Announcing Phasmatopia

A name change, and exploring the Dominion of the Immaterial

I.

One of the hardest parts of getting started as a new author has been figuring out where my work could or should fit into the wider culture of fiction.

Much of the available “Fiction Writing 101” advice is built on the assumption that new writers should follow an established path. It’s all about finding authors you admire in a particular genre and aligning yourself with their efforts; you’re supposed to read voraciously in your chosen genre, reverse-engineer the success of established figures, and use tried-and-true methods to develop your own writing.

All well and good. But what if you don’t know which genre you should be pursuing?

When I began taking my writing seriously, I found a local group of fiction authors that offered collaborative critiques. I’d never shared my work publicly before; I was nervous, but I figured that offering my writing up for scrutiny would help build my confidence before I published it. I emailed the organizer and asked about joining.

To my surprise, I was politely informed that my work would not be a good fit for the group. This was a genre fiction group, you see; apparently, something in the way I described my writing tripped some alarm bells. I was diagnosed as being, in fact, a literary fiction writer—and referred to a specialist who was better qualified to help me manage my condition.

So apparently I don’t even know whether my writing is even considered “genre,” let alone what genre it should be.

It’s also possible that the group organizer just clocked me as the insufferable type who would eventually, I don’t know, try to define a whole new genre for my stuff— and decided to save everyone the hassle.

As if I would do a thing like that.

II.

Part of the problem is that most established genres seem overburdened by convention.

I like Weird Fiction, but without the horror; I like the idea of magical realism, but not the implication that magic is a stage prop, a metaphor or an allegory; I liked solarpunk, briefly, before it got hijacked by the Sunshine Brigade¹. There are stacks of books I've enjoyed over the years—but in terms of fiction authors I'd really want to emulate, at this stage in my career, I have a remarkably short list of heroes².

Meanwhile, the writers that inspire me the most these days are not-fiction writers. Folks like Bayo Akomolafe, Dougald Hine , Paul Kingsnorth , Martin Shaw, Tyson Yunkaporta, Rhyd Wildermuth —and, most recently, Caroline Ross —frequently draw from a mythic perspective to write about where we find ourselves in everyday reality. And that's without even getting into the corpus of occultism and the paranormal; regardless of whether that belongs on the nonfiction shelf, it's great inspiration for writing stories.

Which leaves me a bit adrift as far as where my writing fits in—at least according to conventional wisdom.

III.

When I first started thinking about rebranding my SubStack, one of the first things that popped into my head was the word “phasma.” It’s an archaic word: in English, it shows up as the root word in “phasmaphobia³"(fear of ghosts) and some insect names; it’s also a great-grandparent of “phantom,” “fantasy,” and their derivatives.

So I knew it was ghost-adjacent, and it seemed like something I could use for poetic effect as I tried to come up with a new name.

Then I started doing some research.

Turns out, it originates from a much more interesting concept in Ancient Greece—something that goes beyond what we think of as ghosts.

Phasmata is a bit of a mystery word: according to the research⁴, there aren't many primary sources that explicitly define it. But phasmata are found throughout the Greek histories: in descriptions of celestial objects, prophecy, dreams, and divine messengers, as well as the more familiar spirits of dead humans—plus some paranormal stuff that defies easy classification⁵.

Phasmata are usually a form of benevolent supernatural intervention: it wasn’t always clear what was doing the intervening, or why, but the outcome was generally helpful. Most importantly, it seems to retain a sense of mystery. Sometimes weird stuff just happens. If there is no conventional explanation—no evidence of gods or sorcery—and the outcome is benign, phasmata could be invoked. It also carries an element of (literal or metaphorical) illumination. Phasmata sometimes produce visible light; they can also provide people with important information or dramatic realizations.

So in addition to our common understanding of ghosts, the word refers to manifestations of the uncanny—supernatural or paranormal phenomena, traversing our reality in a way that is extraordinary without being horrifying, often (but not always) for the betterment of the people who encounter them.

A perfect description of the stories I’m interested in telling, in other words.

IV.

Topia is a too-familiar word by now. Our cultural discourse is full of dystopias and utopias. It’s become associated with “paradise,” except when it’s explicitly dysfunctional. The original Greek word literally referred to an artistic representation of a landscape; if you go back far enough, it has its roots in both the physical earth of a place—and also, more significantly, as an administrative position.

I’ve got an upcoming essay about the various topias in fiction. As a preview of that—you can’t have a topia without some form of deliberate governance over an area. It doesn’t make sense etymologically or colloquially. If it’s a topia, somebody’s in charge somewhere, maintaining the borders. It’s a very human word, because humans are usually the ones that need to divide and separate one place from another, and then fight over who’s in charge.

Usually.

V.

Phasmatopia, then, becomes a container for a wide range of different concepts.

There’s some useful tension in combining an explicitly non-human term (phasma-) with the unavoidably anthropocentric -topia: it’s a place where the rules are governed by non-human minds, where the familiar levers of control are hidden. It makes me think of something more diverse and more populated than a squishy term like “spirit world.”

It’s much more immediate too: phasmatopia begins where the boundaries of human control end. Not just in some parallel dimension or imaginal space where we don’t have to worry about it, but potentially just on the other side of The Wall, just beyond the palings we’ve staked down to mark our own turf. Out where the things we take for granted in our world—time, space, light—start to play tricks on us. Sometimes, it’s not as far away as we might like. Sometimes those borders get blurred.

Maybe it’s not useful for anybody except me. But it feels like a place I want to explore. And until I need to start using commercial labels for my stories—using genre conventions to make things more marketable—I’ll be writing phasmatopian fiction.

1. Lord, but I will have some things to write about solarpunk one of these days.

2. Alan Moore and China Mieville. And they are not the kind of authors you just decide to be like. Assuming I could even find the right crossroads demon to grant me those dark powers in exchange for my soul—well, I’ve got a family now, so it’s probably too late.

3. There’s also a video game of the same name, which looks super fun.

4. Dr. Flaminia Beneventano della Corte seems to have done most of the serious work on this subject.

5. There are two separate accounts in the histories of a spectral phallus showing up in people’s hearths. Apparently, the homeowners had to consult a specialist about what to do with this particular phasmata, and the prescription was… well. It turns into an Edgar Wright comedy, if you really imagine the scene:

“Hello, madam. Thank you for coming in. We’ve got the results back about the, ah, phenomena in your home-”

“You mean the ghost cock in the fireplace?”

“Well, actually, we usually prefer the term phasmata…”

“I just calls ‘em cocks.”

“Yes, but—”

“S’what me gran always called ‘em.”

“Indeed. Well, we’ve consulted the literature, and our professional recommendation is that you… well, that you, ahem, get to know the phasmata.”

“You want me to make it some tea and have a chat, then?”

“Well. Not exactly. Our research suggests that the best course of action would be to… to get to know it.”

“Eh?”

“Yes. Put on your wedding dress, perhaps, and close the door, draw the curtains, and... you know.”

“You want me to fuck the ghost cock.”

“Ah. Hm. Well. You see. In several cases, women in… similar circumstances have subsequently given birth to miraculous children, with extraordinary abilities, who-”

“Pah. As if I hadn’t heard that one a hundred times before. Not fallin’ for it again, just because this one’s glowing.”