Growing up immersed in classical and Arthurian mythology while being a Korean-American in Texas created a unique, and sometimes isolating, experience. Like many aspiring writers, I devoured science fiction and fantasy, yet these worlds rarely reflected my own. The heroes, settings, and even the food were overwhelmingly Anglo-centric. The yearning for representation was profound – a simple space gimchi instead of the ubiquitous space steak would have been revolutionary. This longing culminated in an almost tearful moment at Gencon, seeing a banner for Pathfinder featuring a character named Yoon – a fantasy figure who shared my name. It was a powerful first glimpse of belonging in a genre I loved.
My early writing mirrored this exclusion. I populated European-esque fantasy realms with characters sporting fake French or German names, a far cry from my own reality. Had I known about Warhammer 40,000 then, my twelve-year-old self, dreaming of grand space battles, might have found a niche, albeit one still rooted in a very specific cultural landscape.
It took time to realize the richness of the Korean folklore I knew from my parents, the vibrant imagery of Seoul, and the stories of people like me were valid and publishable. I began to broaden my scope, moving away from generic European-inspired settings. My debut novel, Ninefox Gambit, and my middle grade book, Dragon Pearl, both featuring space-faring Asians, consciously drew upon these personal and cultural experiences to varying degrees.
Fiction often promises neat resolutions, the “happily ever after.” We see this in countless narratives where overthrowing the “evil empire” signals a definitive end, ignoring history’s lesson that such victories are often just the beginning of new struggles. Similarly, writers are often sold a simplistic “happy ending”: success means writing about their specific identity and having a career. By science fiction and fantasy standards, I am successful. Ninefox Gambit garnered Hugo, Nebula, and Clarke nominations and won the Locus Award. Dragon Pearl became a New York Times bestseller. I’ve paid off student loans and can indulge in watercolor painting.
But this “happy ending” is a deceptive cage. A white writer retelling Greek myths is unremarkable. Madeline Miller doesn’t face scrutiny about her Greek heritage. Yet, when I explore a retelling of the “Judgment of Paris,” I encounter pushback for straying from “Korean stories,” for daring to step outside a perceived lane. Simultaneously, a casual mention of Korean religion gleaned from Wikipedia can be taken as profound authenticity. Some readers seek performative progressivism, desiring an “exotic” cultural bingo square for their reading challenges, expecting me to fulfill their voyeuristic needs, and resenting any deviation from this prescribed role.
My literary DNA is Western and English-speaking. My education, from Department of Defense schools to the International Baccalaureate, was steeped in Western canon. My internal landscape of myth and literature is populated by “The Dream of the Rood,” the Iliad and Odyssey, The Faerie Queene, Beowulf, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, and countless others.
While I’ve read The Art of War, I haven’t delved into the Samguk Yusa or the tales of Hong Gildong. Journey to the West, The Dream of the Red Chamber, or Buddhist sutras remain unexplored. Yet, writing anything “Asian” invites assumptions of inherent authenticity.
Early in my career, accepting an invitation to contribute to an anthology titled Japanese Dreams felt like a necessary act of cowardice. The implication seemed to be that East Asians are interchangeable. Ironically, many non-Asian writers possess fluency in Japanese and deep knowledge of its culture and history, arguably making them more qualified for such a project. My own exposure to Japanese culture at that time was largely through Legend of the Five Rings, a samurai fantasy card/role-playing game. While I enjoy L5R, claiming it as “authentic” would be as absurd as citing the AD&D 2nd Edition Arms and Equipment Guide as a primary source on medieval weaponry.
My novel Ninefox Gambit portrays a despotic, expansionist government powered by human sacrifice and weaponized thought control. I find a cynical amusement in comments assuming it directly references North Korea or China. Why not European imperialism or McCarthyism? The science fantasy elements, where physics bends to ritual and brainwashing, are often attributed to wuxia or anime. Few consider the influence of US superhero comics or RPG settings like AD&D’s Planescape or White Wolf’s Mage: The Ascension, where consensus reality shapes existence. General Shuos Jedao, my brilliant tactician turned traitor, is readily interpreted as a reflection of Admiral Yi Sun-Shin. I’m still waiting for someone to recognize his thematic roots in Lucifer/Satan, a figure from my Christian upbringing and international high school years.
I am genuinely heartened that my half-Korean daughter and today’s readers have access to a far wider array of stories and characters than I did. Kate Elliott’s Unconquerable Sun reimagines Alexander the Great as a queer woman in space. A.D. Sui’s The Dragonfly Gambit features a protagonist rebelling against her former fleet after injury. Rivers Solomon’s An Unkindness of Ghosts explores a dark future on a generation ship through a Black neurodiverse lens. Max Gladstone’s Full Fathom Five centers on a trans woman who builds gods. Becky Chambers’ A Psalm for the Wild-Built offers a tranquil future through a nonbinary tea monk’s perspective. The explosion of stories drawing from non-European cultures is undeniable: Roshani Chokshi’s The Star-Touched Queen, Rebecca Roanhorse’s Black Sun, Tade Thompson’s Rosewater, and many more.
However, I remain troubled by the weaponization of “authenticity,” selectively applied as a cage, dictating acceptable stories and topics for some authors but not others. Jedao is space Asian, yes, but he also has a Texas drawl, defying stereotypical expectations of Asian heritage. I worry when experiences and stories are deemed “unreal,” or commercially unviable, simply because they don’t align with the narrow preconceptions of cultural voyeurs or demographic calculations.
In closing, consider this anecdote: I was once contracted for a work-for-hire story for an unspecified Asian market. The editor, who frankly admitted to never having read my work, explained they sought a bestselling author (a) of Asian heritage. While the pay was generous, being reduced to a “warm body of the right ethnicity” isn’t exactly a writer’s dream.
It makes me wonder if publishing will only offer me roles as a walking bingo square. The allure of financial compensation will eventually fade, prompting me to seek other avenues.
Let us champion stories rooted in authors’ diverse experiences – cultural, yes, but also encompassing disability, queerness, asexuality, neurodivergence, religion, socioeconomic status, and beyond. But let’s not transform this vital push for representation into another cage, limiting creativity and authentic expression.
By Yoon Ha Lee, author of Ninefox Gambit and Dragon Pearl.
