What Inspired Naomi Novik To Write Uprooted?

I've always been fascinated by how authors draw from folklore and personal experiences to craft their stories. Naomi Novik mentioned in interviews that 'Uprooted' was deeply inspired by her Polish heritage and the rich tapestry of Eastern European fairy tales she grew up with. The dark, whimsical forests and the eerie, almost sentient nature of the Wood in the book mirror the Slavic myths her grandmother used to tell her. She wanted to capture that sense of wonder and danger, blending it with a protagonist who defies the passive role often assigned to women in traditional tales. The character of Agnieszka, with her messy, imperfect magic, feels like a love letter to every girl who’s ever been told she doesn’t fit the mold.

The dragon’s tower and the dynamic between him and Agnieszka also echo the Polish legend of the Wawel Dragon, but Novik twisted it into something fresh. She admitted to craving stories where the 'monster' isn’t just a villain, and where the heroine’s strength lies in her compassion and stubbornness, not just brute force. You can see how her love for classics like 'Beauty and the Beast' simmered beneath the surface, but she polished it into something entirely her own.

Naomi Novik’s 'Uprooted' feels like a collision of personal nostalgia and literary rebellion. As someone who devours both fantasy and historical deep dives, I pieced together her inspirations from scattered interviews and panels. She didn’t just want to retell a fairy tale; she wanted to gut it and rebuild it with the bones of her childhood. The Polish folklore she absorbed—like the Baba Yaga stories—was a starting point, but she deliberately avoided the Westernized, sanitized versions. Instead, she leaned into the raw, unsettling vibes of the original tales, where magic was as likely to curse you as save you.

Her academic background in literature also played a role. Novik has talked about how studying 18th-century narratives made her itch to write a heroine who wasn’t polished or 'chosen' in the typical sense. Agnieszka’s clumsiness and the dragon’s exasperation with her feel like a jab at the Chosen One trope. Even the Wood, this creeping, almost Lovecraftian horror, reflects Novik’s frustration with environmental allegories that treat nature as purely benevolent or monstrous. She wanted ambiguity, the kind that makes you question who the real monster is.

Funny enough, she also cited her work on the 'Temeraire' series as a catalyst. After years of writing about dragons in a historical military context, she craved something more intimate and mythic. 'Uprooted' was her palate cleanser—a chance to let magic be messy and emotional, not systematized or logical. The way Agnieszka’s spells rely on intuition and song? That’s Novik giving middle fingers to rigid magic systems and embracing the chaos of oral storytelling traditions.

When I first read 'Uprooted,' I sensed Naomi Novik’s love letter to the folktales that don’t get enough spotlight. She’s spoken about how the book was her way of reclaiming the Eastern European stories overshadowed by Grimm’s fairy tales in popular culture. The Wood isn’t just a setting; it’s a character shaped by the kind of forests in Polish and Russian lore—places that are alive and hungry. Novik wanted to explore why a forest would hate humans, and that question became the spine of the book.

Her own family history seeped in, too. The way Agnieszka’s village fears the dragon but depends on him mirrors the complicated relationships many Eastern European communities had with local rulers or outsiders. Novik didn’t shy away from showing how fear and gratitude can tangle together. Even the magic system, with its emphasis on singing and improvisation, feels like a nod to Slavic folk traditions where spells were often sung or chanted.

And let’s not forget the influence of her fellow writers. Novik has mentioned being part of a writing group where authors encouraged each other to break rules. That’s why 'Uprooted' dares to have a heroine who isn’t elegant or naturally gifted—just stubborn and creative. It’s also why the romance isn’t tidy; it’s prickly and slow-burning, much like real relationships. The book feels like Novik gave herself permission to write the story she’d always wanted to read, folklore flaws and all.