The Snark | The Giant, the Baby, and the Basalt

Why Some Myths Stick (and What Writers Should Shamelessly Steal)

Somewhere along the rugged coast of Northern Ireland, a very confused tourist looks at the Giant’s Causeway and says, “Whoa, these hexagonal rocks are so weird - how did this happen?” And because nature’s explanation is “volcanic basalt columns cooled just right,” someone, somewhere, wisely interrupts:

“No, no. A giant built it.”

Enter: Finn McCool (because of course his name is that ridiculous). An Irish giant with a tendency toward overcommitment, Finn allegedly built the Causeway to challenge a Scottish giant, Benandonner, to a cross-sea punch-up. But when he saw how massive Big Ben really was, he fled home. Fortunately, his wife Oonagh (actual genius) disguised him as a baby, and when Benandonner saw the enormous infant, he panicked and ran all the way back to Scotland - destroying the Causeway behind him like a toddler rage-quitting Minecraft.

Admit it: it’s a better explanation than “slow-cooled lava.”

But here’s the real question: Why did this story win? Why did this tale become the dominant myth printed on tourist brochures and whispered on windblown clifftops? More importantly: what can fiction writers learn from it?

Lesson One: We Tell Stories Because the Alternative Is Chaos

Humans can’t cope with randomness. A bunch of weird rocks sticking out of the sea? No thank you. We require meaning. And if science doesn’t deliver something satisfying, myth steps in and slaps down a plot twist.

It’s not just about entertaining the kids (though it does the job). It’s about reclaiming awe from confusion. A giant built it? That tracks. People are fine with giants. What they don’t like is being told, “Molten rock just happened to cool in an unusually geometrical way 50 million years ago.” Boring.

Writers: remember this. When your reader hits something strange, give them not the truth, but the truth-as-metaphor. The truth-that-sings. The truth-that-fits-in-a-lunchbox.

Lesson Two: The Best Myth Survives, Not the First One

There is no way the Finn McCool story was the first tale told about the Causeway. Around some peat-burning fire a thousand years ago, there were probably at least five competing myths. One involved sea monsters. One was too weirdly romantic. One blamed the English. But only one had:

• A giant with a dumb name

• A surprise twist

• A wife smarter than everyone

• And a structure that performs

This is how myth works. It’s not precious. It’s evolutionary, survival-of-the-fittest storytelling. The best tale wins. Not the most accurate. Not the most detailed. The one that sticks in your head and makes you say, “Tell me again about the baby-giant.”

Your novel, your world, your story? It needs that kind of winner.

Lesson Three: World-Building Needs Sacred Nonsense

If you’re inventing a society in your fiction - alien, ancient, futuristic, post-capitalist-artisanal-commune-whatever - it better have myths. Not just customs. Not just religion. Myths. You can’t expect a reader to take your mountaintop fortress seriously unless someone, somewhere in that world believes it was carved by alien goats or a weeping god.

Why? Because even fictional cultures cling to stories that give weight to places. That explain why the cliffs echo. That excuse why the river changes direction in spring. If your world doesn’t have at least one completely bonkers explanation for a real feature, you’re missing a huge opportunity to make it feel real.

Lesson Four: Characters Are Myth-Makers, Too

It’s not just cultures - characters mythologize themselves all the time. That guy in your story who thinks he’s the “protector”? He’s building his personal Finn McCool narrative. The sister who thinks she’s the “disappointment”? Same. Every character is curating a version of events in which they are the main character in a very flattering drama.

And here’s the kicker: they’re usually wrong. Or at least… not entirely right.

This is gold for writers. Make them believe their myth. Then break it. Or let someone else break it. Or let them realize they invented it to survive.

Bonus Thought: Someday, Gatsby Will Be a God

And finally: let’s not kid ourselves. In a thousand years, someone might stumble across The Great Gatsby, misinterpret it wildly, and declare it the origin myth of Long Island. Jay Gatsby: the god of illusions, doomed to chase the green light across the void. Daisy: the capricious sea-siren who crushed his golden dream. Tom Buchanan: the war-god of arrogance and polo.

And honestly? It’ll be a better myth than half the nonfiction in print.

A Haiku for You

So there you have it. Stones aren’t just stones. Stories aren’t just stories. And myths? They’re what survive the fire - and make us want to gather around it again tomorrow night. If you’re a writer, take a lesson from the Finn McCool myth: make it bold, make it memorable, and if it all goes wrong, just pretend you’re a baby.

And here’s the haiku I wrote, sitting there looking at the Giant’s Causeway rocks and sea:

Massive stone pillars,

A roiling Antrim seascape,

Myths of giants long dead.

The Snark