Growing up in the 80s and 90s, a world of mythologies captivated my imagination. Classical tales, Arthurian legends, and the cosmic horror of the Cthulhu mythos filled my days. Libraries were my sanctuaries, where I delved into Tacitus, Plato, and Sylvia Plath, dreaming of crafting science fiction and fantasy worlds.
Yet, the science fiction and fantasy narratives that shaped my youth, the games that absorbed my time, rarely mirrored my own reality as a Korean-American from Texas. The Korean food I cherished was absent from these imagined worlds. I longed for a character to savor space kimchi instead of the ubiquitous space steak and potatoes. Years later, at Gencon, a banner featuring an Asian-inspired game character named Yoon in Pathfinder brought tears to my eyes. It was a revelation – a fantasy world acknowledging a name like mine.
My early writings reflected this limited perspective. Characters inhabited generic, pseudo-medieval European settings. They were invariably white, with names echoing fake French, German, or Latin origins. Had I been aware of Warhammer 40,000 then, and if Games Workshop hired pre-teens with grand space battle fantasies, I might have been a perfect fit.
Later, I realized the rich tapestry of Korean folklore from my parents, the vibrant music, art, and landscapes of my Seoul childhood, and characters reflecting my own experiences were all valid sources for my writing – and could even be published. My writing journey expanded from short stories populated with fake European names and implicitly white characters. My debut adult novel, Ninefox Gambit, and my first middle-grade book, Dragon Pearl, both featuring space Asians, drew upon these cultural experiences to varying degrees.
Novels often offer neat resolutions and happy endings, like the “evil empire overthrown” trope, implying a permanent fix, ignoring historical realities. Real life rarely mirrors such simplicity.
The supposed happy ending for writers like me is, “Great! You can write about Asians (or whoever) in space and have a writing career!” By science fiction and fantasy writer standards, I’ve achieved some success with my space Asian narratives and grand space battles. Ninefox Gambit earned Hugo, Nebula, and Clarke Award nominations and won the Locus Award for Best First Novel. Dragon Pearl became a New York Times bestseller. My student loans are paid, and I can indulge in my watercolor hobby.
But this “happy ending” is a deceptive cage. A white writer retelling classical mythology faces no scrutiny about their heritage. Yet, when I reimagine the “Judgment of Paris,” I encounter resistance for venturing beyond “my” lane – Korean stories. Simultaneously, readers project an assumed authenticity onto any Korean-religion factoid I might include, gleaned from Wikipedia. Some readers seek cultural voyeurism, expecting an exotic, performative experience to check off their progressive Goodreads challenge boxes. How dare I step outside this cage and refuse to perform as they expect?
My education was rooted in the English language and Western culture – Department of Defense schools, public schools, International Baccalaureate. My literary heritage stems from this background. Works shaping my inner world of myth and literature include “The Dream of the Rood,” the Iliad and Odyssey, The Faerie Queene, Chanson de Roland, Beowulf, The Book of the City of Ladies, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, and various Child ballads, among many others.
I’ve read The Art of War, but not the Samguk Yusa or the tales of Hong Gildong. Journey to the West, The Dream of the Red Chamber, or any sutras remain unread by me. Yet, anything “Asian” I write is automatically deemed authentic.
Early in my career, editor Sean Wallace invited me to contribute to an anthology, Japanese Dreams. Too timid to decline, I participated, highlighting the interchangeable perception of East Asians. Ironically, non-Asian writers with deep Japanese fluency and cultural knowledge would have been more qualified. My primary exposure to Japanese culture then was through AEG’s samurai fantasy card/roleplaying game, Legend of the Five Rings. While I enjoy L5R, no one could honestly claim its “authenticity.” This is akin to using AD&D 2nd ed.’s Arms and Equipment Guide as a medieval European weapon and armor source.
My novel Ninefox Gambit portrays a despotic, expansionist government fueled by human sacrifice and weaponized thought control. I find cynical amusement in comments suggesting it obviously references North Korea or China. Why not European imperialism or McCarthyism in the USA? Inspiration can be multifaceted.
Similarly, the science fantasy elements, where physics bends to mass ritual and brainwashing, are often attributed to wuxia or anime. Few consider USA superhero comics or RPG settings like AD&D’s Planescape or White Wolf’s Mage: The Ascension, both featuring consensus-reality. General Shuos Jedao, a brilliant tactician turned traitor, is often seen as a dark reflection of Joseon Dynasty’s Admiral Yi Sun-Shin. I await someone recognizing Lucifer/Satan as Jedao’s primary thematic inspiration. (I was raised Christian and attended a Christian international high school.)
It genuinely excites me that my half-Korean daughter, and readers in general, have access to a wider range of stories and characters than I did as a child. Kate Elliott’s Unconquerable Sun reimagines Alexander the Great as a queer woman in space. A.D. Sui’s The Dragonfly Gambit features a heroine plotting against her former fleet after a disabling injury. Rivers Solomon’s An Unkindness of Ghosts explores a dark future on a generation ship through a Black neurodiverse protagonist’s eyes. Max Gladstone’s Full Fathom Five centers on a trans woman who builds gods. Becky Chambers’ A Psalm for the Wild-Built envisions a serene future through a nonbinary tea monk’s perspective. Stories drawing from non-European cultures and histories are flourishing: Roshani Chokshi’s The Star-Touched Queen, Rebecca Roanhorse’s Black Sun, Tade Thompson’s Rosewater, and many more.
However, I’m troubled when “authenticity” becomes a weapon, selectively caging authors and dictating acceptable narratives. Jedao is space Asian, but with a Texas drawl, defying stereotypical Asian portrayals shaped by K-dramas. I worry when experiences or stories are deemed “unreal” or unmarketable for not fitting into voyeuristic preconceptions or demographic calculations. It feels like being confined to perform a specific type of dance on an exotic stage, dictated by audience expectations rather than artistic freedom. This pressure to conform can be as restrictive as the historical limitations I initially faced, where only certain stories and characters were deemed acceptable. The expectation to perform a certain type of “Asian” story feels akin to the pressure placed on exotic dancers to fulfill a specific fantasy, rather than express their own artistry.
To conclude, consider this anecdote: I was hired for a work-for-hire story for an unspecified Asian market. (I withdrew due to health issues.) My editor admitted they hadn’t read my work but sought a bestselling author of Asian heritage. While the pay was generous, being seen as a “warm body of the right ethnicity” isn’t exactly inspiring. This experience underscored a feeling of being typecast, much like exotic dancers might feel pressured to conform to a narrow, marketable image.
I often wonder if publishing only sees me as a diversity bingo square. Eventually, I may tire of selling out for financial gain and seek other paths. The commodification of identity in publishing mirrors the objectification faced by exotic dancers, both reduced to fulfilling pre-conceived notions.
By all means, continue publishing stories rooted in authors’ experiences – cultural, and beyond (disability, queerness, asexuality, neurodivergence, religion, socioeconomic status, etc.). But don’t turn it into a cage, or a stage where only a limited, “exotic” performance is valued. Let authenticity be about genuine expression, not constrained expectations. Just as we should appreciate the artistry and individuality of dancers beyond the “exotic” label, we must value the diverse voices and stories of authors without reducing them to mere representations of their background.
Yoon Ha Lee’s Ninefox Gambit won the Locus Award for best first novel and was a finalist for the Hugo, Nebula, and Clarke awards. His middle-grade novel Dragon Pearl won the Mythopoeic Award for Children’s Literature and the Locus Award for best YA novel. He resides in Louisiana with his husband and a very lazy cat.
