Have you ever felt it? That little spark when you read an old myth—a story about a clever goddess, a fated hero, or a world born from chaos—and thought, “I want my stories to feel like that“? I know I have. There’s a weight to those tales, a power that makes them stick with us for centuries.
For a long time, I was intimidated by it. How could I possibly touch these epic, ancient narratives without creating a cheap knock-off? It felt like playing with fire. But I’ve learned that mythology isn’t a museum piece we have to tiptoe around. It’s a treasure chest, a box of tools, a source of primal energy just waiting for us to use in our own work.
So, let’s talk about how we can do that. Not just by name-dropping a god or two, but by truly weaving the magic of myth into the DNA of our stories. This is about forging something new from the embers of the old.
First, Let’s Get to the Heart of the Myth
I used to think using myths just meant including a griffin in my fantasy story. I was wrong. The real magic happens when we look past the surface and understand what a myth is doing. These stories were our first attempts to explain the unexplainable, to give order to a chaotic world, and to make sense of what it means to be human.
My advice? Before you borrow a god or a monster, ask yourself: What is this myth really about? What fear does it address? What natural cycle does it explain? What human truth does it put into words?
Here’s an example that clicked for me: The story of Persephone being taken to the underworld isn’t just a dramatic family squabble among the gods. It’s a culture’s way of explaining the seasons. When her mother, Demeter, grieves, the world freezes into winter. When Persephone returns, she brings spring. Once I understood that, I saw the potential. Imagine creating a character whose grief literally drains the color and warmth from the world around them. That’s using the heart of the myth.
The Secret Art of the Mythological Nod
This is one of my favorite techniques because it’s all about subtlety. It’s like sharing an inside joke with your reader. Instead of putting a giant sign on it, you weave in small allusions—a name, a place, an object—that hint at a deeper, mythological layer. It rewards the attentive reader and makes your world feel so much richer.
How I do it: I try to make it feel natural, like it truly belongs in the world. Maybe a powerful corporation is called “Prometheus Unbound,” or a seemingly dead-end road is called “Styx Crossing.”
A masterclass example: William Faulkner’s As I Lay Dying. On the surface, it’s about a poor family’s journey to bury their mother. But if you’ve read Homer’s The Odyssey, you start to see the parallels. The long, arduous journey, the flawed characters facing bizarre trials—it’s a modern, tragic echo of Odysseus’s epic quest. Faulkner never says, “Hey, this is like The Odyssey!” He trusts you to feel the resonance, which makes the discovery so much more powerful.
Breathing New Life into Old Archetypes
Let’s talk about characters. You know those characters who just feel instantly familiar and right? They’re often tapping into a classic archetype from mythology: the Hero, the Mentor, the Trickster, the Shadow. These archetypes are like narrative shortcuts; they give us a foundation to build on. But the real fun starts when we mess with them.
Here’s the trick: Start with the classic model, then give it a twist. What if your Mentor figure is secretly the villain? What if the prophesied Hero actually fails?
No one does this better than Neil Gaiman. In American Gods, he gives us Odin (the All-Father, a classic Mentor/King archetype) as Mr. Wednesday, a washed-up, charismatic con man trying to survive in modern America. He’s still wise and powerful, but he’s also desperate, cynical, and morally grey. Gaiman takes the archetype we know and makes him feel completely new and unpredictable. That’s the goal.
Building Your World on the Bones of Myth
For those of us writing fantasy and sci-fi, this is our playground. Instead of inventing a religion from scratch, we can use the structure of a real-world mythology as a blueprint. It gives your world an immediate sense of history and cultural logic.
My approach: I don’t just copy a pantheon. I think about how that mythology would shape the culture. How do the gods influence the laws? The architecture? The everyday sayings? A religion shouldn’t just be lore; it should be lived.
Think about George R.R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire. The Faith of the Seven isn’t just background detail. The idea of a single god with seven faces (Father, Mother, Warrior, etc.) is woven into the very fabric of Westeros. It dictates their justice system (trial by seven), their codes of honor (knights are sworn in its name), and their social structure. It feels real because its influence is everywhere.
Finding Your Story’s Soul in Universal Themes
This is the deep magic. This is how you make a story that sticks with someone forever. Myths have survived for millennia because they wrestle with the big questions: fate vs. free will, the price of knowledge, the struggle for mortality, the pain of sacrifice. When you tap into these themes, you’re plugging your story directly into a current of universal human experience.
My challenge to you: Pick a myth whose central theme just grabs you. The story of Icarus flying too close to the sun—a tale of ambition and hubris. The Trojan War—a story of how pride and passion can lead to total destruction. Use that theme as the emotional core of your own story.
The perfect example: Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. The book’s subtitle is The Modern Prometheus. Prometheus stole fire from the gods for humanity and was punished for it. Victor Frankenstein steals the “fire” of life from God, and his creation leads to immense suffering. Shelley used the theme of the Prometheus myth to explore the ethics of creation and ambition, and it’s why the story is still so terrifyingly relevant today.
Using the Hero’s Journey as Your Map (Not a Cage)
You’ve probably heard of the hero’s journey. It’s that classic story structure—the call to adventure, the wise mentor, the trials, the triumphant return—that you see in everything from ancient myths to modern blockbusters. When I feel lost in a plot, I often pull out this map. It’s a time-tested structure for a reason: it’s incredibly satisfying for readers.
But here’s the key: It’s a map, not a cage. Don’t be afraid to take detours or even get “lost.” Subvert the steps. Maybe the hero rejects the call and the world suffers for it. Maybe the “elixir” they bring back is actually a poison.
The most famous example, of course, is Star Wars. Luke Skywalker’s path from farm boy to Jedi Knight is a perfect execution of the hero’s journey. And because it follows this ancient, ingrained pattern, it feels epic and right. It taps into a story structure that lives in our collective soul.
Let’s Go Forge Something New
So, what’s the big takeaway from our chat? For me, it’s this: these stories are our inheritance. They belong to all of us who love to read and write. They aren’t fragile relics. They are powerful, malleable, and waiting for a new voice—your voice.
Read the myths. Devour them. Feel their power. Then, be brave. Take that fire and use it to forge something that is uniquely yours. Build on their foundations, twist their archetypes, and infuse your stories with their timeless heart. I can’t wait to see what you create.