If you’ve hung around here for any length of time, you know I tend to talk a lot about “archetypal” and “mythic” fiction. But what do those words really even mean—and why are they important? And why might we want to learn how to write mythic fiction?
Many contemporary writers are interested in writing mythic fiction. Partly this is because we associate the idea with a transformative resonance that feels powerful and important. “Mythic fiction” can often seem like “fiction for people who want to write something important” (and don’t we all at some level?). But I feel like there can be a sort of fogginess around what exactly defines mythic fiction.
How Modern Writers Understand Mythic Fiction and Archetypal Storytelling
In many ways, mythic fiction is more popular than ever. Even as the Hero’s Journey has arguably lost some of the obsessive luster from decades past, storytellers and audiences alike are more entranced than ever by myth, fairy tale, cultural symbolism, and psychological archetypes. Yet in some ways, I feel like we’re also in a time in which we have somewhat lost touch with the underlying touchstones of why these forms are meaningful.
For the most part, we understand the idea of mythic fiction through a few specific lenses. On the one hand, we might think of the old stories—fairy and folk tales (e.g., Beauty and the Beast, Bluebeard’s Wives, the Girl With No Hands, Vasilisa the Beautiful, etc.) or mythological stories that largely arose from interpretations of the supernatural (e.g., Kronos and the Titans; Isis, Osiris, and Horus; Eros, Psyche, and Aphrodite; Thor and Odin, etc.).
We also experience all these stories through the more anthropological perspective found in the works of Joseph Campbell, Clarissa Pinkola Estes, and others like them—who not only collected the old stories, but studied their underlying similarities, patterns, and symbolic messages.
From here, we might also think of the influence of archetypal psychological approaches, such as Carl Jung’s, in which the symbolism becomes increasingly internalized. These explorations are what gave birth to the fascination for modernizing such (arguably) ancient forms as the Hero’s Journey.
Increasingly, contemporary storytellers and audiences also understand myth and archetype specifically through popular culture’s reinterpreation of these myths and their underlying structures—most famously with Star Wars, but since then through an ever-increasing number of stories that seek to understand and tap the deep power and resonance of these old storyforms.
Sometimes these stories explicitly re-tell or call out their mythic inspiration, as in retellings of such ancient stories as Hades and Persephone (always popular in romance) or Perseus (e.g., the perennially popular modernized tale of Percy Jackson). The trope has become so widespread that it is not uncommon for such “mythic” stories to actually have very little to do with the deeper symbolism of the original stories and characters.
I would not automatically categorize these retellings of the old myths as inherently mythic. Truly “mythic” fiction is more than just the cosplay of ancient characters. Indeed, I would argue that many of our most powerful modern myths are entirely original. They’re new and generative and speak to and from the equally mysterious workings of our contemporary subconscious.
The Difference Between Studying Myth and Writing Mythic Fiction
As modern storytellers, whatever our genre, we are often on the hunt for the symbolism and beats of mythic structure. We are fascinated by the old stories, not least because they seem to hold mysteries that our modern minds don’t quite know how to solve. We can’t look away from the wyrd stories of our ancestors—from that thin and mysterious line between their histories and fantasies.
However, my view is that truly mythic fiction is never simply a retelling of the old stories (although this doesn’t mean retellings can’t be mythic).
Here’s one of the dichotomies of myth: through the very muzziness of their symbolic language, myth and archetype point to deeper and more objective truths. And yet (to whatever degree you agree with this), we have to acknowledge that what we now recognize as “ancient stories” are subject en masse to the phenomenon known as reconsolidation of memory.
Basically: every time a memory is accessed—or an old story is retold—slight alterations are made that can slowly change both the text and the subtext over time.
Even in cases in which we have original documents of old stories (which is rare, not least because so many originated in oral traditions), our own ongoing experiences and interactions with these stories and symbols alter not just our own perception of them, but, on a larger scale, cultural perception as well.
On the one hand, this is actually part of the secret power of myth—its ability to evolve and become utterly personal to each individual.
On another hand, however, this constant re-editing of our shared cultural stories (like a Google doc we open over and over again) means that the living power of the old myths can grow a bit thin. Or, rather, our connection to that power can grow thin—not least because we can often seek to over-intellectualize the stories and their symbolism.
Ironically, writers above all (*raises hand*) can desire to crack their code—to decode their plot structure and their character archetypes—so we can chain that old lightning in our own new stories.
The path to writing truly mythic fiction, as contemporary authors, is not in copying what our ancestors gave us, but rather in learning to tap our own mythic interior so that we may create our own myths for our own times.
Borrowing Mythic Symbols vs. Accessing the Source of Symbol-Making
There is tremendous value in studying, appreciating, and internalizing the symbolic wisdom passed down to us. We recognize these stories and tales as mythic precisely because there is something that sets them apart from “mundane” stories. Even when we do not consciously understand them, their wisdom and weirdness still speak to us from across the eons. That said, there’s a difference between borrowing the old myths and the old symbolism from our ancestors (and sometimes from other people’s ancestors) versus going deeper to access our own personal relationship to the raw and wild power of symbolism and story.
Here’s the thing: in many ways, none of the actual stories or characters matter. We don’t create mythic fiction by mimicking the specificities of these stories or even, necessarily, by mimicking the beats of their plot structure.
What is it we actually resonate with when we encounter a story (whether ancient or modern) that we instinctively recognize as mythic? Is it the precise use of the pomegranate or the Underworld in the tales of Persephone and Hades? Or is that moment of frisson when something inside of us lights up—when we make contact with an understanding that our symbolic mind recognizes even before our conscious mind can grasp it?
As contemporary writers seeking how to write mythic fiction, I would propose what we’re truly seeking is not simply familiar symbols, but access to that place within ourselves that is, of itself, symbol–making.
However valuable and wonderful the study of mythic stories, the writing of mythic fiction requires much more than just reading old mythologies on an intellectual quest to figure out their plot points. Rather, the true quest is finding our way to the same source our ancestors went to in finding, channeling, and recognizing stories so powerful they remain foundational touchstones for us all these thousands of years later.
The Difference Between Inherited Myth and Living Myth
Although the stories of others give us the map by which to find (and navigate) our own mythic territory, we cannot in turn generate this deeper level of fiction so long as we are looking outside ourselves for mythic resonance.
The dream space from which story arises is inherently mythic. It is there that we, as storytellers, are lucky enough to dance with spirits and symbols. When we go deep enough into that experience, our conscious understanding or dictation of what we think should happen falls away. Writers in the zone often speak of simply following along behind their characters and “watching what they do.” When we’re doing that, we’re already knocking at the door of mythology, of archetype—even if we don’t know it.
It begins with a character, all I can do is trot along behind him trying to put down what he says and does.–William Faulkner
Why Mythic Fiction Matters During Times of Cultural Transformation
So why do these distinctions matter? Why is “mythic fiction” important at all?
Here’s my take. I believe mythic fiction has always been important, simply because it is, arguably, the foundational level of all storytelling. More than that, mythic fiction is a specific type of storytelling that, through the potent aliveness of its symbolic narrative (however modernized), is capable of initiating both healing and growth. If nothing else, the reason these stories fascinate us is often because they awaken a certain sense of aliveness in our response to them. Even when we don’t understand them or our responses to them, we can’t look away.
This is, perhaps, never more important than in moments of profound cultural transition. Human beings have always turned instinctively to story in times of deconstruction and reinvention—not just for entertainment, but for reorientation. Mythic stories help us metabolize change. Their symbolism and metaphor help us experience what is otherwise too large and strange for the ego and the conscious mind to fully process.
Here are four reasons I think the writing of mythic fiction is particularly important right now:
1. Our Relationship to the Old Stories Has Grown Thin
One reason I believe mythic storytelling is particularly important at this moment in history is because (despite their nominal prevalence) we have forgotten many of our myths—or, at the least, the deeper experience of those myths. In some cultures, their myths have been all but wiped out.
Even in those cultures in which the myths remain, so much has been lost to time and translation. The old stories have often become either historical curiosities or commoditized junk food. A low-hanging example would be the multi-problematic 2016 film Gods of Egypt, which undermined the Egyptian myth of Isis and Osiris (in which Isis journeys into the Underworld to restore her murdered husband and conceive their son Horus) into an action spectacle that retained little of the original story’s power.
In fundamentally altering these foundational myths and archetypes, we also alter our relationship to them.
2. Mythic Fiction Requires the Partnership of Intuition and Intellect
Just as crucially, even when we do interact with the old myths and archetypes—as many writers consciously do—we can often tend to over-intellectualize them. We can approach archetypes as simply a list of possible characters (e.g., Maiden, Hero, Sick King, Trickster, etc.) or examine the events in mythic stories purely to discover the secret sauce of their plot structure (such as it is).
Writing Archetypal Character Arcs (affiliate link)
This isn’t to say I believe studying and categorizing these elements is without value. Indeed, I have spent a good deal of my life doing just that, as in my exploration of an archetypal life cycle of six character journeys in my book Writing Archetypal Character Arcs.
But here’s the thing: archetype, symbol, and myth do not live in the left brain. The moment they cross over, they are only ever pale photocopies—a lament writers have often understood, as in Gail Carson Levine’s acknowledgment:
Ideas are ideas, and words on paper are words on paper; they’re not the same thing, no matter how much we try to convince ourselves.
3. Mythic Fiction Reconnects Writers to the Deep Source of Story
Admittedly, I’ve always been an “inside-out” writer rather than an “outside-in” writer—so take this as my personal bias, if you will—but I believe we may be at a moment in the storytelling zeitgeist when the path to originality will be found far more by seeking the inspiration of our own symbolic authority than by looking for it from without (i.e., by believing we can learn how to write truly meaningful fiction merely by studying the “how-to” or by responding to the stories others have written or the trends of the market).
Archetype and myth live within all of us. They are our birthright. They are not the secret magical gift of a few geniuses. (The genius comes into play more in the technical transmission of translating that myth onto the page.)
I have always maintained “there is no such thing as just a story“—by which I mean every story by every author contains this archetypal capacity (whether intentionally or unintentionally). If this so, then we might say that storytellers (along with other creatives working in the fields of relative symbolism) are the keepers of archetype.
To use mythic language itself, we are the wizards—the mages.
Like any properly mythic story, the adventure of being a writer is one in which we sit down at the page with our wand (err, pen) at the ready, not really knowing if we actually believe in our own magical capacity in the first place.
But I promise you: the power is there.
And I’m not just talking about the power of language. I’m talking about the innate power of the imagination and its capability to tap the deep subconscious.
Although we may all share the potential for that power, our ability to access it is highly individual and original. We can watch, learn from, and mimic others until we find the muscle memory—but only once we let go of the edge of the pool and swim into the raw, wacky, wyrd truths of our own creative flow can we remember and trust our own personal ability to bring forth archetype and myth.
4. The Need for New Myths in a Changing World
Finally, and perhaps above all, it is my personal theory that society is going to need its wizards (err, storytellers) more than ever right now. Society is changing so much around us. We need “new” myths.
By that, I mean stories that can rise above all the tales that have been told before and touch off something new within our individual and collective imaginations. To use the obvious example, think about how Star Wars catalyzed the cultural zeitgeist in almost every sphere imaginable. In many ways, there was life before Star Wars, and there was life after.
Star Wars: A New Hope (1977), 20th Century Fox.
Other relatively contemporary examples might include Lord of the Rings, The Alchemist, Harry Potter, The Matrix, The Hunger Games, Wicked, and Studio Ghibli’s offerings.
Wicked (2024), Universal Pictures
Tentatively, we might also add newer titles such as Stranger Things, Fourth Wing, A Court of Thorns and Roses, and Sinners.
Stranger Things (2016-2025), Netflix.
(You may notice all these titles are speculative. Largely, this is because the symbolism of speculative fiction is more naturally akin to the language of mythology. This doesn’t mean realistic stories can’t be functionally mythic—many stories, such as Absalom! Absalom!, Cold Mountain, and Ferris Bueller, come to mind. However, the techniques of realism and especially hyperrealism can, in some ways, be more difficult to translate into myth—something I intend to explore in a future post.)
Ferris Bueller’s Day Off (1986), Paramount Pictures
Now, here’s an important thing to consider: I don’t believe any “new” myths we come up with will actually be foundationally, symbolically, or thematically different from those that have come before. The often cyclical nature of life and of story structure itself is what gives symbolism, archetype, and myth their potency. These forms distill the complexity and seemingly endless variations of life into core pillars that ring true over and over and over again—to modern humans as much as ancient ones.
The Hero’s Journey will persist. The Archetypal Life Cycle will remain. The symbolic import of the old stories and tales will still speak to us.
But, as storytellers have done from time immemorial, we will not merely recycle the tales themselves—we will continue to reinvent our own access point to their deeper vibrancy.
How Writers Can Reconnect to Living Myth and the Symbolic Imagination
What this all comes down to, at least for me, is remembering that mythic fiction is not fundamentally about imitation. It is not about perfectly reproducing the old stories or strategically inserting symbolic imagery into our plots.
It is about learning to trust that the same symbolic wellspring from which the old myths arose is still alive within us. The old stories matter because they help us recognize the territory of the deep. They remind us that humans have always entered this dream space through story.
Ultimately, the writer’s task is not simply to preserve mythology. It is to take part in it.
At this point, you may reasonably be wondering: Okay, but how do I actually do this?
If mythic fiction is about reconnecting to the symbolic imagination rather than merely borrowing archetypes from the outside in, then what does that practically look like on the page? How do we move beyond intellectualizing myth into actually writing stories that feel alive, resonant, and mythic in their own right?
As it turns out, I have entirely too much to say about that to fit into this already overlong post! So in the next post/podcast (look for it June 15th), I’m going to explore concrete, practical ways writers can begin reconnecting to living myth in their own creative process. I’ll be talking about intuition, dreamzoning, and symbolism, as well as the deeper relationship between archetype and story structure itself.
Stay tuned!
Want More?
One of the reasons I care so deeply about mythic fiction is that I don’t believe powerful stories emerge from plot mechanics alone. Truly resonant stories arise when plot, character, and theme stop functioning as separate craft elements and begin working together as one living symbolic structure. That’s why I created my class Alchemizing Plot, Character Arc, and Theme.
This is one of the most inspiring and foundational frameworks I teach. In it, I explore how plot, character, and theme can be integrated into a cohesive force that gives stories emotional resonance, narrative momentum, and the kind of deeper symbolic aliveness we’ve been talking about throughout this post. If you’ve ever had the feeling that your story “should” be working but somehow still feels disconnected, flat, or strangely lifeless, this framework may help reveal what’s missing.
I originally taught this class for the Worldshift Speculative Fiction Summit last year, and I’ll be re-premiering the recorded workshop on June 24th with a live chat/Q&A alongside it. If you missed the class last year, I hope you’ll join me as we explore how to align inner and outer arcs, how to let theme emerge naturally, and how to create stories that feel meaningful from the inside out.
Wordplayers, tell me your opinions! What do you think makes mythic fiction and archetypal storytelling feel truly alive in a story? Tell me in the comments!
Click the “Play” button to Listen to Audio Version (or subscribe to the Helping Writers Become Authors podcast in Apple Podcast, Amazon Music, or Spotify).
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The post How to Write Mythic Fiction: Stop Borrowing Old Myths and Start Creating New Ones appeared first on Helping Writers Become Authors.
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Author: K.M. Weiland | @KMWeiland