My Favorite Fairy Tale, a Blog Hop Party

Greetings, fairy tale explorers! Welcome to my portion of the fairy tale blog hop. I hope you have a good time exploring different authors this week, and I hope you find something new to delight you (better yet if it’s me!).

Thirteen fairy tale authors have gotten together to talk about their favorite fairy tales. Follow the links at the bottom of each blog post to hop to the next author’s website. Collect our favorite numbers to total up at the end and enter to win a print collection of our books! (There are several anthologies, debuts, and even an ARC for a BLINK YA book you can’t buy in stores yet!)

Favorite fairy tale? That used to be an easy question. “Beauty and the Beast,” of course. In college, as part of graduating with university honors, you had to write a thesis paper. I wrote mine on—you guessed it—“Beauty and the Beast.” Oh, I ate, drank, slept, and read that story for several months. So many different versions, with lots of contemporary ones. And the picture books! So many picture books. (Despite all this, I sadly left some ridiculous gaps, so please don’t ask me about Villeneuve’s version. I’m still embarrassed that I didn’t read that.)

Which was my favorite retelling? Definitely not the Disney film. I like elements of the Disney, but I can’t escape feeling like Belle is stuck up and just really not the Beauty that I wanted her to be.* My favorite version was easily Robin McKinley’s Beauty. And then, when I wrote my own (currently shelved) novel-length version, that was my favorite.  

I love “Beauty and the Beast” for its story of redemption, which was in fact what I wrote about. Here’s the TL;DR: The story is about more than falling in love with a beast. It’s about the power of seeing people truly and how that changes them—and us. There you go, about 64 pages summed up in a sentence (64, by the way, is 2^6; I love powers of 2, which is why 16 is my favorite small-ish number).**

But to make another long story short, years have since intervened, and the luster has faded from dear Beauty, the Beast, and all their incarnations. Asked today, I would be much harder pressed to answer, but I’m leaning toward “The Six Swans” (so much angst! so much sacrifice!) or “Diamonds and Toads” (my favorite theme—how gifts can be curses, and vice versa!). I even have a flash version of “Diamonds and Toads” here on the blog, if you want to check it out.

Which probably explains how I’ve ended up starting a novel based on a character from each of these tales. I love these characters so much, and if I can do even a little justice to who they are, you will too (someday).

So that’s it! Thanks for coming by. Now go visit Alicia Gale and find out what she has to say. If you’ve already been to all 13 stops and collected everyone’s favorite number, then go enter to win the grand prize.

As an added bonus, if you’d like to be included in an additional drawing (for an individual copy of Unspun), go to my Facebook page, follow me, and leave a comment letting me know what your favorite fairy tale is and why.

For an additional entry to my individual drawing (only available after Sunday, the 24th), go to Timeless Tales magazine and read some of the Snow White issue, which features my super-fluffy (and somewhat out of character for me) “The Nanny Job,” then come back to Facebook and tell me what you think of Snow White stories (doesn’t have to be mine).

And finally, if you just can’t wait and want to make sure you get a copy of Unspun, it’s on sale just this weekend. Go forth and purchase and enjoy!

Happy reading, all!

* On the other hand, in junior high I used to walk home from school while reading a book, and a boy I had a crush on called me “Belle” one time (just after we almost collided), and that felt like a compliment, so... mixed feelings?

** Which may also have something to do with why I’m a geek. (And yes, 16 is the number you’re looking for in the blog hop.)

Harps

I believe we should all just come
to accept that my addition of visual content
is always going to be pretty subpar. Hooray,
at least, for wikipedia and morguefile, or
you'd have no pics at all.

It turns out that in one of my many false starts (and middles and ends) for Unsightly (AKA Eye of the Beholder AKA Sight Unseen AKA Beheld AKA Oh-How-I-Hate-Titles), Isabel suddenly developed a desire to play the harp—and absolutely no aptitude for it. Really it became quite a large part of the book for a while until I suddenly found myself thinking, “There is no point to this.” Okay, it wasn’t strictly true. There was sort of a point. It was this whole way of showing that Isabel wasn’t very good at sticking to things, gave up when the going got hard, blah blah blah. But in the final analysis, it was just sort of flat.

However, tragically, I had already written a number of scenes (oh my gosh! the endless numbers of words that I cut from this story! I wrote at least 150K for my 72K novel; argh!) involving the harp.

And I liked at least one of them (originally I liked three, but time will kill delusions of grandeur, and now, a year later, I only like one). So what’s a girl to do with a scene about a harp that never made it to the finished product? Post it on her blog, of course!

 “What shall it be tonight, Isabel?” he asked one evening as we were settling into the library. “A story? Or will you finally play your harp for me?”

“I have not been practicing as I ought,” I told him. “Perhaps next week. I’m sure by then . . . ”

“Your excuses will not work on me tonight. What better time to practice than now? Come, I insist. You have put it off too long and I am nearly expiring from curiosity.”

“I suppose I cannot avoid it forever,” I told him. “But please recall that you were warned.”

I had long since moved my harp from the parlor and its cold formality to the gentle comfort of the library. Now all I had to do was rise and move to the opposite end of the room. As I rose, I attempted to sneak a glance into the shadows. The Beast, as usual, was invisible, seeming to draw even farther into the dark when I looked his way. I sighed. My recent increased efforts to see his face had returned me nothing but frustration.

For the umpteenth time I put it from my mind. Sometimes I felt that’s all I ever did—put from my mind the things I cared about most. But that was my way. So ignoring the mystery again, I sat at the harp and began to play.

I liked the idea of being able to play a harp just as much as I used to. It was such a graceful instrument. But I didn’t seem to have the coordination for it—or the desire to practice. I did not look forward to the embarrassment I was going to suffer tonight.

“Why don’t we wait one more day?” I pleaded. “You sound very tired. I’m sure you need to get to bed.”

“Oh no,” he said with a chuckle. “You are not going to get out of it so easily.”

I sighed my best long-suffering sigh and began to play. It was a beautiful instrument, I had to admit. Graceful and sweet, sound pouring out of it like the songs of birds.

If those birds had no sense of tune and were suffering under torture.

A few moments of almost-music passed and when I stopped and looked down, the Beast applauded politely. I thought I could detect, even in his clap, a hint of amusement.

I began to play again, this time with a bit more gusto. “That, in case you are wondering,” I told him as I played, “was the sound of a flight of angels taking off toward heaven.” Discordant noises floated in the air. “You should by no means mistake it for a herd of hippopotami trudging across shards of broken glass.”

The snort from across the room was loud. It really was a rather apt description. “Of course I had not imagined it anything other than a flight of angels.” Then a pause as I hit more incorrect notes. “And I believe that was the sound of the angels crashing into a tableful of goblets.” He sighed gustily. “Ah, such lovely music.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “I do have a rare talent for it.”

Set Thyself

The following excerpt is one of the last mini-tales I wrote for my Beauty and the Beast novel. I love the curious objects of power that so frequently pop up in the fairy tales. They’re so fun and exciting—seriously, who doesn’t wish they had a magic mirror or a bean on some serious growth hormones or a lie-detecting harp? But what I’ve been intrigued about the most lately is how those objects came into existence. Who made them, and how? And at what cost? That’s what one of my earlier stories was about (one that is not a part of this book but may be part of the loose sequel), and that’s what this one is about too. You’ve probably by now noticed an ongoing theme to these stories—the idea of blessings and curses going together. I think this is something true about human nature. We choose what we value, we choose where we focus, and in doing so we also choose whether what we are given is a gift or a curse. We choose how we react, and that makes the difference. But, to quote the Beast, “Enough philosophy. Now the story.” I hope you enjoy. 

***

“Beast,” I asked cautiously, casually fingering the soft fabric of my dress, “What do you think about the old magic? You’ve been around for a long time—”

He coughed, and I rolled my eyes.

“I mean, you tell stories about people from long ago,” I said indulgently. “You must have some thoughts about the old magic. Or perhaps some stories. . . ?”

“Hmm . . . ”

“Yes?”

“I do have one or two, but I should warn you. The stories about the old magic aren’t particularly friendly.”

“What do you mean? Everyone knows a few, and they seem just fine to me.”

“Oh, yes?” He chuckled warmly. “What stories do you know of the old magic?”

“Well, I know about the boots that would carry a man seven leagues in just one step.”

“Yes, that’s a fine story.” His voice was the kind you would use to humor a small child.

I glared. “And I know about the tablecloth that set itself with food for a banquet.”

“Indeed.”

I spoke faster, louder. “And the mirror that could show you the future or a distant place or tell you your heart’s desire.”

He said nothing, and I still felt he was indulging me.

“Or the carpet that could fly you anywhere you want to go.” I stopped suddenly. I had run out of stories I remembered.

The silence now was brooding, and I watched the shadows from the firelight play across my hands.

“Fine,” I said at last. “What’s wrong with those stories?”

“Nothing,” he said. “And yet . . . Did you ever wonder how all those magical objects were created?”

“I . . . ” I looked up, quirking my head to the side in thought. “No, I really never did.” I straightened in my chair. “Can you tell me?”

“I only know some of them. And as I said, they are not always pretty.”

He had told me dark tales before, though, and I wondered why he would warn me this time. I stared into the red, living light of the fire until I could see nothing else in the dimness surrounding me. “Tell me,” I said.

“You say you know about that tablecloth,” he began, “the one that always had food.”

“Yes,” I agreed.

“Do you know what it is to give up something you want?”

I huffed. “Of course I do. I lost my brothers, so much of my family—”

“Of course,” he interrupted. “But you did not give them up on purpose. You did not say to fate, ‘Please, take my brothers. I will give them away.’”

I thought for a moment. “I gave up my sisters and my father to come here,” I said more quietly.

“Yes. You did. So you do know something of sacrifice. And what you were really sacrificing was yourself to protect your family, so maybe you will relate better to this story than I had realized.” I could feel his eyes on me. “But you didn’t think you were giving up something of much value, did you?”

His words were not truly a question, but they stung, far too close to truth. I spoke through gritted teeth. “I asked for a story, not a philosophical discussion of my choices and worth.”

His voice softened. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to injure you. You made a hard choice and a worthy sacrifice. I wish, though, that you had not felt so meaningless personally. You certainly have not been meaningless to me.”

I looked away, blushing.

He grunted. “So, as I was saying, sacrifice. There is much I don’t understand about the old magic, things that no one ever understood really. But one thing is certain: the sacrifice. And rarely the sacrifice that you expect.”

I prodded. “So. . . . The tablecloth.”

He chuckled. “Fine. Enough philosophy. Now the story.”

#

Once upon a time there was a young farmer’s son. He had grown up during a time of great hardship, and many in the kingdom went hungry. His father’s crops had failed several times in a row, and they struggled. The young boy remembered many, many days without meals. He watched the fat slowly melt from his brothers and sisters, and he could do nothing to stop it.

But time passed, and another year came. That year the rain fell enough to quench the earth’s thirst but never enough to drown it. The sun beat gently upon the crops, and they burst out of the soil. That year there was plenty, and the next year and the next, until the days of hunger were forgotten.

But not for the boy. He had grown into a man by now and had settled down with a family of his own. He was a farmer like his father, producing enough to support his family, but little more.

And he remembered. He remembered those days of wasting away, of the hollowness in his sisters’ eyes. He looked on his own children now, his toddler with chubby rolls of baby fat still clinging to him, his older daughter with the sweet dimples in her cheeks. He could not allow them to ever suffer what his brothers and sisters had suffered. He thought on it day and night until the thought consumed him.

Now, this man had power. Not unusual in those days to have it, but many could not—or would not—wield it. But he would. He asked his wife to sew him a fine tablecloth, covered with images of glorious foods. Just to look on it would make your mouth water. When she was finished, the man cast a spell—no, Isabel, I don’t know exactly how he did it—

I grimaced and pretended I had not meant to ask.

—A spell to keep his family from ever going hungry.

Whenever they needed food, all they had to do was unfold the cloth and say, “Tablecloth, set thyself.” Food in great abundance, great quality, foods of all sorts would appear on the tablecloth. Enough to feed all who sat before it.

It was wonderful thing, a marvel! Amazing to behold, and a great gift to the family—though I suspect they had to be very careful to hide it from thieves. The man’s family always had plenty, and he slept well knowing that they would never see starvation.

“But what of the sacrifice?” I interrupted.

“What of the sacrifice, indeed,” he said.

The man’s family was safe, it is true. But the man himself, ah, that is another matter. He sat down before the tablecloth with the others, delighted to partake of the fine meal before him. But when he brought a turnip to his lips, it tasted of garbage, rot. He tried a fluffy, warm roll. The same. Roast lamb, steamed carrots, a beautiful, juicy chunk of roast beef. All torture to his tongue. He could eat, but it was a difficult enterprise, fraught with disgust and displeasure.

The man knew, somehow, that if he were to destroy the tablecloth, he would receive back to him all he had lost. But he did not do it. The years passed, and he ate only what was required to barely sustain life. The gaunt hollowness he kept from his children fell upon him instead. And the only enjoyment he received from food was the expressions on the face of his wife and children as they ate it.

For him, it was enough.

Wolfskin

I’ve been reconsidering a lot of fairy tales lately, thinking how else they might have gone, wondering what might have happened in a different world. I am like the Beast I am currently writing in this way, always looking for a different way to see the same stories. In fact, many of the stories I’ve been rethinking have been because he was telling the tale, or was thinking about it anyway.

The following is another of his stories, along with a snippet of the conversation he and Isabel have after he tells it.

Once upon a time, there was a young tradesman who lived in the foothills of the mountains, a foolish man who believed he should be given all that he wanted, no matter the cost to others. One night in the tavern, when ale had loosened the tongues of the men, he heard the story of a beautiful young woman who lived in the mountains. In the daylight in the forest, it was said, she lived as a wolf. But when she wanted to, she could shed her wolf skin and become human, the most gorgeous woman imaginable, lithe and lovely, russet hair swirling around her the same shade as the wolf, golden eyes like the beast.

The stories went on as the ale flowed. “I saw her once, staring at me, just as close to me as you are,” declared one man.

“She came to me as a wolf,” said another. “Knocked me down and stood over me like she wanted to chew me up.”

“Then how come you’re not dead?” someone asked, and at the speaker’s stuttered reply, drunken laughter swept through the room. The young man listened quietly as an idea began to form in his mind.

He would find the woman and take her to wife.

So he began to lay his trap. He’d heard that the woman was curious, drawn by light and the unknown. He built up a bonfire and laid out foods that would be unfamiliar and strange to one who had lived in the forest. Then he stood in the shadows and waited.

Soon enough she came, a great red wolf with eyes a shade too human. She paced back and forth, just beyond the fire’s light, tempted but wary. The scent of the food covered the scent of the man. Finally, when it seemed she would draw away, she glanced around in a furtive manner that was certainly not the way of a beast. Then she dropped her wolfskin and walked forward.

The man sucked in his breath as the firelight fell on her. A wolf’s ears would have caught the sound, but she was all human now. She moved with the grace of a wild animal, but she was drawn to the fire as the wild would never be.

Faster than flame, he ran to where she had discarded her skin. He snatched it up and fled to hide it. When finally she had exhausted her curiosity, she went to find that her wolfskin was gone.

She howled in grief and fear, the human in her too weak to think of what to do. Here was the first secret of the wolfwoman: she was bound to her wolfskin, and to lose that connection would cause her anguish.

And thus, when she learned who held that skin, she was bound to him as well. At first she thought to find it, steal it back from him, but he had hid it too cleverly. In time, when she realized what he wanted from her, she determined that she would give it, so that she could stay close to her wolfskin. One day he would make a mistake. One day she would find that wolfskin, and on that day she would take it up and strike, her claws tearing into flesh, the satisfying crunch of broken bone beneath her jaw.

But she would have to bide her time.

So, in the way of humans, she was bound to him in marriage.

In time the man, who had thought only to possess her, began to see that she was not only beautiful but also kind. The children of the village would flock to her, following her around both for her beauty and for her strangeness. There is nothing that appeals to a child so much as mystery. And when they came to her, she would stop in her task and play with them or sing. She never spoke, only sang sweet, wordless tunes. Her voice was mournful and sharp, like the howl of the wolf on the mountain. The children hovered near her.

But the man could see her kindness only from a distance, for she did not share it with him. With him she was a caged beast, watching and waiting, refusing to be tamed. He began to see what he had not seen before—that he could not force such beauty to be his. But still he feared to let it go. If he could not have it, he still wished to be near it. So he kept her wolfskin hidden from her, and he kept her bound.

Now I mentioned that when the children came, she would stop in her tasks. There was one task that she favored above all others—that of knitting. Herein lies the second great secret of the wolfwoman. She was bound, it is true, to the man who had taken her hide. But there was a way to win free. It would take seven years, and during that time she could not speak, but if she spent that time knitting herself a new wolfskin she could be free again. One word, and she would lose her chance.

Though the man did not release her, he did all else that he could to treat her kindly. He brought her gifts of clothing and food she liked, making sure she had time to play with the village children as she loved to do. He learned the meaning of love.

So the years passed, and she knitted, and he watched.

But as the fifth year came, he began to finally realize it and admit it to himself. He would never have her willingly. So he went to the place where he had hidden her skin, those years before. He brought it before her and placed it at her feet, drawing back to watch what she would do.

Half expecting to be dead any minute, claws sunk deep in his chest.

The wolfwoman looked away from her knitting, down to where lay her skin and her freedom before her. She looked up at him wordlessly, searching his face.

“I’m sorry” is all he said before he could not bear to look at her again. He turned away, waiting for her to take her skin and go. But she did not. She did draw it up into her lap, rubbing it against her human skin to feel its softness against her cheek, but she did not put it on. She breathed it in, the wild scent of the forest still clinging to it after all this time.

Then she folded it gently and set it beside her.

She took up her needles and continued to knit. When another two years had come and gone, she finally took up the finished wolfskin and gave it to her husband. They both pulled on their wolfskins and went out into the mountains to howl and run together, then they returned back to the village. They lived both lives, the wild and the tame, and did so happily ever after.

***

This was a story to which there was no safe reply.

“Thoughts?” he asked, and I could not pretend that I didn’t understand its significance.

“I’m not sure,” I said slowly. “It seems strange that she would ever come to love him after he stole her.”

“Can he not change?” the Beast asked quietly.

I shook my head. “I don’t know.”

Shoes

The following story is a potential tale from Eye of the Beholder. It’s a story that the Beast tells to Isabel one night as they are sitting in the library beside the fire. They spend quite a bit of time that way, in the library, with the Beast telling her stories. So I may be posting them occasionally as I write them, just to test them out (though I make no promises). In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this one. I thought it was silly and fun, and I tested it out on my daughters as a bedtime story last night. Having children is awesome for providing a captive audience.

Once upon a time, there lived an elf by the seashore. Now, you may not know this, but elves live for nothing more than the pleasure of making shoes. Sandals, slippers, boots, clogs, moccasins, loafers, heels. If it fits on the foot, with or without a sock, an elf would be happy to make it.

At least most of them would.

This elf did not like to make just any footwear. He was determined to make only the best. The best of the best, in fact, a pair of shoes fit for a king. Nothing else would do.

And so each day he would sit in his workshop and fashion his shoes. The cool sea breeze washed through the open windows as he worked, but he did not notice. A bird sang sweetly in the tree outside his shop, but he did not care. His soul was intent upon but one thing: to make the perfect pair of shoes.

And each day, as he came to the end of his task, he would examine his workmanship. Yes, he thought to himself. This stitching is very fine. He smoothed his hand across the finely tooled leather upper or the soft sheepskin lining. Supple, he thought, nodding with pleasure. But then—and this happened every day—a flaw. One stitch a little too long. One scuff across a heel. One shoe bearing a set of markings just a shade off from the other. No set of shoes was perfect.

He would huff to himself, disgusted with his day’s work, and stroll outside with the shoes carelessly dangling from his hand.

The sunset before him, spreading out across the ocean, blazed a fiery red, with a flash of green. The world seemed set aflame for an instant, but he could not be bothered to see its beauty. He walked to the edge of a small cliff that bordered on the ocean, and with an arm strong from the cobbler’s work, he would throw each shoe as far as he could into the sea.

He turned in disgust and went back inside to sleep, dreaming of the next day’s work.

Now, it just so happened, that in that same land there lived an old fisherman. He had weathered many a storm, spent years on the ocean pulling in his catch. His dearest dream now, the one he kept closest to his heart, was to fish from the ocean the greatest fish anyone had ever caught. He would do it someday, he told the other townspeople. And when he did, his fame and riches would provide for his wife when he one day sailed his last ocean voyage.

So each day he went out to sea, catching fish after fish, waiting for the one that would make him happy. But it never came.

Then one day something strange occurred. He was sitting in his little boat out on the ocean, his pole before him, his line sliding invisibly into the depths, when he felt a tug. Now, this was nothing new, but it was a strong tug, and he hoped that finally this day he would catch the fish of his dreams. He reeled as quickly as he could, and at last he pulled his catch over the side.

A boot.

A finely made, if a little damp, men’s boot.

He shrugged and tossed it into the back of his boat. I’ll deal with it later, he though to himself, and returned to his fishing.

Another few minutes and another tug brought him the second boot of the matching pair. This was indeed odd. But fishermen are used to mystery. The sea holds more things than any landfolk could ever appreciate, and this man had seen more than most. So again he tossed the boot into his boat and continued to fish. However, the boots turned out to be the final catch of the night, and it was time to return home.

He was greeted at the door that night, as he had been every night for thirty years, with a kiss and a smile from his wife. When he held out the boots and explained their appearance, she took it with the equanimity of a fisherman’s wife. She quirked her head to the side, dried them off a bit, and placed them in the closet. Neither of them thought any more of the boots that night.

The next day was as fine a day for fishing as any the man had ever known, and he set out eagerly in his boat.

That day the man caught two pairs of shoes: a fine set of ladies’ slippers and a handsome low-heeled shoe for wearing in fine weather. He shrugged as he brought up each shoe and tossed them into the back of his boat. Then he went back to fishing, still determined to catch that one perfect fish. When he returned with the four shoes, his wife kissed him again, shrugged with him, and again dropped them into the closet.

This went on for many days, each day a catch of several pairs of shoes. By now the man and his wife were growing quite a collection. They tumbled out of the closet and into the front room. Small mounds of shoes began to form larger mounds as the footwear piled up. And still, every day, the man went out in search of the fish that would make his fortune.

Finally the man returned home one day with his catch to find that his wife was not there. He rushed inside to look for her, fearing the worst, searching frantically through each room of their home. A sound from behind him made him turn, and there she was, panting and out of breath. She had run all the way from the village, where she’d been on an errand, to try to return home before he did.

She explained to him what she had been doing, and slowly the man began to smile.

The next day when the man left his home and headed toward the docks, the little old woman left as well, headed in the opposite direction and carrying a small crate of shoes under her arm. All day long, as the man fished, the woman carried. Back and forth, back and forth, and slowly the mountains of shoes diminished to hills, the hills to mounds, until finally there was nothing left.

When the man returned home that night, his wife gave him his usual kiss. And then, beaming, she dropped a coin into his hand. Their very first sale. They had opened a shoe store.

In time, their shop became famed throughout the country for the quality of their shoes. Eventually the king even heard of them and sent for his very own pair. And the man and the woman never wanted for riches again.