The Beauty of Sub-Creation
"We make still by the law in which we're made."
Over a month ago, the professional meme lord “Jokien with Tolkien” wrote a piece called “Wounds That Cannot Be Wholly Cured.” In this post, he explained that revisiting the end of J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Return of the King1 helped him to work through his own battles with grief. In his subscriber chat, “Jokien” asked his followers to give examples of what has helped them through their own personal grieving processes. While there were plenty of heartfelt and honest answers given, it reminded me that what has helped me most over the course of my life–not with grief only, but in many trials and despairs–was one simple thing: creating new worlds.
For me, writing interesting and fantastical stories where characters develop through tragedy or conquer their own crises of faith (or often both at once) has been paramount in dealing with my own. There’s something about a good story that can cure many things, and ever since writing about storytelling as education, it felt prudent to iron out what it means to sub-create worlds and why we do it.
Besides the compulsion to tell stories, when we build worlds of our own (regardless of whether they look like our world or not), we infuse parts of ourselves and our own histories into them. Sometimes we do this consciously, though other times unconsciously.
When developing the character of Tom Bombadil, most famous for his appearances in The Fellowship of the Ring, Tolkien was initially inspired by a Dutch doll that belonged to his son, Michael. This figure was brightly dressed and sported a feather in his cap in the same vein as the legendary Middle-Earthen figure, and always stood out to the author. Eventually, the character took on a life of his own, developing characteristics from other mythological figures and legends–possibly even from Christ Himself, the True Myth.
This is the beauty of sub-creation. We begin with an initial idea, a spark that ignites an entire character's history, appearance, and voice, and we follow that flame wherever it leads. Along the way, we’re influenced by everything from the people we meet to the circumstances of our life. We take in each conversation, each setting, and whatever podcast we’re currently listening to,2 only to mold it all into something unique. Something that stands on its own.
In penning my first feature screenplay, a contemporary Western titled Bright Morning Star3, the lead character actively wrestles between his desire to leave home and his familial obligations to stay. These were very real struggles of mine growing up, struggles I worked through again a few years back upon leaving Montana for Los Angeles. Despite some similarities, he was vastly different from me in others. He worked daily with his hands, he had no specific career path in mind, and he certainly wasn’t bred the same way.
Additionally, this character’s father warred through trials that better related to my own, playing upon my darkest fears about myself, my life, and my future. Despite writing this character before I was a married man or a father, he is one I often revisit when meditating on those same fears now. As this character swam through piles of grief, despair, and hopelessness, he came out of it a better man. Though his circumstances don’t necessarily change, how he operates despite them does.
As sub-creators, we strive to entertain, to educate, and to challenge. Stories don’t have to be simple or mindless (though simplicity in storytelling isn’t exactly a bad thing), and they don’t have to be filled with political agendas or corporate interests either. Most good storytellers have something to say about the world, and as George Orwell once said, just about every piece of literature is propaganda about something.
Nevertheless, as created beings made in the image of our Creator, we too naturally strive to create. There are so many ways of creating, of course, some for good and others for evil. Frankenstein and Jurassic Park detail men who decided to “play God” in unnatural ways, resulting in unnecessary deaths and destruction. Likewise, the Terminator franchise warns of a bleak future devastated by mankind’s hubris, something that feels all the more real nowadays with the advent of artificial intelligence.4
And let's not forget about all the things we invent to kill one another.
Contrary to the above examples, we also paint, sculpt, and sketch. We build and we craft, and we often do so in our own likeness.5 We make children, which the Bible accurately states are gifts from above. I’d be lying if I said that I wasn’t overjoyed that the Little Miss is something of a mini-version–a combination rather–of her mother and me. There's something magical about making another human being who looks just like you. In a way, it's a mirror (or more accurately a shadow) of what our Creator did back in Genesis 1-2.
But the second most obvious way we create outside of conception is through storytelling, which itself is often a long process. Sometimes even longer than childbirth–though nowhere near as painful.
By sub-creating worlds (deemed “worldbuilding” in today’s vernacular), we dream up entire solar systems, fantasy lands, and alien dimensions exactly as we imagine them. Characters are often constructed in our image, with the sum of our previous knowledge and experiences compounded into something new and distinct. Even when the characters don’t necessarily mirror our actual selves, they still represent a certain point of view we hold about our world–or, when it comes to antagonists, the antithesis of said worldview.
If we’re fortunate, our sub-creations may even affect the “primary” creation of our own world.
This is precisely what “Jokien” was getting at when he referenced Tolkien’s influence on his personal grieving process. What Frodo and the Fellowship went through upon the destruction of the One Ring and their return to the Shire helped him to overcome his own real-world circumstances. While stories exist as powerful motivators and bridge-ways for intellectual curiosity (not to mention emotional catharsis), their true beauty lies in reflecting reality and how they might help inform it.
This is why knowing what sorts of stories you’re consuming is so important. If you are not careful, bad stories may end up influencing your worldview.
"The story-maker proves a successful 'sub-creator'. He makes a Secondary World which your mind can enter. Inside it, what he relates is 'true': it accords with the laws of that world." - J.R.R. Tolkien, On Fairy-Stories
Worldbuilding is no simple task. It takes a vivid imagination and hours (sometimes years) of your time. Often, when developing story ideas, screenplays, or short stories, I find myself shifting in and out of daydreams, usually passively over the span of a few days, weeks, or months. All before ever writing a single word. This, combined with loads of research, helps me to develop a feel for whatever story I end up telling.
To sub-create, you must first see the story you’re building in your mind’s eye, which–until it’s written on the page or brought to life–will be the only way in which you can visit your newly minted world.
There’s a sort of beauty in creating a world that only you can see, that exists just between you and God; there’s something very personal in that. But, just as the Lord above spoke the universe into existence in front of a heavenly host of witnesses,6 so we too must eventually share our sub-creations with the world. While we aren't perfect creators, and it's unlikely that our praises will be unanimously sung (we should hope they wouldn't be), those of us who are writers would do well not to hide our work from the world. We never know how our words can impact another.
In His time on Earth, Jesus spent many days telling stories. In fact, just about every time He preached a sermon in the streets or on the hillside, He reinforced the same lessons through parables. Think about the Prodigal Son, the Parable of the Tenants, and the story of the Good Samaritan. Even the story of Lazarus and the Rich Man–which many believe was a true, historical event–echoes Christ’s earlier warnings to the Pharisees.
To think that the Creator of the world inserted Himself into His own creation, only to continually sub-create is a magnificent thing indeed.7 How much more so should we use stories to share similar truths? To meditate on what is good, lovely, pure, and holy. In an age where Hollywood is the apparent arbiter of moral authority simply because they’re the ones telling all the stories, the Church is drastically dropping the ball.
There are fewer characters in the entire Bible who perfectly represent the love of God more than the Father of the Prodigal Son. He’s kind, he’s loving, he doesn’t force himself on his children, and he willingly welcomes his lost son back into the fold. He isn’t afraid to lovingly correct his firstborn, and he is actively grieved when his younger son walks away. It’s as if Jesus uses His own experience with the Father, His own co-eternal relationship, as the basis for this character. The sub-creation accurately reflects the Creator.
No wonder the parable is among the most famous of all Bible stories. No wonder it has withstood the test of time and remains relevant regardless of location, culture, or creed.
As storytellers, we strive to tell similar stories. Not necessarily in content, but in longevity. In impact. We too hope to sub-create a world as influential and as inspiring as the words Jesus spoke 2,000 years ago, and though our words will always pale in comparison, we can still honor Him through imitation. After all, that’s all Christian means: “little Christ.”
This Week’s Petty Picks
Nefarious is a demonic thriller that just came out this past week, and it’s a doozy. Sort of a mix of The Silence of the Lambs, Denzel Washington’s Fallen, and C.S. Lewis’s The Screwtape Letters, it’s a contemporary look at the tactics of demons. If I could’ve seen it twice, I would have.
Truthfully, the film isn’t terribly frightening, though it is compelling. Sean Patrick Flanery kills it as the titular character, providing a remarkably philosophical look at demon possession. No, this one is nothing like The Exorcist, but it’ll leave you with enough mental thrills and chills anyhow.
Not the Peter Jackson films specifically, but the actual novel. Here he notes the “Scourge of the Shire” and the other differences between Tolkien’s original story and its adaptations.
Over a year ago, I began work on a television pilot script called American Spiritual, which was inspired by episodes of podcasts like Blurry Creatures, Cultish, and The Sword & Staff. The topics, the ideas, and the possibilities that these different shows brought up all challenged me on a spiritual level. This compelled me to write a fictional tale of a small Illinois town plagued by darkness. I’m still working hard on developing this one, but it’s been at the forefront of my mind since the Fall of 2021.
If any of my screenplays or teleplays were to be produced and made, I would want it to be Bright Morning Star. It’s immensely personal to me, and it’s arguably my most favorite thing I’ve ever written. An adaptation of the Parable of the Husbandmen (or the Parable of the Tenants in most modern Bible translations), it touches on issues of faith, family, vengeance, abuse, forgiveness, and the importance of names. If you’re interested in reading it, shoot me a message!
Are you a Terminator fan? Since I apparently can’t waste the shameless plug, check out No Fate: A Terminator Podcast, hosted by yours truly and my best buddy Tanner. On the show, we cover all the movies, the television show, and all the Terminator theories and mythology you can handle.
Not talking about A.I. here. I’m not convinced that A.I. is an inherently good thing. I’m talking more about characters, art pieces, sculptures, etc. rather than other “species” made by our hand.
Job 38:4-7 speaks of this when it says…
“Where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth?
Tell me, if you have understanding.
Who determined its measurements—surely you know!
Or who stretched the line upon it?
On what were its bases sunk,
or who laid its cornerstone,
when the morning stars sang together
and all the sons of God shouted for joy?”
Sure, Jesus told parables in order to covertly hide things from the religious leaders, whose hearts had become calloused, but He also told these tales as a way to help the reader (or listener) understand the points He was making. Just as King David needed to hear the prophet Nathan’s story to come to repentance, so do some of us need to hear Jesus’ parables or the testimonies of others to come to faith.