I’ve just started reading Curtis Jobling’s Wereworld series, and I’m already having one of those moments where my brain latches onto something completely trivial and won’t let go. Classic me, really.
The trigger? A character called “Lord Canan of the Doglords.”
Now, I get that fantasy authors often create names that hint at their characters’ nature—it’s practically a genre requirement. Leopold the Lionlord is perfectly serviceable, even if it’s about as subtle as a brick through a window. But Canan? That just sounds like someone took the root of “cynanthropy” (English loanword from Greek for “dog-man”) and gave it the slightest of tweaks before calling it a day.
The Etymology Rabbit Hole
Look, I know Canan is actually a Turkish name, but in an English-language fantasy novel, my brain immediately went: “Ah yes, canis plus creative licence equals character name.” It’s the sort of thing that makes perfect sense from a worldbuilding perspective—readers instantly know what they’re dealing with—but it pulls me right out of the story like a record scratch.
The funny thing is, not all the names follow this pattern. Drew Ferran’s biological parents are Wergar (Grey Wolf King) and Amelia (White Wolf Queen), which feels reasonably grounded. His adoptive human parents, Tilly and Mack Ferran, have completely normal names—though I can’t help wondering if “Ferran” is meant to evoke iron, given they live in a coastal town called Motley. Then you’ve got characters like Duke Bergen (Bearlord), Duke Mikkel and Manfred (Staglords), and Count Vega (Sharklord), where the connection to their animal forms is either subtle or nonexistent.
Pot, Meet Kettle
Here’s where I become a massive hypocrite: when I created my D&D character, I did exactly the same thing. Meet Cailean Uen, my lycanthropic barbarian whose name literally means “pup” in Scottish Gaelic (chosen because of my Scottish heritage), and whose surname is just a different spelling of my own name. Oh, and he worships Selene, because apparently I have all the originality of a wet flannel when it comes to werewolf tropes.
So yes, I’m sitting here critiquing Curtis Jobling’s naming choices while my own creative decisions are about as predictable as a full moon transformation schedule.
The Bigger Picture
Don’t get me wrong—I’m absolutely loving Wereworld so far. As someone with a thirteen-year special interest in lycanthropy (sparked by watching Wolfblood when I was seven, because of course it was), a therianthropic medieval fantasy series is basically catnip—wolfnip?—for my oddly specific interests. My 165-poem anthology has an entire section dedicated to therianthropy and Greek mythology, so this is very much my jam.
I think my issue is that I’m approaching a series aimed at pre-teens with the analytical brain of someone who’s spent far too much time thinking about etymology and linguistics. It’s like being annoyed that a children’s book uses simple sentence structures—technically valid criticism, but completely missing the point.
A Bit of Self-Reflection
Maybe I’m just experiencing what happens when you combine autism, hyperfixations, and too much time spent as a shut-in scrolling through etymology websites instead of touching grass. At nearly twenty, I should probably have better things to worry—like actually being an adult with a job—about than fictional naming conventions, but here we are.
The truth is, Jobling’s approach works perfectly for his target audience. Kids don’t need subtle linguistic puzzles—they need to immediately understand that the scary dog-man is called something dog-adjacent. It’s efficient storytelling, even if it makes my pedantic little heart twinge slightly.
I suppose this whole ramble is really just me processing the weird contradiction of loving something while simultaneously being unable to switch off the analytical part of my brain that wants to pick it apart. Classic neurodivergent behaviour, really—finding deep joy in something while simultaneously being mildly tormented by the details.
Anyway, back to reading about werewolves and trying not to overthink every proper noun. Wish me luck.