads in a folder – and my binder clips? Safely stored in my desk where they can’t trigger me.